Dean and Sackler drove about a mile down old Route 22 to a chrome and Formica railroad-car diner straight out of the fifties. The coffee was good and so was the blueberry pie. Sackler brought Dean up to date on his recent stay with Baratto but nothing of importance was learned. Sackler was sick of the man's company. Like everyone else, he'd hoped Parkside was out of the case and was disappointed to learn the FBI was expecting Parkside's continued assistance in the investigation. The two men gave Winston a half-hour alone with Baratto before returning to the motel.
As they alighted from the car, Winston came out to meet them. "Your buddy is being a little coy but he's hung around the wrong people long enough to pick up some information. If we can open him up, I think he'll be useful. We've got a place up in the Poconos we want to store him. Too many people know he's here at the motel. I want to move him before the bad boys track him down and try to whack him."
Only Sackler and Dean of the Parkside crew would know the new location where the Feds would store Baratto until they figured out what to do with him more permanently. As Sackler had worked the night, he was excused for the balance of the day. Dean and Winston would transport Baratto northward that afternoon. Winston stressed the secrecy of the location. "I don't care if they blow Vinnie's head off, but I don't want my guys getting hurt."
Vinnie Baratto came out of the motel, suitcase in hand, a smile from ear to ear. "These Feds got class, Davey, not like you hicks. Me and Johnny here, my colored buddy, are going to do us some business."
"Only if your memory starts working and you start spouting some useful information. We're not looking for stuff we can read in the phone book or the newspaper." There was no smile on Winston's face.
As it turned out, the safe house location was safe with Dean as he had no idea where they were after the first half dozen turns. He thought he was still in Pennsylvania-he hadn't seen a sign welcoming him to another state. Dean hadn't been around this many trees since he was a Boy Scout.
Winston glanced over his shoulder frequently, checking to see if they were being followed. Dean hoped it was simply from force of habit, not because he possessed information he wasn't sharing.
The final leg of the journey was a long dirt road that climbed first through a grove of fir followed by an unbroken forest of hardwood just beginning to bud. The trail dead-ended at a faded white house at the edge of a clearing that commanded a view of the valley below. It was a small house, no more than four or five rooms. While no other vehicle was visible, two men, dressed more casually than Winston, emerged from the house. They shook hands, but no names were exchanged. Most of Baratto's bravado had disappeared. He was uneasy-the kid being dropped off at the hospital for a tonsil operation, hearing about the ice cream but now realizing something dire might be in store before dessert.