We Got a Live One

349.

Texas sized steak in hand, we continue the commute to the FBI station at the Capitol. I have had to 'negotiate' a rules exception to 'smuggle' one (ice cold) Lone Star beer into the facility, a relative bargain matching the cost of a pitcher of Margaritas against a preemptive terrorist strike. By my standards Agent Kirkpatrick was easy.

"It's remarkable how you can steer people towards a desired result when you understand their motivation," Mustang comments as we lock up and load out. The image I form of the two of us, working towards the same end result, one toting a book and the other a steak, I find comical, a twisted snapshot of the American psyche. I can't resist, "How about we double down on the deal?" I ask, adjusting my cargo for better efficiency.

"Meaning?"

"I'll see your five Franklin's and raise the bet to ten, the caveat being that I say he won't get past the first chapter by the time I have 'Boots' singing like a proverbial canary."

"You're on, the first part is the best, and if he isn't hooked by page twenty, I have grossly mistook the psychology - and Timothy himself."

I ask if she wants to shake on it but looking at the cane in my right hand and the bag of culinary delights in the left she diplomatically declines. We are on the marble steps of the classic domed architecture when my cell buzzes like an angry wasp. Looking for a practical place to free one arm to answer I frustratingly tuck the cane under my left and try my compromised right arm for the task, a maneuver Mustang seems to find amusing.

I finally get my numb fingers to find the answer icon and offer a profession greeting. "This is Howard Turkin and we need to talk," the gruff digital voice commands.

"Sure thing Mr. Turkin, how about," I consider the play, "three this afternoon?"

"How about right fucking now, or I change my mind."

"We're in downtown Sacramento and it'll take at least an hour to get there, so begging your kind permission, will that work for you?"

"You have one hour. Clock's running."

Before I can stall the conversation in the attempt to gather more intel, he is gone. Mustang is staring at me questioning the call. I put the phone back in my pocket and stare at the glistening white marble. I recall how Michaelangelo said that carving stone was simply a matter of releasing the art held captive inside.

"What's up?" She asks.

"Boots is going to have to wait for his meal and Sheener for his read." I walk the last twenty feet to the entrance and hand the feedbag to the officer standing on guard, explaining our predicament and wishing him bon appetite in a single sentence.

"Go get the car and pick me up here, I need to make a call."

Mustang hurries back towards the Escalade as I pull my phone and dial Julie in DC.

"I think we got a live one - in progress."