“That oughta do.” He stepped back to admire his handiwork. “We can tell the old boy we got the license number of the outfit that scratched his heap up. While we’re all staring at this we ought to be able to put him out and slip him in the pickup before anyone comes questioning.” He looked to the restaurant entrance.

“Let’s do it. I’ve got other work to do.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Snyder, the last member of the trio.

The cafe had two sets of doors, a common Arizona barrier against the heat. Inside, the distant whine of the highway gave way to the gentle hum of the air conditioner. Archer was right about the hands. The cafe was packed, from the tables set out in the center of the floor to the booths back in the only half-private section.

Most of the diners were men: rough-faced, burnt dark by the sun. They wore boots and jeans and cowboy hats, not out of any care for current fashion but because they were the most practical work clothes for the kind of hard field work these men performed. They drove harvesters, repaired fence, poisoned weeds and cared delicately for the thousands of acres of cotton that occupied the desert floor for miles east and south of the town.

Waitresses darted to and fro from table to table like tick-birds working a herd of hippos, neatly dropping off or picking up plates and glasses and only rarely entering into the conversations. These were always brief and concerned with women, money and crops, not necessarily in that order.

“There he is,” said Archer confidently. They’d all familiarized themselves with the description of their quarry and no one disagreed with him. “That’s got to be Pickett.”

Sitting alone in a back corner was an old man. There were older men seated in the cafe, but all were accompanied by friends or wives. Furthermore, this old man didn’t wear a hat and there was no sign of one on the nearby rack. That immediately marked him as a stranger. His footgear confirmed Archer’s guess. The old man was wearing sneakers. That made him the only one in the cafe except a pair of younger tourists who wasn’t wearing a set of worn, mud-encrusted boots.

“Yeah, that’s him for sure,” murmured Snyder. He took a step toward the back table.

Royrader put out a hand and held him back. “Take it easy. We’re in no hurry. We’ve found the guy. Let’s let some of this lunch crowd leave. Besides, I don’t know about you guys but sitting out in the truck all morning hunting for this bird has given my throat a real solid tickle.”

“I could go for a beer myself,” Snyder confessed.

“Fine.” They found an empty table and sat down. A tired-looking waitress with her hair piled high up over her head like a big basket of redwood shavings came over and waited patiently for their order.

“What’ve you got on tap?” Royrader asked her.

“Bud and Michelob.”

“Three Michelobs,” Royrader told her.

“Yeah, three for me too,” said Snyder. The waitress smiled politely.

“That’s all for now,” said Royrader.

“Nothing to eat? You boys aren’t hungry?”

“As a matter of fact, we are,” said Royrader, “but we’ve got business first.”

She gestured with her pad. “Okay.” The crowd swallowed her up.

“Nice ass,” said Snyder, watching her go.

“Keep your mind on your business, Frank,” Royrader admonished him.

Archer had the best view of the old man. “Looks like he’s eating a club sandwich.” He glanced at Royrader. “You sure we haven’t got time for lunch before we have to pick him up?”

The older man smiled. “Let’s not push our luck. We found the guy like we were supposed to. We can eat later. As soon as we finish our beers we meet him outside and give him our scratch story. Then we pile him into the pickup and hustle him down to the plant. From there he’s Lasenby’s problem and we can go have an early supper.”

“I wonder what they want him for?” Snyder reiterated. “He don’t look like much.”

“Old guys like that don’t ever look like much,” said Royrader. “That’s how they can get away with stuff. Maybe he’s an embezzler or something.” He glanced over his shoulder at their quarry. “Look guys, Lasenby didn’t tell me anything. All I know is that he called me into his office and gave me the dope on this old guy and told me to get some people together and pick him up. Then he pushed the envelope on me.”

The other men knew about the envelope. It held three thousand dollars in nice fresh hundred-dollar bills and it sat folded in one of Royrader’s pockets. A thousand for each of them as soon as they delivered this guy Pickett to Lasenby. So they hadn’t asked too many questions.

“Hell,” Snyder muttered, peering at Pickett over the heads of the other diners, “if they want him so bad, why didn’t they just come out and pick him up in person? Old codger like that’s not going to give Lasenby or anybody else any trouble. He sure has some folks upset about something.”

“Yeah, well, keep in mind that’s none of our business, right? We just do our job and forget it.”

“I know,” said Synder, a little hurt. “I’d just like to know what’s going on, that’s all.”

“So would I, Frank, so would I,” said Royrader. “But we’re not likely to find out, so let’s not kill ourselves worrying about it, okay?”

At that point the beers arrived and the conversation turned to the NFL game of the week and how the Bears had managed to blow yet another lead. Snyder was originally from Chicago and the discussion was of more than academic interest to him.

Across the room, Jake Pickett had started in on the second half of his club sandwich. He’d noticed the trio the instant they’d walked into the cafe, had subsequently observed them staring at him, particularly the little one in the middle. Now, there was nothing especially noteworthy about Jake Pickett’s appearance. Except for his footwear there was nothing to mark him as exceptional among the other diners. So there was no reason for a bunch of strangers to spend an inordinate amount of time looking at him.

He also noted that the new arrivals were a lot cleaner then the rest of the men occupying the cafe. They hadn’t been spending hours out among the dirt and bolls. They apparently hadn’t ordered any food. Only beers.

They continued to take turns glancing back toward him, apparently unaware that their interest was being noted. But since they seemed content to sit and drink, Jake figured he might as well finish his lunch. He didn’t think they were likely to try anything outright. Not in the crowded cafe. If they were so inclined they would probably have tried it already.

It was confirmation of all Amanda’s suspicions, as far as Jake was concerned. Sweet suspicious little Mandy. Thank goodness for her, he thought.

It wasn’t that Jake hadn’t suspected that fellow Huddy’s motives. He’d seen plenty of television. It was just that he was such a nice young man. He’d seemed genuinely concerned about Jake’s health. According to Amanda he was concerned about Jake’s condition, but not in the way he’d indicated, or in the way Jake had hoped.

Now Huddy had apparently gone so far as to send people out after Jake, to bring him back. For what? For an “exam.” The images that conjured up in Jake’s mind weren’t pretty, and they certainly weren’t healthful. He wondered how Huddy had tracked him down. Not that it mattered now.

What did matter now? His mind was a whirl. Normally he didn’t have to deal with anything more complex than the heating instructions on a frozen dinner. Surely he couldn’t just get back in his car and head down the highway toward Gila Bend. No, the first thing was to get out of here quickly and quietly. He would have to change his driving plans. The highway between here and Gila Bend was busy but rural. Once he made Phoenix, however, he thought he could shake these people easily. After all, it wasn’t the CIA that was after him, only the hirelings of some fanatic young executive. He glanced surreptitiously at the three drinkers. They didn’t look too sharp. Surely he could lose them.

He finished all but the last couple of bites of his sandwich, rose, wiped his mouth. As he did so he saw two of them turn to look sharply in his direction, as quickly look away. At the same time their waitress arrived with another round of beers. Maybe that would hold them for a couple of extra minutes, he thought.

Putting one hand rather dramatically against his stomach, he turned and walked slowly toward the sign marked Rest Rooms. A couple of the little gold stick-on letters had fallen off. The men at the table relaxed, started on their fresh beers.

Inside the john, Jake waited until its only other occupant finished his business, zipped his fly and departed. Then he closed the simple latch lock on the door.

There was the necessary window at the back. It was open, but a screen kept Arizona’s small winged wildlife outside. Jake inspected it quickly. It balanced loosely on a couple of snaps. He tugged at them with his fingers, but they were tighter than they looked. He couldn’t budge them. His pocket knife, however, made short work of them.

He pushed hard with one hand and grabbed with the other, managing to catch the screen before it fell to the ground; not that anyone in the busy cafe was likely to hear anyway, but he didn’t see any point in taking unnecessary chances. He let it drop carefully. It landed soundlessly outside the john.

Putting one foot on the nearby urinal, he grabbed the sill with both hands and pulled himself up and through. Twenty years ago it would have been easier. Now his belly held him back for a minute. He’d worked hard all his life, however, and that accumulated tolerance paid off now as he worked his way through the opening.

A minute later he was standing next to the side of the building, quietly thanking the architect for complying literally with the law that required bathroom ventilation. Windows were superfluous in most South Arizona buildings; an antagonist of air-conditioning. So there were none facing the dining area, and no way for anyone inside to see him race around the structure and into the parking lot.

He slid behind the wheel of the Galaxie and fumbled with the ignition. His eyes shifted constantly from the keyhole to the cafe’s front door. The gouge on the side went unnoticed. He turned the key and the engine made a sound like a tired lawn mower. No burst of energy came from beneath the hood.

Phoenix, he thought frantically, just get me to Phoenix, old blue. Then we can both rest. But not here. Don’t die on me here.

“Hey, Ed?” Archer pointed toward the back of the restaurant. Two farmhands stood in front of the door to the men’s room. One had been trying the handle. Now he stopped and started pounding on the door with the flat of one hand.

Royrader rose and led his companions away from the table. The half-finished beers were quickly forgotten.