The Consignment Read Online Free

box at the Haplon stand, then retreated to the johns, where I pulled a thick wedge of paper towels from the dispenser before locking myself inside one of the cubicles. I took off my jacket and shirt and hung them on the back of the door. Then I braced my arms against the wall, hung my head, and breathed deep—long and steady, in and out—and tried to quiet my wildly clamoring heart.
    Jesus, I thought. Oh Christ.
    The main door to the johns opened.
    “Ned? Are you coming out the tent for eats?”
    Micky Baker, he must have seen me come in. I raised my head.
    “Yeah. But don’t wait. I’ll be along.”
    I heard him wash his hands. He tried to strike up a conversation, but when I ignored him he got the message and left me alone. The door closed behind him. I finally pushed off the wall and took the paper towels one at a time and wiped them across my chest, under my arms, and everywhere else the perspiration was coursing off me. After a minute it seemed to be easing, so I balled the last few towels in my fist and swiped them over my neck and face, then I put on my shirt and jacket again. I collected up all the soaked paper and dumped it in the trash can on my way out.
    I had to go through the motions, I knew that. I had to put in an appearance.
    But on my way over to the pavilion I lingered a moment at the edge of the grass behind the hangar. Off to my right was the parking lot. Straight in front of me, fifty yards away, the grand pavilion. To my left, the temporary firing range, the red earth banked up like a levee, the last shots blasting off and echoing off the hangar wall. I looked from the range to the parking lot and saw Dimitri’s Mercedes two rows back from the chain-link fence. There was a direct line of sight from the firing range to Dimitri’s car, all a shooter would have had to do was turn around and fire. But that was a maneuver, of course, that would have been seen and prevented by the rangemaster and any number of other people standing near. A couple of yards farther on, the line of sight was blocked by several armored personnel carriers that had been parked between the hangar and the pavilion throughout the morning. While I watched now, the drivers began moving the vehicles out to the runway, preparing for a later demonstration.
    Micky Baker called my name from over by the pavilion. I took one last look at the firing range, then went to join the Haplon team for lunch.
    They found Dimitri sometime between dessert and coffee. A security guard hurried over to the Fettners table, then seconds later the toastmaster rose to make an announcement: Anyone and everyone who had fired weapons that morning was requested to report at once to the firing range.
    “Oh, for chrissake,” said Rossiter, a chocolate mint halfway to his mouth. “For what?” He turned to me, his brow puckered.
    Gillian Streiss, my deputy marketing manager, departed our table along with half a dozen others, there was a general air of annoyance that some unexplained screwup had spoiled lunch. A minute later there was another announcement, more a demand this time: It was imperative everyone who had used the firing range should report, the rangemaster had a list of names, it was necessary he speak to each one of those people immediately. Around the pavilion another twenty or more people got reluctantly to their feet. Rossiter tossed his napkin on the table.
    “Look after Jack,” he told me in a peeved tone, then he excused himself to Jack Trevanian and went out to report to the rangemaster.
    A small crowd was gathering at the Fettners table, Micky Baker went over to see what he could find out. I was left facing Trevanian over an untouched bowl of peaches. He raised a brow in question. I turned my head in dumb reply.
    Micky came scurrying back a moment later. “Some accident on the firing range,” he reported. “One of the Fettners guys—” but that was as far as he got because then the sirens started. We got up and went outside to