I got in the Bentley and cruised up the fourteen miles to the cloverleaf. Slowed down as I passed the warehouses. I needed to scout out a vantage point. The northbound on-ramp dived under the southbound off ramp. There was a kind of low overpass. Short, wide concrete pillars hoisted the road overhead. I figured the thing to do would be to hole up behind one of those pillars. I would be well hidden in the gloom and the slight elevation would give me a good view of the whole warehouse area. That was my spot.
I accelerated the Bentley up the ramp and carried
on north to Atlanta. Took an hour. I was picking up a rough idea of the geography. I wanted the lowrent shopping area and I found it easily enough. Saw the sort of street I wanted. Automobile customizers, pool table wholesalers, repossessed office furniture. I parked on the street in front of a storefront mission. Opposite me were two survival shops. I picked the left-hand one and went in.
The door worked a bell. The guy at the counter looked up. He was the usual type of guy. White man, black beard, camouflage fatigues, boots. He had a huge gold hoop in one ear. Looked like some kind of a pirate. He might have been a veteran. Might just have wanted to be one. He nodded to me.
He had the stuff I needed. I picked up olive fatigue pants and a shirt. Found a camouflage jacket big enough to fit. Looked at the pockets carefully. I had to get the Desert Eagle in there. Then I found a water canteen and some decent field glasses. Humped the whole lot over to the cash desk and piled it up. Pulled out my wad of hundreds. The guy with the beard looked at me.
`I could use a blackjack,’ I said.
He looked at me and looked at my wad of hundreds. Then he ducked down and hoisted a box up. Looked heavy. I chose a fat sap about nine inches long. It was a leather tube. Taped at one end for a grip. Built around a plumber’s spring. The thing they put inside pipes before they bend them. It was packed around with lead shot. An efficient weapon. I nodded. Paid for everything and left. The bell rang again as I pushed open the door.
I moved the Bentley along a hundred yards and parked up in front of the first automobile shop I saw advertising window tinting. Leaned on the
horn and got out to meet the guy coming out of the door.
`Can you put tints on this for me?’ I asked him. `On this thing?’ he said. `Sure I can. I can pug tints on anything.’
`How long?’ I said.
The guy stepped up to the car and ran his finger down the silky coachwork.
`Thing like this, you want a first-rate job,’ he said. `Take me a couple of days, maybe three.’ `How much?’ I said.
He carried on feeling the paint and sucked air in through his teeth, like all car guys do when you ask them how much.
`Couple of hundred,’ he said. `That’s for a firstrate job, and you don’t want anything less on o thing like this.’
`I’ll give you two fifty,’ I said. `That’s for a better than first-rate job, and you loan me a car the two or three days it’s going to take you to do it, OK?’
The guy sucked in some more air and then slapped lightly on the Bentley’s hood.
`It’s a done deal, my friend,’ he said.
I took the Bentley key off Charlie’s ring ani exchanged it for an eight-year-old Cadillac the colour of an old avocado pear. It seemed to drive pretty well and it was about as anonymous as you could hope to get. The Bentley was a lovely automobile, but it was not what I needed if the surveillance went mobile. It was about w distinctive as the most distinctive thing you could ever think of.
I cleared the southern rim of the city and stopped at a gas station. Brimmed the old Cadillac’s big tank and bought candy bars and nuts and bottles of