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The second was a much taller man with a used look about him. The third was coarse and squat with a ruddy complexion and the constant look of anxiety etched into his aging face. It was their weekly meeting and the only time they met. By agreement, there was no contract, business or social, outside of these hushed, clandestine gatherings in the last booth of Carson's diner each Monday morning during the breakfast hour. |
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"And he never even asked what the Portland Foundation was?" Seacraft asked in amazement. |
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Shurley shook his head. "Hey, we're not exactly dealing with a mental giant, Mason. All this character was interested in was how soon and how much money he was going to get his hands on." |
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The Sergeant chuckled in amazement. "Unbelievable!" He laughed bitterly. "If someone had just told me that when I died everything I owned was going to be handed over to some outfit called the Portland Foundation, I'd damn sure want to know everything I could about it." |
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"It's a question he'll eventually get around to askin'," the third man in the trio opined. The words had to work their way out and around the stub of a cigar he had wedged in the corner of his crooked mouth. |
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