Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(31)

She’d give me hell for that, I knew. But like Silverman said: ask forgiveness, not permission.

Perhaps I’d get away with it.

We left the coffee shop, all this still running through my head. I scarcely even noticed when a car pulled up beside us. Not till I saw it was the limo from the Gemini. That was too much coincidence. The rear window came down and someone called out, “Mr. Copeland!”

I was wary, straightaway.

I’d assumed the limo must be Cleary’s. But it wasn’t his voice. The voice was big and cheery, with a southern twang. In the shadowy interior I saw a broad, tanned, cowboy’s face, and a grin as wide as his sunglasses.

There is no need for sunglasses in a car with tinted windows. No damn need at all.

“Now which of you fellers would that be? You, I’m guessing.” A big hand appeared, wagging a finger at me.

I said nothing.

“Yes? No? Mr. Christopher Copeland?”

I looked at Silverman. He shrugged.

“Oh, hey now.” The door swung open. “I’m forgetting my manners here.” The man who stepped out really should have been tall. He gave off that impression, anyway: it was there, in his rugged, film star looks, his cropped black hair, the stubble on his chin; the large head, big shoulders, the bodybuilder muscles in his arms and torso. It was in his stance, feet wide, arms at his side, ready for anything. It was in the clothes he wore: the faded jeans and denim shirt, though it was denim of a quality I had never seen before. The press-stud buttons were inlaid with pearl, and I had no doubt it was real.

Around his neck was a simple leather thong from which hung a large black talon, nestling in the hair that spilled out of his shirt-neck.

Like I say, the look of a tall man. Till he stood up.

He was about five-two, stocky—a result of all that bodybuilding—and a paunch was just starting to stretch his denim shirt. He made up for all this when he shook my hand, squeezing just a bit too hard, grinning just a bit too wide.

“And these guys.” He looked to Angel, to Silverman. “Let me see—Angel Farthing. Registry. Right?” He reached to take her hand, but she moved back. It was subtle, and it disconcerted him for maybe half a second. “Which makes you,” he said, turning to Paul, “Paul Silverman. Uh-huh?”

He caught my blank look.

“Edward Ballington. Eddie-boy Ballington, if you’d rather. Call me Eddie. Everyone does.”

He extended this as if it were an offer of great generosity.

My look grew no less blank.

“Now. You ready for lunch? You’re ready for a beer, at least, huh?”

“No. In fact we’re very busy now,” I said.

“Chris,” said Angel.

Silverman had the camera in the crook of his arm. I noticed that the light was on. He was filming.

“Chris, Chris,” said Eddie. “I told you my name. You know who my father is? Oh, hey. You’re a Brit, aren’t you?” He looked sad, as if he’d just found out I’d got some crippling illness. “You see the car, right?”

“Whoever you are, what makes you think we want lunch with you? Or beer, come to that?”

“Oh, I dunno. Charm, good looks? Or maybe . . .’cause I see you got a problem here. And I,” he slapped his chest, “can make it go away.”

He gestured to the open car door.

“My mother told me never to take lifts from strangers,” I said.

“Your mom ain’t here, Chris. Pastor Cleary is.”

“You know him well?”

“I know how to get him out your hair. You can make that retrieval any time you want, then. Tomorrow. Maybe tonight, even. Depends how fast you want to move.”

“Retrieval,” I said.

“Oh, sure. Come on. I’ll tell you all about it.”

He had a very masculine cologne, a smell of sweat and monkey glands, steroids, bourbon, and the faintest hint of gasoline.

The whole car stank of it.





Chapter 28

An Audience with Eddie-boy




“You like the horses, Chris? Go to the track? The Derby? Watch on TV?”

We were driving nowhere. We were cruising, drifting with the traffic. Highway flotsam. The chauffeur was a hat, behind a tinted screen. The car was like a little floating island, dedicated to the joys of manly luxury: paneled wood, deep red upholstery, a bar that offered nothing so effete or wimpish as a mineral water (Angel’s choice; she settled for a beer).

I told him, “I don’t bet. Don’t like the odds.”

“But, man, the horses . . .”

Angel was playing on her phone, something she hardly ever did in company.

“You gotta love the horses, man. Back when I was young, I’d wake up on my Dad-o’s farm, first thing I’d do, right before breakfast—go see the horses. Say hi, good morning, call ’em each by name. We had a feller there named Star—beautiful, beautiful boy. I loved that horse. Cried like a baby when they sold him on. But that’s life, right? One thing ends, another starts. You gotta move with it, don’t you? You wanna see my Dad-o’s farm, Chris? Come see the horses? Sure you do!”

“What is this?”

“It’s a proposition, Chris, and a good one. The best you’ll ever get.

“You got a god out there. You’re here for it, right? ’Cept you got Cleary and his three-ring circus standing in your way. Now—here’s the thing. I make a couple phone calls, I can end all that. I can make it all go clean away.”