Get Thee Behind Me...

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In January he was George Cooper, doing a quiet job in a quiet way, thankful for these quiet years after the bad years — the very bad years. And then in March he was driving a big raspberry convertible down Route 19, through Tarpon and Clearwater, heading for St. Pete and the Bradenton ferry, and he wasn’t George Cooper any more. His name was Allan Farat and the states of Illinois, Ohio and Michigan were all interested in his whereabouts.

He sat slouched behind the wheel in the expensive and too-sharp suit, staring ahead at the narrow asphalt of Florida, tinged green by the ovoid sun glasses. He felt excited, uncomfortable, afraid and almost entirely unreal.

Abelson had put it to him nicely. You had to give Abelson that.

“Understand, Cooper. We can’t order you to do this. We’d like you to do it. If you feel you can. It’s going to be hot and it’s going to be dirty. We’d rather use somebody who has their hand in. But we can’t find anybody who looks even remotely like Allan Farat. But you... you could be Farat’s brother. You’ll get the right dye job on your hair and we’ll have a good man put a scar on the bridge of your nose and you’ll be Farat. Look at the picture again. Go ahead.”

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