Free The Fool's Run by John Sandford Page A

later and signed up. I called Dace, and he was ready to go. Then I called Anshiser and told him I’d take the job.
    “With one more condition.”
    “What?” he asked.
    “I write the contract. You sign it and fingerprint it, and I stash it. It will be straightforward and incriminating. No wherefores or parties of the second part. It might not be binding in court, but it will bind your ass if you leave us stranded out there.”
    “Agreed.”
    “I’ll be there tomorrow. I’ll want the first million. I’ll want it early enough to get to a bank.”
    “Make it about one o’clock at the house. It’ll take the morning to get it together,” he said.
    What?
     
    I’m moving. Don’t dump to apartment. I’ll call. OK?
     
    Ok. Got about 70 names/addresses/telephones for Whitemark execs who may use home terminals. Goes slow getting positives on addresses, confirming computers.
     
    How long to finish?
     
    Tomorrow.
     
    Good. Money OK?
     
    So far charged $2,250.
     
    There’s more if you need it.
     
    OK/Goodbye.
    It took a good part of the day to close the apartment down. I dumped the garbage, cleaned out the refrigerator, and put together a basic watercolor kit for road work. Emily agreed to take care of the cat and the Whistler and to pick up mail and pay utility bills. I gave her an envelope full of cash to cover it.
    Before leaving, I spread the cards again. The Wheel of Fortune, reversed, was dominant. That told me nothing. I knew that .
    Just after dark, I rolled onto Interstate 94 in my two-year-old Oldsmobile. It’s a big, clumsy car with lots of power, comfortable seats, and a large trunk where eye-catching gear—terminals, printers, cameras, painting equipment—can be stashed out of sight. I tuned in WLS, and let the fifty thousand clear-channel watts of rock ’n’ roll suck me down the highway toward Chicago.

Chapter 7
    I SPENT THE early morning at the Art Institute. Rembrandt didn’t paint Young Girl at an Open Half-Door, like the museum says he did, but I like it anyway. And even if you dislike pointillism, Georges Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon on the Île de la Grande Jatte is a masterwork. When I see it, I tend to hyperventilate. It’s like looking down that marvelous wall of Degas’s paintings at the Met.
    As usual, I overstayed my time and had to race across town to meet LuEllen at O’Hare. She was wearing a tan summer suit with slacks, a touch of lipstick, and a white panama hat that snapped down over her eyes. We picked up her bags and went downtown and rented safety deposit boxes at the Second Illinois. Afterward, I dropped her at my hotel while I went to Anshiser’s. Maggie met me at the door and took me up. The money was in a small fake-leather suitcase on Anshiser’s desk.
    “The contract?” he asked. His voice trembled, and he cleared his throat. Dillon was back in his chair against the wall, still dressed in gray, still showing the small smile.
    “Right here.” I handed him a letter of employment. It clearly spelled out what I was to do. He read it and passed it to Maggie, who looked at it, nodded, and handed it back.
    “That should do it,” he said. He took a pen from his coat pocket and signed and dated our agreement.
    “Now the fingerprints,” I said. I took a stamp pad from my pocket and handed it to him.
    “This will be messy,” he said.
    “A small price.”
    “Hmph.” He rolled his fingers across the pad and onto the paper, leaving a row of neat, fat fingerprints below his signature.
    “Both hands?”
    “One is fine.”
    Maggie handed him a purse pack of Kleenex to clean his fingers.
    “The money,” he said. He pushed the case toward me. “It’s all there. One million, one hundred thousand dollars. Twenties and fifties, nonsequential. It came right out of the cash box at one of our casinos. You can count it, if you wish.”
    I popped open the locks, peered in, and shut it again.
    “I’ll count it later,” I said. “You want some kind of progress