The Hanged Man’s Song by John Sandford Read Free Book Online Page B

stopped, we’d both grown tired of speculating about Bobby, tired of the casino job, and a little tired of each other. We got separate rooms and crashed.
     
    CRASHED for five hours, in my case. I don’t like short nights, but I’d been running on sugar and caffeine, and found that as I got older, they tended to screw me up. At four in the morning, I was looking at Bobby’s DVDs. Looking at them, as they sat in a plastic bag on top of a pile of clothes in my open suitcase. Not doing anything with them. The idea of all that stuff was intimidating. I walked down the hall and got a couple of straight Cokes and another roll of vending-machine chocolate doughnuts-more sugar and caffeine-and went back to the room, fired up the laptop, and finished the casino numbers.
    Finishing the casino job was like knitting: it used some time and calmed the nerves. I was checking my work when LuEllen rang. “You up?”
    “Since four,” I said. “We’re done with the casino.”
    “What’s the verdict?”
    “They’re taking two percent.”
    “The greedy fucks,” she said, aghast. “That’s my money.”
    “Technically, it was Congressman Bob’s money.”
    “It’s the principle,” she said. Then, “You wanna run across the street for some French toast?”
    “Give me ten minutes.”
    “Well, give me a half hour. I just got up.”
     
    I USED the time to call Congressman Bob in Washington, where it’d be after eight. I called on his direct line and he answered, with his rustiest voice, on the second ring. “Yeah?”
    “Congratulations on your reelection to the U.S. Congress,” I said.
    He took a minute to sort out my voice, then he roared with laughter. “You got ’em.”
    “They’re taking two percent. Two or three million a year, cash money, is going up in smoke and mirrors.”
    “How sure?”
    “Extremely sure. Exactly ninety-eight percent sure that we aren’t more than a half-percent off. What I’m not sure of is whether they’re doing it all the time. But they’re doing it right now, and if you want to do an audit, you better move on it.”
    “Sincy, Blake and Coopersmith are sitting in my driveway with the engine running,” Bob said. “We been waiting to hear from you.”
    “You got a hurricane down there.”
    “Nah. Just a pissant storm. It ain’t nothing.”
    “Okay. Well, you owe me.”
    “I do,” he acknowledged. “You know I’m good for it.”
    He was. Crooked as a crutch and absolutely good for his word.
     
    WHEN I hung up, I clicked on the TV, watched until LuEllen knocked on the door. As I went to answer it, the talking head on CNN came around to the burning-cross story. We both stood and watched it, and learned nothing. FBI said that they were developing leads and working in cooperation with the Jackson police. Yeah. A black reporter interviewed some fleshy guy who was pulling a fiberglass bass boat up a launch ramp, and who acknowledged that he was, in fact, an Imperial Cyclops in the Ku Klux Klan, and who said that the Klan believed in racial separation but not in hurting other people. Right. Eyes rolled nationwide and the talking head talked on.
    “Did you look at the Weather Channel?” LuEllen asked, as we went down the hall to the parking lot.
    “No. I was just finishing the numbers when you called. It’s not coming this way, is it?”
    “It wasn’t even a hurricane when it came ashore. It’s up in Georgia, already, just a big bag of wind.”
    “All right. What’re you gonna do today?”
    “What are
you
gonna do?”
    “Take a look at the DVDs. If they’re totally encrypted, that’ll take a couple of hours. See if I can figure out what’s going on with the FBI, if I can find a safe way to do it.”
    “Then I’ll probably just look around town, I guess. See if I can find a driving range, hit some golf balls. Find a bookstore, get some magazines.”
     
    WE HAD breakfast at a family restaurant, French toast and link sausage and coffee, and then, as long as I still had