Jimmy the Kid

"I really don't think you have to take that tone with me," Harrington said. "If you'd told me earlier that you meant to contact me on this phone, I would have made sure the line was kept open."

"So you and the cops could set up some sort of trap," Murch's Mom said. "That's what we didn't want."

"The authorities have assured me they will do nothing to endanger-"

"Yeah, yeah. Let's get on with it, all right?"

"Certainly. The ball's in your court."

"The what?"

"You're in charge," Harrington said.

Murch's mom sighed "Sure," she said. "Do you have a New Jersey map in the car?"

"I'll check with Maurice. I mean Kirby. I mean Maurice!"

Under the overpass, Murch said, "What the hell do you suppose is going on?"

"I suppose," Dortmunder said, "I suppose I let myself get talked into another Kelp special, that's what I suppose. You notice he isn't here."

"Somebody had to watch the kid."

Dortmunder opened the car door and got out.

"Where you goin'?"

"Look things over," Dortmunder said. He walked along the verge of the road, out from under the overpass and far enough away so he could look up at the highway. He stood there looking at cars go by in both directions. He stood there, trucks and cars going by. The Cadillac went by, in the wrong direction. It was too far away to see the license plate, but it was the right color and it had the whip antenna and that was definitely somebody in a chauffeur's cap at the wheel. And somebody else in the back seat.

Harrington leaned over the New Jersey map. "Yes," he said. "Hackettstown. I see it."

Dortmunder walked back and got into the Mustang. "It just went by the wrong way," he said.

Murch stared at him. "The Cadillac?"

"I think something's wrong," Dortmunder said. "That's my personal opinion."

"We better go talk to Mom," Murch said. He started the Mustang and headed south on the county road.

It was ten miles south on the county road to route 46. Then they had to turn left and travel five more miles to get to the Burger King, where they found Murch's Mom sitting morosely in the Roadrunner, eating a whopper. They stopped beside her, and Murch got out and said, "Mom, what-"

Murch's Mom sprayed whopper in all directions. Leaping out of the Roadrunner she cried, "What are you doing here?"

Dortmunder said, "They went by the wrong way. What's going on?"

"They're on the way back! I just went through the whole thing with them, they're turning around at the Hackettstown exit. They're on the way!"

"Oh, for Christ's sake," said Dortmunder. "What happened the first time?"

"He was on the phone, I couldn't get through. Will you hurry? He'll get there, somebody else'll pick up the suitcase."

Murch and Dortmunder jumped back into the Mustang and took off. Murch's Mom watched them go, and shook her head. "I swear to God," she said aloud. "I just swear to God."

At the Hackettstown exit, the Cadillac took the off ramp onto county road 517, turned left, took 517 north for about a hundred feet, took the westbound on ramp, and got back up on Interstate 80. Kirby said, "I suppose I can step it up a little bit now."

"I should think so," Harrington said. "We're terribly late, apparently."

Kirby, grinning a little, tipped the chauffeur's cap back on his forehead and hunched a bit over the wheel. His foot became heavy on the accelerator. The Cadillac tires began to dig in. Harrington, feeling the pressure of the seat back against his spine, began to regret his acquiescence.

State Trooper Hubert L. Duckbundy, driving in an unmarked patrol car which made it possible for him to catch speeders but impossible for rape or robbery victims to contact him in their moment of travail, cruised along at sixty-one, eleven miles an hour above the speed limit, enjoying the fall scenery and waiting for somebody else to do sixty-two, when he suddenly was passed. A silver gray Cadillac, New Jersey plate number WAX 361, chauffeur driven, was abruptly out front, and going like hell.

Well, well. Trooper Duckbundy accelerated and started the clock. There was nothing more pleasing in the life of a man who brought fifteen thousand, two hundred eighty-seven dollars and ninety cents a year home to his wife and three children than slapping a speeding violation on the operator of a luxury car. There, you bastard, was the general theme of the encounter, and for Trooper Duckbundy its satisfactions never palled.

Let's give this one a full mile on the clock, Trooper Duckbundy thought, just to be sure he doesn't wiggle out. Ninety-two miles an hour. Oh, my, yes.

But within half a mile the Cadillac's brake lights suddenly went on. Had the driver noticed he was being paced? The Hope exit was near here, maybe the Cadillac meant to leave the Interstate there. If so, Trooper Duckbundy would have to pull him over now, with less than a mile on the clock.