If something
happened to him, the package would get to her.
Feeling better, he skipped down the stairs, threw his carry-on bag into
the Jeep, and headed out of town. He stopped for coffee at the first
rest area on the turnpike. The sun wasn't even up as he got back in the
Jeep. _On the road again,_ he sang, picking up speed and passing a Shop
'N Save truck. "Fuck you, Malloy," he said, leaving the truck behind.
Francesca's husband worked for Hannaford Brothers, who owned the
grocery chain. _On the road again_ . . .
7.
Traffic was moderate. Oliver hummed along, enjoying the oranges, reds,
and yellows of New England in October. He crossed the Hudson on the
Tappan Zee Bridge, bypassing New York, glad to be moving again after
weeks of inaction. His money and what felt like his entire future was
in his pocket.
At five o'clock he cruised slowly through Atlantic City. He found
Bally's, parked, and went to his room. He washed his face, changed into
his outfit, and went back outside. The boardwalk stretched out of sight
along the beach. It was warmer and more humid than in Maine. Lazy waves
collapsed on the sand. Beach-goers and gamblers of all ages strolled
back and forth--studs with oiled glistening muscles, grandmothers with
straw hats and outrageous sunglasses, Afro-Americans, Latinos, Asians.
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