Bassett’s coming to the pub around nine tonight. “Describe him to me.” Black guy. Early forties. Maybe six-foot one, two. Looks like an athlete. “Okay, here’s the way I’d like to play it. I’ll get there early and park my car in a spot where I can see the front entrance. If someone matching that description goes in, I’ll wait five minutes while you two take a booth and order drinks. Then I’ll go in. Don’t ask Bassett any questions about the nonprofit before I get there. Just make small talk. When I walk in, call me over.” Boff arrived at Bailey’s thirty minutes early. The closest parking space he could find was a half a block away, so he took his binoculars out of the glove department and focused them on the bar’s front door. At five minutes to nine, a taxi pulled up and a man fitting Bassett’s description stepped out and walked into the pub.
