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for a minute. Whatever Rosenblatt had was worth his
life, but it was also worth the efforts of both the US government and Nazi
sympathizers here in America. And it seemed to me that Lillian was using
whatever leverage she had to inject herself into this equation. And damned if I
didn’t find myself in the middle of it, too.
    But I had had an idea. Surely I wasn’t the only one who had suspected
Rosenblatt might have mailed the documents to himself or to someone else. Hell,
I would probably do it, too, if I were in his shoes. And I had an angle on
where they might be.
    “I need to make a phone call and get a beer,” I said. “We’re going to a
little diner that might be a bit lower than you’re used to.”
    “I wasn’t always this wealthy,” she purred. “I was born poor and worked
my way up.”
    I didn’t ask her what kind of work she had done to advance her place in
society.
    Bubba’s BBQ was located south of downtown just off Fannin. It was one of
the places to go for the best tasting BBQ this side of Austin. It barely
qualified as a restaurant; it looked more like a rundown shack than a fine
eatery. The air was pungent with smoke and meat, and Lillian visibly cringed
when we walked in.
    I nodded to Bubba. He was stationed behind the counter by a large cutting
board wet with grease and fat. His dark skin shone in the overhead heating
lamps, a sweat ring banding his chef’s hat.
    “You want something?” I asked Lillian.
    “To leave here.” Derision dripped from her voice.
    I smiled and turned to Bubba. “One chopped beef sandwich and two Lone
Stars.”
    A few minutes later, I picked up the food and the cold bottles, sweating
from the condensation, and paid for them. We got a table near the middle, to
keep an eye on the front door while providing an easy escape out the back if
necessary.
    Leaving Lillian to wipe the table with a series of paper napkins, I
moseyed back to the phone booth. I closed the door and pulled out all my coins,
stacking them on the phone. Remembering the name of the post office store
printed on the receipt I burned, I called to find out when they closed. They
stayed open late during the week. Good. Next I dialed Gordon Gardner. He picked
up on the first ring.
    “Gordon,” I said, “it’s me. You busy?”
    “Only covering your ass and mine trying to explain to the cops why I
drove you over to get your car.” From behind him came the sounds of typewriters
clanking away.
    “You were just helping a friend.” I tried to soothe him before I dropped
my request. If there was a tally sheet, my side would be full of debts owed to
Gardner. Time to add another to the list.
    “Listen,” I said, tracing my finger along the edge of the booth’s little
glass window, “I need a favor.”
    Gardner snorted. “Of course you do. What is it now? Lie to the police?
You know I got put on a short leash after that thing with the horses.”
    I grimaced. “Yeah, I know, but this one’s big.”
    “Aren’t they all?”
    “You have a point. But this one really is. It involves the war.”
    “Yeah?” he said. I knew Gardner had just sat up straighter in his chair.
He thought a lot like Lillian Saxton: war with Europe was inevitable. It was
only a matter of time.
    “Yeah,” I repeated.
    “What do you want?”
    “I need you to impersonate a dead man.”

Chapter
Twelve
     
    After giving Gardner his instructions, I
eased myself out of the booth and walked back to the table. The smell of the
beef and sausage was making my mouth water and I was eager to chomp into my
sandwich.
    As I neared the table, I stopped dead in my tracks. Lillian was still
there, but Captain Oscar Burman was sitting next to her, hands clasped in front
of him, his thumbs doing a little dance around each other.
    For a second or two, I thought about exiting out the back door, but
Burman’s gaze was fixed on mine. That ended that thought.
    “Well,” he said, a thin smile playing on his lips that didn’t reach his
eyes,