FunEgal sat in his truck in Hal’s parking lot, smoking cigarettes and listening to Diane Rehm. He’d know what he was looking for when he saw it. Rehm was talking to a retired Federal judge who’d taken to writing spy novels; FunEgal thought the man was probably a fascist, but the book sounded interesting enough, maybe he’d stop at Barnes and Noble on the way home and pick up a copy and maybe an espresso.

They weren’t coming. Something had tipped them—

Nope, there they were. Two guys in shades and faded T-shirts, lugging a huge cardboard box out of the trunk of a scratched blue Nissan. Conspicuously trying to be inconspicuous. The box had once contained a small TV, but had so much postal tape on it, it had probably seen a half-dozen moves; probably to college and back, judging from the guys’ appearance. Also, one was a Coldplay fan—which made FunEgal feel better about what he was going to do. The boys took the box inside Hal’s.