Gideon's Corpse

21

They hit the Salvation Army store early the next morning, the moment it opened. Gideon flipped through the racks, scooping up outfits and handing them to Fordyce, who carried them with ill-concealed grace. Then they swung by a theatrical supply company before returning to Fordyce’s hotel room with their haul. Gideon spread the clothes out on the bed while Fordyce watched with a frown.

“Is this really necessary?” he asked.

“Stand over there.” Gideon spread out a shirt, laid the pants underneath, frowned, switched the shirt for another, then another, then socks, squinting at each combination.

“Jesus,” Fordyce complained, “we’re not going on Broadway here.”

“The difference is that if our little play is a flop, you’ll get a bullet instead of a rotten tomato. Trouble is, you look like you were born a Fed.”

He mixed and matched the outfits again, adding shoes and socks, a baseball cap and a wig, finally assembling something to his liking. “Try these on,” he said.

“Son of a bitch.” Fordyce shed his suit and donned the outfit. He hesitated with the hair. It had been a woman’s wig, with real hair, that Gideon had given a bad haircut to.

“Go ahead,” said Gideon. “Don’t be shy.”

Fordyce put on the wig, adjusted it.

“Now the cap. Put it on backward.”

The cap went on. But that didn’t look right: Fordyce was too old. “Turn it right way around.”

Finally Fordyce stood in front of him, in full costume. Gideon circled him appraisingly. “Too bad you shaved this morning.”

“We’ve got to go.”

“Not yet. I need to see you walk around.”

As Fordyce took a turn around the hotel room, Gideon groaned. “You’ve got to put your heart in it, for God’s sake.”

“I don’t know what more I can do. I already look like a jerk.”

“It’s not just about the look. It’s about the mental attitude. You’ve got to act the part. No, not just act it—be it.”

“So who am I supposed to be?”

“A cocky, wiseass, arrogant, cunning, self-satisfied, don’t-give-a-shit, morally bankrupt prick. Think about that while you walk around the room.”

“So how does a morally bankrupt prick walk?”

“I don’t know, you’ve got to feel it. Put in some attitude. Throw in a little pimp roll. Give us a curl of the lip. Tilt your chin.”

Fordyce, with an irritated sigh, did a second turn.

“Aw, shit,” said Gideon. “Can you lose the poker up the ass?”

Fordyce turned to him. “We’re wasting time. If we don’t get there soon, we won’t have time for the imam.”

With another muttered curse, Gideon followed Fordyce down toward the waiting Suburban. He wondered just how good a radar these people would have. To him, Fordyce still walked and talked just like a Fed.

Maybe they wouldn’t notice. But if they did, he’d better have a plan B.