Free Bad Guys by Linwood Barclay Page A

hiring a private eye. No offense. I mean, if we were ever going to hire somebody, you’d be the guy.”
    Lawrence smiled. “Don’t worry about it. When you finally do your story about hanging out with a private eye, I’m gonna be getting lots of business.”
    “I can’t accept services in return for editorial coverage,” I protested, but not, I have to admit, very strenuously.
    “We didn’t even have this conversation,” Lawrence said.
    He was quiet for a few more blocks, then said, “The thing is, Zack, where your own family is concerned, you have to trust your instincts. If your gut tells you something’s wrong, it probably means something’s wrong. Read the signals. If a guy thinks, just because his wife is coming home late from work every night, closing the door when she gets a phone call, and dressing a lot hotter than usual, that maybe she’s having an affair, odds are she’s having an affair. If your gut says this kid is weird, he’s probably weird.”
    “But weird doesn’t always mean dangerous.”
    “No,” Lawrence said, “it doesn’t. You’ll have to listen to what your gut has to say about that. And let me tell you something else, pal. Don’t ever let anyone hurt someone who’s important to you. Don’t hesitate. Don’t second-guess yourself.”
    “I hear ya,” I said.
    “And don’t miss your moment.”
    “What do you mean by that?”
    “Years ago, I was a cop, but off duty, didn’t have my weapon, and I walked into a drugstore right in the middle of a holdup, guy has a sawed-off pointed at the cashier, screaming at her to empty the till.”
    “Jesus.”
    “So I freeze, and the guy knows I’m there, tells me to back off, but he’s doing this thing with his nose, sniffing, you know? It’s ragweed season, and he’s doing these funny little intakes of breath, and not only has he asked the cashier for money, but a box of antihistamine on the counter behind her. The guy’s very jumpy, like he wants to use the gun even if he gets everything he’s asking for, and it’s clear he’s got a sneeze on the way, and I’m guessing that when it comes, it’s gonna be a doozy. So I wait for my moment.”
    “The sneeze.”
    “We’re in the windup, each intake a bit bigger than the one before, and it’s just about to happen, and I figure, this is the moment, there will never be a better opportunity to deal with this situation, and then he blows. Nearly blew out a window with this sneeze, and I tackle him the millisecond before it happens, because when you sneeze that big, you close your eyes. He never saw me coming.” He smiled to himself.
    “How do you know,” I asked, “if it’s
the
moment?”
    “If you don’t know,” Lawrence said, “then it’s not the moment.”
    He brought the car to a stop outside a bureaucratic-looking red brick building that fronted the street and was flanked by a ten-foot-high chain-link fence, and beyond that, hundreds and hundreds of vehicles. Lawrence took the key out of the ignition. “Let’s go look at all the shiny cars. Maybe we can find one with a few million in coke still in the trunk, you and I can both retire.”
     

8
     
    “WE GOTTA FIND EDDIE,” Lawrence said. “He’s not the actual auctioneer, but he oversees this whole operation. He’ll tell you everything you want to know, but don’t be afraid to make a run for it if he starts to drive you crazy.” Lawrence asked around inside the office and was told we could find Eddie out in the compound.
    He was peering through the windshield of a Cadillac, double-checking the vehicle identification number against a sheet attached to the clipboard in his hand, when Lawrence called to him. He was a slight man, about five-six, probably late forties, bookish in appearance with his oversize black-framed glasses and half a dozen pens clipped to his shirt pocket. His hair was short, curly, and greasy looking, like maybe he hadn’t stood under a shower for a number of days.
    “Hey, hey,