There never were. The last time, around five-thirty, I had them get hold of Bourke for me. He wanted to know what I’d heard from my office. I told him they hadn’t given me a thing since I talked to O’Gara. “We’ve had confirmation,” he said. “We roll at six-thirty in the morning. All appeals denied. I don’t like it.” “Neither do I.” “I don’t even like being awake at that hour, but what I like least of all is all this hurry-up action. This morning I figured we were going through a lot of waste motion, but now I’m not so sure. I’ve got a feeling there’s going to be trouble in Texas.” “You could be right.” “No other explanation, Dick. I don’t like it.” He couldn’t have liked it less than I did. The way I saw it there were two possibilities, and one was worse than the other. With the shipment heading south at sunrise and George taking himself out of the play, at best we were letting the score slip past us. That was the best way to look at it. Another possibility, and one that seemed increasingly likely the more thought I gave it, was that our play was already completely blown.
