John Grisham
The Broker
"Some people have more guts than brains, I guess." The exchange was over. There was nothing left to say. Roland made his way to the door. He grabbed the doorknob, then thought of something else. "Just so you know," he said gravely, "the CIA is reasonably certain that Sammy Tin landed in New York this afternoon. The flight came from Milan." "Thanks, I guess," Joel said. When Roland left the hotel room with the envelope, Joel stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes. Neal found two beers in the minibar and fell into a nearby chair. He waited a few minutes, sipped his beer, then finally said, "Dad, who is Sammy Tin?" "You don't want to know." "Oh, yeah. I want to know everything. And you're going to tell me." At 6:00 p.m., Lisa's mother's car stopped outside a hair salon on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. Joel got out and said goodbye. And thanks. Neal sped away, anxious to get home. Neal had made the appointment by phone a few hours earlier, bribing the receptionist with the promise of $500 in cash. A stout lady named Maureen was waiting, not too happy to be working late but nonetheless anxious to see who would drop that kind of money on a quick coloring job. Joel paid first, thanked both the receptionist and Maureen for their flexibility, then sat in front of a mirror. "You want it washed?" Maureen said. "No. Lets hurry." She put her fingers in his hair and said, "Who did this?" "A lady in Italy." "What color do you have in mind?" "Gray, solid gray." "Natural?" "No, beyond natural. Lets get it almost white." She rolled her eyes at the receptionist. We get all kinds in here. Maureen went to work. The receptionist went home, locking the door behind her. A few minutes into the project, Joel asked, "Are you working tomorrow?"
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