Early the next morning, Mac found a patch of grass alongside the motel building to let Puck relieve himself. He had gotten used to finding and picking up the mess, although it still wasn't his favorite chore.
He showered again, still enjoying the feel of the hot water on his skin after the days spent in the backcountry. He discovered that the little bottles of shampoo provided by the motel were impossible to distinguish from one another. He opened each of the three and smelled each. They all smelled like something fresh. Cucumber, maybe? No clues there as to which was lotion, which was shampoo and which was… creme rinse? Soap?
He considered tasting each but decided that he didn't want to try it, although he suspected it would work. Instead, he poured a little of one into his hand and rubbed it into his hair. It didn't lather but remained slippery. Not shampoo then. He tried again with another bottle and this time he got a good lather. He poured a good amount from that bottle and lathered his too-long hair, grinning to himself as he imagined Pete's voice admonishing him to get a haircut.
He wished he had a suit or at least a nice shirt available, but he only had the clothes he'd packed for the backcountry. So, he chose the cleanest shirt out of the bunch and put his jeans on again.
Once he had fed Puck and re-packed his hiking pack, he left the little hotel room and gave Puck a "right" command. They walked the length of the front sidewalk, and then he told Puck, "find the door!" Throughout the last few months, they had polished that command until now Puck would touch a door handle with his nose, allowing Mac to brush his fingers up the dog's face and instantly find the handle of a door. He used the technique now to enter the lobby of the motel, hand in his key, and ask the front desk clerk if Missoula had any sort of public transit. He was pleased to find that there was a bus, and he got directions and scheduling information from the clerk.
The morning sun felt warm on his face, with just a hint of cool crispness in the air. He listened to the sound of traffic as the morning commuters made their way to work. He passed a fast food restaurant that smelled of fried potatoes and coffee. He and Puck waited at a traffic light. He listened carefully for the flow of traffic to change, and when the cars traveling parallel to his route surged ahead, he gave Puck the "forward" command.
It wasn't long until they found their bus stop and boarded the city bus heading into the business district. At the edge of the downtown section, he asked the bus driver for directions to the Diner Frank had mentioned.
"It's a piece of cake," the bus driver informed him. "When you get off the bus, take a left. Cross one street and the diner's right there on your right."
"Thanks," replied Mac, grasping Puck's harness handle, and gave the "forward" command to descend the bus steps.
The directions proved to be good, and Mac walked toward the diner, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. Puck found the door and they entered the warmth of the building, smells of bacon frying greeting him with a familiarity he enjoyed, even though he didn't eat bacon.
"Table for one?" asked a friendly female voice.
"Well, uhm, I'm supposed to meet a friend here," explained MacGyver, thinking that being able to visually scan the restaurant would be pretty handy right about now. He supposed that if Mr. Fist was there, he would have to find Mac.
Luckily, he didn't have long to wait. Footsteps approached from his right.
"Mr. MacGyver," greeted a voice that Mac recognized as belonging to Frank.
"Hi." Mac returned the greeting, then turned to the hostess. "Thanks."
"We're just over…" Frank apparently gestured in some unknown direction. "Do you need, uh, help, uh…?"
"Nah, he'll follow you," said Mac easily.
Frank let out a relieved breath and turned to walk toward the table.
"Puck, follow," ordered Mac and the dog led him toward a table in what seemed like a secluded back corner of the diner.
"Mr. Fist, this is the guy I was telling you about," said Frank deferentially.
"Hi, name's MacGyver," said Mac, wanting to hold out a hand to shake but not sure which side of the table the other man occupied.
"Blind, huh?" came a voice from the far side of the table. Fist's voice was lower in pitch than Frank's giving the impression of a large man. Frank sat across from Fist, scooting across the bench so Mac could also sit. He did, settling Puck at his feet, and looked up toward a waitress offering coffee, giving her a head shake to indicate he didn't want any.
"Yeah," he responded to Fist, thinking that the guy at least got it out of the way quickly.
"What can a blind guy do for me?" asked Fist impatiently, taking a drink of his own coffee, then setting the cup down with a rattle.
Underestimation is good, thought Mac. He'd have to play his cards very carefully now.
"I dunno, talk to people," he said carelessly. "Do you have any granola?" He addressed the last sentence to the waitress, who had come back to their table and stood chewing her gum and tapping her pencil on her pad of paper. The other two men ordered platters of bacon and eggs, and the waitress left.
"Talk to people," echoed Fist, shifting his weight on the vinyl bench. "What people? Why would I need you to do that?"
"Well, I know a lot of people," offered MacGyver. "People that like to help out other people." He found himself slipping into Dexter Fillmore's voice and he mentally slapped himself. Too much, he thought.
"What makes you think I need help," asked Fist warily.
"I dunno. You just seem like the kind of guy who likes to get stuff done," said Mac.
"And you know people who can help me get stuff done?" asked Fist sardonically.
"Maybe," Mac hedged.
"He didn't turn us in last week," Frank reminded his boss.
"Shut up," Fist replied without ceremony. He apparently liked to keep his people in their places.
At this moment, the gum-chewing waitress was back, clattering plates in front of each man, and a bowl in front of Mac with an additional something that puzzled him. He slid his fingertips carefully along the tabletop until they encountered the mystery item which at first felt like a coffee mug but which turned out to be a cream pitcher. With his left hand cradling the side of his bowl of granola, he poured the cream over it, and took a bite, noticing with pleasure that it was served with fresh strawberries on top.
The other men were also busy eating, so the talk lagged for a few minutes. Apparently it gave Fist time to think, because he at last said thoughtfully, "what do you know about… smoothing the way for moving things around?"
Mac didn't look up from his cereal. "Depends where it's going."
He was playing a game of verbal ping-pong with Fist. The crime boss wanted to know if Mac was going to deliver on his boasts, and wanted to find out before he gave any of his own information out.
Mac, however, had put the ball squarely in Fist's court. It was a reasonable request: Mac couldn't know whom to contact unless he had an idea of the plan.
Fist sat for a long minute, and Mac could feel the intensity of the man's gaze upon him, weighing him pondering his use and his trustworthiness. The moment could have been tense, but Mac swallowed a bit of granola and let out a satisfied burp.
The tension snapped. Frank snorted.
Fist said, "All, right, a trial. I have a load ready to go to East Asia, but at the moment I don't have a way clear through the West Coast export inspection."
The Philippines, Mac thought with dread. That's where this load was headed.
Aloud, he said, "I live in L.A. You're in luck."
Fist sat up straight, his fork clattering to his plate. Frank exclaimed, "L. A.?! You're crazy if you think…"
Fist cut him off. "Portland is safer."
Mac shrugged. "Busier is better in my book. Easier to slip stuff through. Easier to find someone willing to help."
Fist sat thinking about this. "We can try. It depends what you have to offer. I'll give you a week to talk to your people. Call me here in a week." A pen scratched on paper. The piece was ripped off of something and it was slid toward Mac. "I don't write braille," he commented with the first hint at humor Mac had seen from him.
"I'll manage," Mac replied, resisting the desire to roll his eyes. He held out his hand and someone scooped up the slip of paper and stuck it in his pocket.
He scooped up the last bite of granola and placed a fiver on the table. Standing, he waited while Puck stretched his lanky frame and gave an irreverent yawn.
As he did so, a thought struck Mac. He turned to Frank. "Why did you dart my dog? Back at Bear Creek?"
Frank replied in confusion, "I didn't. Don't know what you're talking about."
Mac shrugged, but inwardly he felt his stomach clench. He disliked unresolved details. Who had access to animal darts and knew the correct dosage for a young German Shepherd?
He picked up the harness handle.
"Nice to meet you," he threw toward the table. "Puck, forward. Find the door."
Outside, he directed Puck down the street, not caring much where he went. Eventually, he wanted a phone, but first he wanted to make sure Fist hadn't put a tail on him. They walked for several blocks through the business district, enjoying the relaxed pace of a smaller town on a weekday.
Mac discovered that he had absolutely no way of knowing whether the various footsteps around him belonged to Frank or anyone else. He would have to think of another way to call Pete and be absolutely sure he wasn't overheard.
He turned to the next person that stopped next to him at the curb. "Excuse me, is there a phone nearby?"
"Oh! Uhm, well," the woman's voice sounded startled. "There's… uhm… one right over there."
Mac sighed to himself. "You'll have to be a BIT more specific."
"Oh! I'm so sorry! I mean it's over THERE."
Mac pressed his mouth into a frustrated line. "Over there?" He asked, pointing ahead.
"Oh, no!" she giggled self-consciously. "It's…" She took his hand and swung it around until it pointed to his right.
"Thanks," he said with a smile that didn't quite make it to sincere.
"Oh you're so welcome!" she answered, and as the traffic shifted, she announced, "that's my light!"
Mac gave a slight, amused shake of his head. "Puck, right." Puck executed the right turn with snappy efficiency. "At least you know your right from your left," Mac told him. He soon heard the echo of a blank wall along the sidewalk on his right, and he stretched out his right hand to trail his fingers along it. Only a couple of feet later, he encountered the aluminum shell of a telephone booth and went inside.
He dropped in a couple of quarters and dialed the number that was so memorized he doubted he would ever forget it.
"Peter Thornton's office," chirped the voice of the secretary.
"Put me through," Mac requested, and she recognized his voice.
"Right away, Mr. MacGyver," she answered cheerfully.
"Thornton," his friend answered.
"Philippines," Mac said.
"Uh oh," Pete's voice took on the razor edge of worry.
At that moment, an arm reached past MacGyver's cheek and pressed the lever in the receiver cradle.
A voice Mac didn't recognize said, "Got the number? Good. Come with me, Mr. MacGyver." A hand grasped his upper arm in a viselike grip, and Puck's leash was jerked out of his other hand. He was led away with the phone receiver left dangling.