The room was actually some sort of suite, or so he guessed, because there was no bed, just some couches and a desk. There was a door that led to what Stevie guessed was the bedroom. Tom Whiting was seated, wearing the same sort of sickly smile that Dean Wojenski had been wearing as he ushered them into the room. And standing behind him was Stuart Feeley’s assistant, Gary, the muscle-bound flowered-shirt guy. Chip found his voice first. “Where’s Jurgensen?” he asked. They all laughed, clearly enjoying the confusion on their faces. “Have a seat,” Whiting said, indicating three chairs that had been set up opposite the couch in anticipation of their arrival. “I think I’ll stand,” Stevie said. “I may have to leave early to make a phone call.” More laughter. Gary casually pulled a small revolver from underneath his flowered shirt. “Have a seat,” he said. They sat. “What the hell is going on here?” Chip asked. “We were supposed to meet Steve Jurgensen. Is he coming?”
