only road. Everybody and everything had to pass through Margrave. The place was full of rooming houses and bars, people were passing through, spending money. Then the highways got built, and air travel got cheap, and suddenly the town died. It withered away to a dot on the map because the highway missed it by fourteen miles.’
`So it’s the highway’s fault?’ he said.
`It’s Mayor Teale’s fault,’ I said. `The town sold the land for the warehouses to earn itself some new money, right? Old Teale brokered the deal. But he didn’t have the courage to say no when the new money turned out to be bad money. Kliner was fixing to use it for the scam he was setting up, and old Teale jumped straight into bed with him.’
`He’s a politician,’ Finlay said. `They never say no to money. And it was a hell of a lot of money. Teale rebuilt the whole town with it.’
`He drowned the whole town with it,’ I said. `The place is a cesspool. They’re all floating around in it. From the mayor right down to the guy who polishes the cherry trees.’
We stopped talking again. I fiddled with the radio dial and heard Albert King tell me if it wasn’t for bad luck, he wouldn’t have no luck at all.
`But why Margrave?’ Finlay said again.
Old Albert told me bad luck and trouble’s been his only friend.
`Geography and opportunity,’ I said. `It’s in the right place. All kinds of highways meet down here and it’s a straight run on down to the boatyards in Florida. It’s a quiet place and the people who run the town were greedy scumbags who’d do what they were told.’
He went quiet. Thinking about the torrent of dollar bills rushing south and east. Like a storm
drain after a flood. A little tidal wave. A small and harassed workforce in Margrave keeping it rolling on. The slightest hitch and tens of thousands of dollars would back up and jam. Like a sewer. Enough money to drown a whole town in. He drummed his long fingers on the wheel. Drove the rest of the way in silence.
We parked up in the slot nearest the station house door. The car was reflected in the plate glass. An antique black Bentley, worth a hundred grand on its own. With another hundred grand in the trunk. The most valuable vehicle in the State of Georgia. I popped the trunk lid. Laid my jacket on top of the air conditioner box. Waited for Finlay and walked up to the door.
The place was deserted apart from the desk sergeant. He nodded to us. We skirted the reception counter. Walked through the big quiet squad room to the rosewood office in back. Stepped in and closed the door. Finlay looked uneasy.
`I want to know who the tenth guy is,’ he said. `It could be anybody. Could be the desk sergeant. There’s been four cops in this already.’
`It’s not him,’ I said. `He never does anything. Just parks his fat ass on that stool. Could be Stevenson, though. He was connected to Hubble.’
He shook his head.
`No,’ he said. `Teale pulled him in off the road when he took over. He wanted him where he could see him. So it’s not Stevenson. I guess it could be anybody. Could be Eno. Up at the diner? He’s a bad-tempered type of a guy.’
I looked at him.
`You’re a bad-tempered type of a guy, Finlay,’ I
said. `Bad temper never made anybody a criminal.’ He shrugged. Ignored the jibe.
`So what do we do?’ he said.
`We wait for Roscoe and Picard,’ I said. `We take it from there.’
I sat on the edge of the big rosewood desk, swinging my leg. Finlay paced up and down on the expensive carpet. We waited like that for about twenty minutes and then the door opened. Picard stood there. He was so big, he filled the whole doorway. I saw Finlay staring at him, like there was something wrong with him. I followed his gaze.
There were two things wrong with Picard. First, he didn’t have Roscoe with him. Second, he was holding a government-issue .38 in his giant hand. He was holding it rock steady, and he was pointing it straight at Finlay.