“Rupe Collier came sniffing again.”
“When?”
“This afternoon. And this time he didn’t phone. He pulled up into my driveway while I was out watering the yard. No way I could avoid him. His hair’s thinning. You can’t tell it on TV.”
“What did he want?”
“Same as before. You. Says it’s real important—vital was the word he used—that he talks to you before tomorrow.”
“What happens tomorrow?”
“You ever hear of EyeSpy?”
“The kids’ game?”
“The tabloid.”
Dale listened with increasing despair as his old buddy recounted Rupe’s story about a shifty columnist for a widely read tabloid newspaper. It seemed that Dale Moody was the only English-speaking person on the planet who didn’t read Van Durbin’s column or was at least familiar with his byline.
“According to Rupe, this Van Durbin’s column tomorrow is about Low Pressure and the true story it’s based on. He’s going to bring into question whether or not the guy who got the time did the crime. This has got Rupe’s tighty-whities in a wad. He called the columnist pond scum, which is funny, coming from someone as slippery as Rupe.”
Dale failed to see the humor in any of this. In fact, if he was a lesser man, he’d break down and bawl.
“Anyhow,” Haymaker continued, “he’s all hot and bothered to talk to you before this writer from New York gets to you.”
“Gets to me?”
“I haven’t told you that part yet. Rupe says Van Durbin was asking about you. Asked if Rupe knew where you were, how to get in touch with you. He’s got research people checking every avenue they can think of.”
“Shit.”
“Suddenly you’re a real popular guy, Dale. Seemed to me that Rupe was more interested in keeping you from talking to this Van Durbin than he was in talking to you his own self.”
Rupe’s worst nightmare would be him talking to any media about the Susan Lyston case and Allen Strickland’s trial.
“Hay, did you tell him—”
“Not a damn thing. I wouldn’t.” After a slight hesitation, he added, “Only thing is… See, Dale…”
“What?”
The former policeman made a sound of disgust. “Rupe’s carrying the note on a used car I bought from him last year. The wife wanted the mother-lovin’ thing. I hate it, but she had to have it. The bank wouldn’t loan us enough to buy it, but Rupe made it easy for us to drive it straight off the lot with no money down. Interest rate out the wazoo, but the wife… You know how it is. Then two months after we became the proud owners of the car, she got laid off out at the quarry. I can’t sell—”
“You’re behind on the payments, and Rupe is using that as leverage for you to give me up.”
Haymaker’s silence was as good as a confirmation. Dale uncapped the bottle of Jack Daniel’s on his TV tray and took a swig straight from it. “How much time did he give you?”
“Till eight o’clock in the a.m.”
“Jesus. Rupe must be real scared of this Van Durbin character.”
“Right down to the shine on his Luccheses. He’s afraid that guy will tree you before he can.”
“How much do you owe him?”
“Look, Dale, don’t worry about that. I wouldn’t sell out a cop buddy to that asshole. I only told you so you’d know how jumpy Rupe is to find you. I won’t tell him squat, but you gotta believe that I’m not his only resource.
“I’m figuring he’ll call in every favor and marker he’s holding on personnel inside the Austin PD and city hall. Some of our former colleagues didn’t think as kindly of you as I did. Do. So consider this a heads-up.