The Prettiest Feathers (1997)
“Friday was payday. I stopped by the precinct first thing in the morning to pick up my check.
When I walked in, I saw that the suits were there—FBI special agents from Quantico, the Bureau’s Behavioral Sciences Unit. The chief suit was an agent named Dexter Willoughby, a three-piece bureaucrat cut from a mold they keep in a vault at the Smithsonian. If I hadn’t already had a headache, he was exactly the kind of guy who could have given me one.
Willoughby and Hanson were standing in the hall deep... in conversation. “There’s a meeting of the minds,” I told Fuzzy.
“Hey, Bobby. How’s the head?”
“Solid as a rock.”
“I figured,” he said. “What’s up in Beantown?”
“Red Sox ain’t in the world series. Where’s Lane?”
“Conference room. You guys have a briefing with the feebles at eight-thirty,” he said.
“Doesn’t anybody remember that I’m on leave?”
Everybody was wearing plastic security tags. I hadn’t seen that happen since Clinton threatened to visit.MoreLess
When I walked in, I saw that the suits were there—FBI special agents from Quantico, the Bureau’s Behavioral Sciences Unit. The chief suit was an agent named Dexter Willoughby, a three-piece bureaucrat cut from a mold they keep in a vault at the Smithsonian. If I hadn’t already had a headache, he was exactly the kind of guy who could have given me one.
Willoughby and Hanson were standing in the hall deep... in conversation. “There’s a meeting of the minds,” I told Fuzzy.
“Hey, Bobby. How’s the head?”
“Solid as a rock.”
“I figured,” he said. “What’s up in Beantown?”
“Red Sox ain’t in the world series. Where’s Lane?”
“Conference room. You guys have a briefing with the feebles at eight-thirty,” he said.
“Doesn’t anybody remember that I’m on leave?”
Everybody was wearing plastic security tags. I hadn’t seen that happen since Clinton threatened to visit.MoreLess
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