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“Whatever you say, Christopher,” the obese guy said and started opening the dead bolts again.
When the obese guy was gone, and Christopher had locked the door, the hairy guy behind the desk said, “Joe Socks says you’re looking for something?”
“Someone,” Fulmar said. “I’m sorry, but you are—?”
“In charge.”
He smirked.
Fulmar looked at him.
Okay, have it your way…
“Okay. Short version. Lanza has agreed to help me find the German agents who are setting off bombs in the U.S.”
Neither responded to that.
Fulmar looked at Christopher, then back at the hairy guy.
“And,” Fulmar went on, “Lanza said you guys knew something that would help.”
After a moment, the hairy guy nodded.
“Keep this in mind: I’m only doing this because Joe Socks said to.”
Fulmar nodded. “I understand.”
The hairy guy opened the top drawer of his desk, removed a pistol, and held it out.
Fulmar took it, checked to see if it was loaded—it was—then said, “It’s a Walther.”
“It’s what we took off the guy who didn’t pay his bills.”
“Okay…” Fulmar said.
He made a motion with his right hand that said, Give me more.
“Story we got was that he’d been boasting that he’d been doing the bombings.”
“Was he?”
The hairy guy shrugged.
“Where is he?” Fulmar quickly said.
“Gone.”
“Where?”
“Gone.”
“Look,” Fulmar said. “I’ve got to have more to go on than that. ‘Some nameless guy at a Jersey strip club says the bomber is quote gone unquote.’ I’d deserve to have my head handed to me if I reported back with just that.”
The hairy guy stared back at him.
“Okay,” he said after a moment, “that horny Kraut told my hooker that he and his partner had been doing the bombing on the East Coast and that there was another team in Arizona—”
“Texas?” Fulmar said.
