The taxi pulled in across the street
from Jack’s dead uncle’s house.
“Wait here please.” Sam handed over
the fare so far and twenty dollars extra.
“Sure thing,” replied the driver.
Sam got out of the car and walked
across the street: huge house visible above the trees in the darkness, black
stripes running up in mockery of English timber-framed buildings; sixty,
seventy yards from gate to house; gate nine feet high and spike-tipped; fence
equally high but climbable if it came to that; electronic intercom and video
camera on the gate itself.
Sam walked up to it, smiling
benignly. He pressed the button and waited through the pause, scanning through
the trees at the house: no clear visible view of anything on the ground floor.
The intercom burst and crackled. An
old man’s voice said “Yes?”
“Hello there sir,” said Sam,
maintaining his smile as part of The Lie. He tilted his accent, making it sound
immediately American. “My name’s Josh Winthrop. I wonder if you could help me.
Jack Catholic gave me this address as his current habitation, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“He has approached me as a contact
here in San Fransisco. for his paintings. Wants to see what he can do about
selling some of them.”
“Right…” The old man sounded
sceptical. Sam lowered the pressure.
“Is Mr Catholic home at the moment?”
“No.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
The video camera whirred, zooming in.
“May I see some identification?”
Sam turned away and walked back to
the cab.
There was no danger of Jack
recognising him if the view from that camera had been taped – neither one of
them had met the other – he wouldn’t know what Sam was there to do, but there
was no other information to be gleaned for now.
Sam got back into the taxi, avoiding
looking at the fat man in the front.
He needed somewhere to stay now. He
needed something to eat.
He could return tomorrow. He had all
the time in the world.
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