The Running Man

MINUS 058 AND COUNTING

“We almost got it at that first roadblock,” Bradley was saying as Richards tried to massage feeling back into his arm. It felt as if phantom nails had been pushed into it. “That cop almost opened it. Almost.” He blew out smoke in a huge huff. Richards said nothing.

“How do you feel?” Bradley asked presently.

“It’s getting better. Take my wallet out for me. I can’t make my arm work just right yet.”

Bradley shooed the words away with one hand. “Later. I want to tell you how Rich and I set it up.”

Richards lit another cigarette from the stub of the first. A dozen charley horses were loosening slowly.

“There’s a hotel room reserved for you on Winthrop Street. The Winthrop House is the name of the place. Sounds fancy. It ain’t. The name is Ogden Grassner. Can you remember that?”

“Yes. I’ll be recognized immediately.”

Bradley reached into the back seat, got a box and dropped it in Richards’s lap. It was long, brown, tied with string. To Richards it looked like the kind of box that rented graduation gowns come in. He looked at Bradley questioningly.

“Open it.”

He did. There was a pair of thick, blue-tinted glasses lying on top of a drift of black cloth. Richards put the glasses on the dashboard and took out the garment. It was a priest’s robe. Beneath it, lying on the bottom of the box, was a rosary, a Bible, and a purple stole.

“A priest?” Richards asked.

“Right. You change right here. I’ll help you. There’s a cane in the back seat. Your act ain’t blind, but it’s pretty close. Bump into things. You’re in Manchester to attend a Council of Churches meeting on drug abuse. Got it?”

“Yes,” Richards said. He hesitated, fingers on the buttons of his shirt. “Do I wear my pants under this rig?”

Bradley burst out laughing.