Blood Risk [Version 2.0 by BuddyDk – October 8 2003][Easy read, easy
print][Completely new scan]BLOOD RISKBrian Coffey is the pen name for a young
American writer whose fiction has sold throughout the world to the tune of
over two million copies. 'Blood Risk' should add considerably to those
figures.
Brian CoffeyBlood RiskFutura Publications LimitedA Contact Book
First published in Great Britain in 1974by Arthur Barker LtdFirst Futura
Publications edition 1975Published in association withArthur Barker
LimitedCopyright © Brian Coffey 1973This book is sold subject to the
conditionthat it shall not, by way of trade orotherwise, be lent, re-sold,
hired out orotherwise circulated without the publisher'sprior consent in any
form of binding orcover other than that in which it ispublished and without a
similar conditionincluding this condition being imposed on thesubsequent
purchaser.ISBN 08600 71677Printed in Great Britain byC. Nicholls & Company
Ltd.The Philips Park PressManchester.Futura Publications Limited,49 Poland
Street,LONDON WlA 2LG
They had decided that only four men were required to stop the big car on the
narrow mountain road, hold the occu-pants at bay and remove the cash that was
stuffed into the suitcases on the floor behind the front seat. At first Merle
Bachman—who would be driving away, alone, in the blue Chevrolet with the money
locked safely in the trunk—had insisted on a fifth man. Number five would have
been stationed at the bottom of the private lane to work an inter-cept routine
in the event that someone turned off from the main highway while the robbery
was in progress. The others argued against Bachman, because the private road
to the Baglio estate supported very little traffic, especially on the morning
of a biweekly cash transfer. Also, no one wanted his share knocked to hell by
a fifth cut. Bachman clearly saw the economic sense of using a spare crew,
though he insisted there was no other wisdom behind this detail of the plan,
and he reluctantly agreed to go ahead with the job as a foursome. Now, the
darkly dressed men waited in their prearranged positions as the time for
action drew near.Upslope, the macadam roadway on which the robbery would
transpire made an abrupt appearance around a limestone outcropping, ran a
hundred yards past a lay-by on the outside where two cars could pass if they
should meet coming in opposite directions, went down for another four hundred
yards before turning a second limestone cor-ner and continuing out of sight to
the main highway. The two sharp twists beyond which nothing was visible, and
the still morning air, generated the feeling that all the rest of the world
had vanished in some unexplained catas-trophe.If you faced upslope, the left
side of the roadway was edged by a sheer stone wall slightly higher than a man
and, above that, by a thick pine forest and underbrush as green as new money.
Though the long grass at the brink of the woods stirred gently in the morning
breeze, it made no sound at all, bending down and unfolding back up again in a
graceful, mute ballet. Lying at the high corner above the first turn in the
road, stretched out in the carbon-paper shadows of the big trees, oblivious of
the dew-dampened grass and the quiet way it seemed to be reaching for him,
Jimmy Shirillo watched the Baglio mansion through a pair of high-power field
glasses. The long blades of grass had brushed Shirillo's face, leaving bright
droplets of dew sus-pended on his fair skin, his only blemishes, giving him a
vulnerable look that pointed up his youth. On the other hand, his own
professional stillness, his economy of move-ment and the intensity with which
he watched the mansion indicated the experienced professional beneath the
tender exterior.The binocular lenses were all that might have given Shirillo
away to someone looking down from the great house, but they had been tinted to
eliminate any telltale glare. Michael Tucker had thought of that, for he
thought of everything.A hundred yards below Shirillo, on the left, sitting in
the brush along the top of the stone wall, Pete Harris cra-dled an old
Thompson submachine gun, a souvenir from World War II. Harris had broken it
down, oiled it, packed it in cloth and mailed it from Paris in five packages
to his home address in the States. Back then, at the end of the war, that sort
of thing was still quite possible. He had not contemplated putting the gun to
any illegal use, or indeed to any use at all, for he thought he was finished
with war. A civilian again, he had to face his inability to hold a
nine-to-five job, and in desperation he launched his own war against the
system, against boredom and respecta-bility and enduring poverty. His
inability to fit that system did not arise out of any great sensitivity or
intelligence. Harris was only averagely perceptive. However, he was also
stubborn, very much his own man, with expensive tastes. This would have led
him into crime eventually, be-cause he was only fit to be a clerk in any other
field. He was the oldest of the four men here. At forty-eight he had ten years
on Bachman, twenty on Mike Tucker, twenty-five on the Shirillo boy, though he
didn't use his age and expe-rience to usurp power within the group as others
might have done. All he cared about was making the hit and getting the money,
and he knew Tucker was a damn fine operator.Thinking about the money, he grew
uncomfortable and shifted in the brush, stretching his long legs and working a
cramp out of his thick, muscular thighs. When the vigil first began, he
occupied himself by pulling burrs out of his clothes, his heavily callused
fingers uninjured by the sharp points. Now, though his calluses remained
inviolate, he was too nervous to fool with such minutiae, and he longed to be
on the move.On the right-hand side of the roadway, across from Harris, the
gravel berm dropped abruptly into a rock-strewn ravine that bottomed out more
than three hundred feet below. The only safe place on that side was the
fifty-yard-long lay-by where the Dodge and Chevrolet, both stolen, were now
parked facing slightly downhill. Tucker and Bachman waited there, the older
man behind the wheel of the Chevy, Tucker shielded from the lane by the bulk
of the Dodge.Bachman carried a .32-caliber pistol in a chamois shoulder
holster, as did Tucker. Unlike Tucker, however, he kept touching it, like a
savage with his talisman. With damp fingertips he traced the Crosshatch
pattern on the solid butt, lifting the whole weapon slightly out of the
holster, testing the way it fit, looking for potential snags— though he had
worn this same piece for years and knew that it wouldn't snag, ever.Though
Bachman had only the one gun, Tucker held an additional shotgun with only
seven inches of barrel; both chambers were loaded, and six spare cartridges
were dis-tributed in his jacket pockets. If Bachman had been carry-ing the
shotgun, he would have been constantly patting his pockets to be sure the
cartridges were there. Tucker, how-ever, stood quietly, moving as little as he
had to, waiting.“They should be here by now,” Bachman called through the open
window of the Chevy. He wiped a slender hand across his face, more than
covering his small, com-pressed features, pulled off something invisible—maybe
his own impatience—and shook that off his fingertips. Right now he was jumpy,
and he was talking too much, but when the time came for the job he would be
all grease and oil, as Tucker had discovered on the other three jobs they'd
worked on together.Tucker said, “Patience, Merle.” He was known for his
serenity, for maintaining a cool facade that never cracked under pressure.
Inside, though, he was all knotted up and bleeding. His stomach twisted this
way and that, as if it were an animal trapped inside of him; perspiration
gath-ered over his whole body, a symbolic film of his repressed terror.He had
not been born and raised to make his living this way, had never understood the
criminal social stratum. That he was now a success at what he did was a
testament to an almost fanatical determination to achieve what he set out to
achieve, and he was usually the undisputed leader of any group simply because
others saw and admired his single-mindedness.At the top of the slope, Jimmy
Shirillo dropped the field glasses and rolled onto his back, cupped his hands
around his mouth and shouted, “Here they come!” His voice cracked on the last
word, but everyone understood what he had said.“Go!” Tucker shouted, slamming
a flat palm down on the hood of the stolen Dodge.Bachman stopped fiddling with
the pistol cradled under his armpit and switched on the Chevrolet's engine,
revved it a few times and drove forward, blocking the road diago-nally.
Without wasting a second, smooth and fluid, he put the car in park, pulled on
the handbrake, opened his door and jumped out. He took cover at the very end
of the rear fender, where, if he saw there was going to be a collision, he
could leap to safety easily enough. As an afterthought he grasped the
grotesque Halloween mask that dangled from an elastic band around his neck and
slipped it over his head.Halloween in June, he thought. It was the wrong time
to wear a rubber mask, in this heat and humidity.On the hilltop Jimmy had
crept to the edge of the limestone outcropping, ready to jump into the lane
behind the Cadillac the moment the big car had gone by. He fumbled with his
goblin's face a moment, felt the dew on it and thought—inexplicably—that the
water was blood. Fear. Green fear, pure and simple. Angry with himself, he got
the mask in place.Down at the lay-by, behind the Dodge, Tucker became a
scarred old witch with one quick movement of his hand, grimaced at the odor of
latex that he now drew with every breath, then looked across the road at the
brush above the stone wall. Where was Harris? There. Maintaining good cover
for a city boy, blending right in with the weeds. Cradling his Thompson, his
face that of a grotesque mon-ster, he seemed twice as big and dangerous as he
had ever looked before.Tucker raised his shotgun and propped the barrel on the
fender of the Dodge, cautioning himself to stay loose. His stomach burned;
gall stung the back of his throat. Be-hind the mask he could allow himself a
wince, for none of the others would see it.The roar of the Cadillac's engine
was audible now. Tucker wondered if it was moving too fast to stop in time,
and he tried to calculate all the possible moves he could make if it slammed
into the barricade. Although the shock of the collision would delay Baglio's
men's reaction time and ease the strain of getting them firmly under control,
there was also the danger of jammed doors. And of fire. Baglio's men could
burn—but what about the money, then? The building roar of the car's engine
sounded in that moment like flames devouring stacks of crisp dollar bills.The
Cadillac came into sight.The driver was quick. He hit the brakes, slewed the
big chrome machine sideways, then let up so that he could correct a dangerous
plunge toward the precipice, brought the car to a jerking halt six feet away
from the Chevy's passenger door.Clouds of blue smoke caught up with the
Cadillac and swept past it.As planned, Pete Harris let go with a burst of
machine-gun fire, aimed well above everyone's head, before any of the others
could move toward the limousine. The shots glanced around the hillsides like a
series of hammer blows on an iron forge bed. The racket was almost certain to
be audible the length of the slopes and would draw reinforce-ments from the
mansion. In five minutes the site would be swarming with Baglio's gunmen.
Still, this was the quick-est, simplest way to let those inside the limousine
know that this was serious business, rough business, and that they were
hopelessly outgunned.When the echo died, Tucker was at the driver's win-dow,
the stubby shotgun leveled at the old man's neck. A blast from the first
barrel alone would shatter the window and fragment the chauffeur's skull
before he could com-plete any dive for the floorboards. The old bastard knew
it; he sat where he was, motionless.The other man in the front seat was Vito
Chaka, Baglio's trusted “accountant,” forty years old, slim and almost
feminine, graying at the temples. He cultivated a tiny mustache that covered a
third of his upper lip like a smudge of paint. In the 1930s he would have
driven the women wild, Tucker thought. And perhaps he still did, with the help
of his position and his bankroll. Chaka looked at him, sizing him up, then
nodded and slowly placed both hands on the padded dash in front of him, palms
turned up, everything in the open, in recognition of their
pro-fessionalism.“Get out!” Tucker said. His voice sounded thick and mean
through the slit of the rubber mouth.The chauffeur and Chaka obeyed at once.
When the two muscle types in the back seat hesitated, Jimmy Shirillo tapped on
the rear window with the barrel of his pistol. He had climbed onto the trunk
of the Caddy without making a sound, and his goblin mask seemed to grin at the
gunmen when they jumped in surprise.Shirillo was feeling good, better than he
had antici-pated he would feel, less afraid than he had been before things got
moving. He was sweating, and the full-head mask made his neck itch; but those
were minor troubles.Thirty seconds later Baglio's men were all lined up along
the driver's side of the limousine, their hands flat-tened on the roof or
hood, legs spread wide, leaning for-ward so they were off balance, heads
tucked between shoulderblades, all very neat, very classic. Only Chaka looked
sure of himself, dapper even in this humiliating pose.Bachman quickly opened
the rear door on the far side. “Three cases,” he said. No trace of his
previous anxiety remained in his voice.Jimmy Shirillo laughed
triumphantly.“Hold the celebrations,” Tucker said. “Go help him.”Bachman
lifted the heaviest suitcase and walked off toward the Chevy, severely bent by
the dragging weight. He wouldn't have been content to pick up one of the
smaller cases, of course—for the same reason that he wore high-waisted
trousers: he didn't like anyone to think of him as a small man, even though he
was a small man.Jimmy went around and got the last two bags, carried them with
little trouble, dropped them into the open trunk of the stolen Chevrolet and
slammed the lid while Bach-man scurried for the front door.“Relax,” Tucker
told the men lined against the car, though none of them had moved.No one
responded.Bachman started the Chevy, raced the engine once, shifted into
reverse, squealed backward, angling the car downhill.“Easy!” Tucker
shouted.But he didn't need to caution Merle Bachman, for the small man always
gauged the situation properly and per-formed at the optimum safe speed. He was
a good driver.Harris came off the stone wall, grunting, the sound of his heavy
breathing magnified by the mask. While Bach-man was backing the Chevy, Harris
came around to Tucker and said, “Smooth.”Again Tucker said, “Hold the
celebrations.”Bachman put the Chevy in gear, touched the gas lightly and
started downhill toward the second curve, shimmering curtains of heat rising
from the roof and trunk of the car.“Get the Dodge,” Tucker ordered
Shirillo.The boy went after it.Pete Harris was the only one still watching the
Chevy, thinking about all that money in the trunk, thinking about retirement,
and he was the first to see that it was going to go sour. “Oh, shit!” he
said.He had not even finished the exclamation when Tucker heard the hot cry of
the Chevrolet's brakes and whirled around to see what had gone
wrong.Everything had gone wrong.Before Bachman had covered little more than
half the distance to the bottom curve, a Cadillac had rounded the limestone
down there, coming up. It was a match for the Caddy they had just hit, and it
was moving too fast, much too fast for these road conditions. The driver
pulled the wheel hard to the left and tried to run the bank; that was
hopeless, because the shoulder of the road down there turned swiftly into the
stone wall that continued unbroken to the top of the rise. A tire blew with
the force of a cannon shot. The car jolted, bucked up and down like an enraged
animal. Metal whined as a fender was compressed into half the space it had
formerly occupied.Still braking, the Chevrolet wobbled crazily back and forth
as Bachman fought to regain control, veered suddenly and purposefully toward
the outside.“He can't get around a car as big as the Caddy!” Harris
said.Bachman tried it anyway. He was still in the middle of a job, still calm
and greased, quick and calculating. He realized that he had only one chance of
pulling this off successfully, and no matter how infinitesimal that chance
was, he took it. The Cadillac had come to a complete halt now, pretty badly
crumpled on the one side, and the Chevy plowed into its rear door like a pig
nosing in the turf, reared up and caught its front axle on the top of the
ruined door, simultaneously sliding to the left toward the three-hundred-foot
chasm. The back wheels jolted off the berm and swung over empty air, spinning
up clouds of yellow dust. For a second Tucker was sure the Chevy would break
loose and fall, but then he saw it would hold, half-way up the other, larger
car like a dog mounting a bitch. Bachman had tried it; he'd lost.Completely
undamaged on the passenger's side, the front door of the Cadillac opened and a
tall, dark-haired man got out, dazed. He shook his head to clear it, turned
and stared at the demolished Chevy angled crazily over him, bent forward with
his hands on both knees to be sick. He seemed to think of something more
important than that natural urge, for he straightened abruptly and looked into
the front seat, reached inside and helped a young woman climb out. She
appeared to be as uninjured as he, and she did not share his sickening
intimation of mortality. She wore a white blouse and a very short yellow
skirt: a big, lovely blonde. Her long hair flapped like a pennant in the
breeze as she looked up the road at Tucker and the others.“Here!” Jimmy
Shirillo shouted. He had turned the Dodge around and was facing uphill.“Get in
the car,” Tucker told Harris.The big man obliged, the Thompson held in both
hands tenderly.“Don't force me to shoot any of you in the back,” Tucker said,
backing to the open rear door of the Dodge.Baglio's men remained silent.He
slid into the car, still facing them, raised the shot-gun and fired at the sky
as Jimmy tore rubber getting out of there, slammed the door after they were
moving and dropped onto the seat below window level until he felt the car
swinging around the upper curve.“Are we just leaving Bachman there?” Harris
asked.Tucker peeled off his mask and pushed his sweat-slicked hair out of his
face. His stomach was bothering him worse than ever. He said, “We don't have
the means to get him out and hold off Baglio's whole army at the same time.”
He belched and tasted the orange juice that had been his entire
breakfast.“Still . . .” Harris began.Tucker interrupted him, his voice tense
and bitter. “Bachman was right—we did need a fifth man.”
“We're boxed,” Shirillo said.From here on out, the private road no longer
hugged the edge of the ravine, struck toward the broad interior slopes of the
mountain with land opening on both sides. Flanked by pines, it fed
ruler-straight into the circular driveway in front of Rossario Baglio's
gleaming white many-windowed monstrosity of a house only another mile ahead.
Just exiting that drive, a black Mustang arrowed directly for them.“Not
boxed,” Tucker said, pointing ahead and to the left. “Is that a
turn-off?”Jimmy stared. “Yeah, looks like it.”“Take it.”The boy wheeled hard
left as they came up on the dirt track, braked, barely avoided ripping through
several small, sturdy pine trees, slammed brutally across a series of
wet-weather ruts, apparently unperturbed by all of it. Tramp-ing down on the
accelerator, he grinned into the rear-view mirror and said, “It's not my
car.”Despite himself Tucker laughed. “Just keep your eyes on the road.”Jimmy
looked ahead, straddled a large stone in the middle of the way and built more
speed.The wind hissed at an open wing window, and insects smacked against the
glass like soft bullets.“They're right behind us,” Harris said. “Just turned
in.”Both Tucker and Harris stared through the back win-dow, dizzied by the
green blur of trees and underbrush, brambles and grass that whipped by on both
sides, waiting for the Mustang to bounce into view. They were startled, then,
when Shirillo braked to a full stop three quarters of the way up the long
hill. “What the hell . . .” Tucker said.“There's a log across the road,”
Shirillo said. “Either we move it or we go on foot from here.”“Everybody out,”
Tucker said, pushing open his door. “We move it. Pete, bring the Thompson.”The
log was the corpse of a once mighty pine tree fully thirty feet long and as
many inches in diameter, with a couple of thick branches that had been chopped
short with a sharp ax. It looked as if it had been put there to keep anyone
from using the road beyond this point, though it was just as likely that it
was spillage from a logging truck when the forests had served to feed a paper
mill or plank-ing factory. Tucker directed all three of them to get on the
same end of the log, spaced three feet apart, one foot on each side of the
tree. Heaving together, stepping side-ways in an awkward little dance, they
managed to swing it around about a yard.“Not enough,” Shirillo said.Harris
said, “Where's the Mustang?”“It can't move as fast on these bad roads as our
heavy car can,” Tucker said. He sucked in his breath and said, “Again!”This
time they moved the barrier almost far enough to squeeze the Dodge past, but
when they stood to catch their breaths, their backs cracking with a pain like
fire, Harris said, “I hear the other car.”Tucker listened, heard it too, wiped
his bruised hands against his slacks to make them stop stinging. “Take your
Thompson and get ready to meet the gentlemen, Pete.”Harris smiled, picked up
the machine gun and trotted to the rear of the Dodge, where he sprawled in the
middle of the dusty road. He was a large man, over six feet, more than two
hundred and forty pounds; when he went down, the dust rose around him in a
cloud. He raised the black barrel and centered it where the Mustang would be
when it rounded the bend below. The large circular cannister of ammunition
that rose out of the machine gun gave the impression of something insectoid,
something that was somehow using instead of being used, an enormous leech
draining Harris's body of its blood.Tucker bent and slipped his hands around
the log again, found as good a hold as he was going to get on the surprisingly
smooth, round pine trunk. Perspiration ran from his armpits down his sides;
his shirt soaked that up. “Ready?” he asked.“Ready,” Shirillo said.They
heaved, gasped as all their stomach muscles tightened painfully. Tucker felt
his back pop like a glass bottle full of pressurized soft drink, perspiration
fizzing out of him. But he did not let go, no matter what the cost in strained
muscles, raised the log a few inches, scraped sideways a frustratingly short
distance before they had to drop it. This time Shirillo sat down on the log to
regain his breath, panting like a dog that has run a long way in mid-June
heat.“No loafing,” Tucker said immediately.He felt as bad as the boy did,
perhaps even worse—he was, after all, five years older than Shirillo, five
years softer; and he had twenty-eight years of easy living to put up against
the boy's twenty-three years of rough ghetto upbringing—but he knew that he
was the one who had to keep the others moving, had to generate the drive,
share some of his fanatical determination to see them through. It was not the
getting killed that Tucker feared so much. More than that he feared failure.
He said, “Come on, Jimmy, for Christ's sake!”Shirillo sighed, got to his feet
and straddled the pine once more. As he bent to get a grip on it, Harris
opened up with his Thompson, filling the woods about them with a manic
chatter. Shirillo looked up, could not see anything because of the Dodge and
the angle of the trail beyond that, bent again and took hold of the log, put
everything he had into one final, frantic heave. Together they muscled the
tree farther around than they had the last time before they were forced to let
it go. Dropped, the tree landed in the baked roadway with a soft, dusty
thump.“Far enough?” Shirillo asked.“Yes,” Tucker said. “Move ass now!”They ran
back to the car. Shirillo slid behind the wheel and started the engine. That
was enough of an alert for Harris, who had not used the Thompson for almost a
full minute. The big man jumped up and got into the back of the Dodge again.
Tucker was sitting up front with Shirillo and was fumbling with his seat belt.
He clicked it together as Jimmy pulled out, turned to Harris and said, “Get
any tires?”“No,” Harris said. The admission bothered him, for he respected
Tucker and wanted the young man to return his respect. If this job had gone
right, it would have been his last; now, because they'd botched it, he would
need to work again, and he preferred to work with Tucker more than with anyone
else, even after this fiasco. “The bastards caught on too quick, shifted into
reverse before I'd nailed any tires.” He cursed softly and wiped at his grimy
neck, his voice too soft for Tucker to hear the individual words.“They
coming?” Shirillo asked.“Like a cop with a broomstick up his ass,” Harris
said.Shirillo laughed and said, “Hold on.” He tramped the accelerator hard,
pinning them back against their seats for a moment, cutting into a long,
shadow-dappled section of road.“Why don't they let us alone?” Harris asked,
facing front, the Thompson across his lap. His face matched his body: all hard
lines. His forehead was massive, the black eyes sunk deep under it and filled
with cold, solid intelli-gence. His nose, broken more than once, was bulbous
but not silly, his mouth a lipless line that creased the top of a big square
chin. All those harsh angles crashed together in a look of bitter
disappointment. “We didn't get their money.”“We tried, though,” Tucker
said.“We even lost Bachman. Isn't that enough?”“Not for them,” Tucker
said.“The Iron Hand,” Shirillo said. He took a turn in the road too far on the
outside: pine boughs scraped the roof like long, polished fingernails, and the
springs sang like a bad alto.“Iron Hand?” Harris asked.“That's what my father
used to call them,” Shirillo said, never taking his eyes off the road
ahead.“Melodramatic, isn't it?” Tucker asked.Shirillo shrugged. “The Mafia
itself isn't a staid and sober organization; it's as melodramatic as an
afternoon soap opera. It's all the time playing scenes straight out of cheap
movies: bumping off rivals, beating up store owners who don't want to pay for
protection, fire-bombing, black-mailing, peddling dope to kids in junior high
school. The melodrama doesn't make it any less real.”“Yeah,” Harris said,
glancing uneasily out the rear window, “but could we go a little faster, do
you think?”The road curved gradually eastward now and narrowed as the huge
pines and occasional elms and birches crowded closer—like patrons at a play
getting restless for the last act and the climax of the action. Abruptly, the
trail slid downward again, and the dust dampened and became a thin film of
mud.“Underground stream somewhere nearby,” Tucker said.At the foot of the
hill, the land bottomed for a hundred yards before tipping over another slope.
Here, shrouded by overhanging trees and flanked by thousand-layer shale walls,
the Dodge choked, coughed, rattled like Demosthenes talking around his
mouthful of pebbles and expired with very little grace.“What's the matter?”
Harris asked.Shirillo was not at all surprised, for he'd been expect-ing this
for some time now. He was surprised, though, by his own serenity. “The gas
tank was holed when we turned onto the dirt track,” he told them. “I've been
watching the indicator drop little by little the last half hour—must be a
small hole—but I didn't see any sense in putting everyone on edge until we
were actually empty.”They got out and stood in the small glen where a trace of
early-morning fog still drifted lazily through the trees, a ghost without a
house.Harris slung his machine gun over his left shoulder, by the black
leather strap, and he said, “Well, the road's too damn narrow for them to get
around the Dodge. If we have to walk, so do they.”Tucker said, “We're not
going to walk so long as they're right behind us with a good car.” His tone
left no room for debate. “We'll take that Mustang away from them.”“How?”
Shirillo asked.“You'll see in a minute.” He ran around the nose of the Dodge,
opened the driver's door and threw the shotgun on the seat. He tossed their
rubber masks into the road. Un-springing the handbrake, he put the gear shift
in neutral. “The two of you get behind and push,” he said.They braced opposite
ends of the rear bumper, while Tucker put his shoulder to the doorframe and
walked slowly forward, keeping one hand on the wheel to prevent the car from
wedging against the shale that loomed close on both sides. At the point where
the road began to dip, Tucker picked up the shotgun and leaped out of the way.
“Let her go!”Shirillo and Harris stood back and watched the black car rumble
clumsily down the first few yards of the de-scending trail. As the slope grew
steeper, the car gathered speed, veered to the left. It struck the shale wall,
sparks flying, screeching, went toward the right like an animal seeking
shelter, slammed into the other stone bank, skidded as the trail abruptly
angled down, jolted in a rut they couldn't see from the top of the run. It
started to turn around as if it had had enough and would come back up the
hill, then it gracefully rolled onto its side with a re-sounding crash that
slapped over them like a wave. It slid another two hundred feet before it
stopped, its un-dercarriage facing them.“The conservationists would love us,”
Shirillo said. “We've started our own war on the automobile today— three down
in less than an hour.”“You want them to think we wrecked?” Harris asked. When
Tucker nodded he said, “What about our footprints here in the mud?”“We'll have
to hope they don't notice them.” Half a mile behind them, the steady drone of
the Mustang engine became audible. Tucker picked up the masks and distrib-uted
them, slipped on his own. “Move ass,” he said. “Stay to the side of the road,
by the wall, so the prints going down won't be conspicuous. By the bank, there
should be enough loose shale to hide our trail.” He took off, the others close
behind, the fallen shale shifting under them, damp and slick. Twice Tucker
thought he would fall, but he kept his balance by running faster. They made it
behind the shelter of the overturned Dodge only a mo-ment before the Mustang
appeared at the top of the hill.“What now?” Harris asked. He had unslung the
ma-chine gun.Tucker looked farther down the hill, behind them, saw that the
shale diminished considerably on both sides only a short distance ahead. “Stay
down and follow me,” he said, moving off in a fast duck walk.When they reached
a point where they could get atop the banks that had hedged the trail all the
way down the slope, Tucker looked back to see how visible they were from
above. He couldn't see any of the road beyond the overturned Dodge; good, it
was safe to assume they couldn't be seen, either. He sent Pete Harris to the
left, took Shirillo with him on the right, climbed the now diminutive bank,
slipping once, scraping his knee on loose shale, ignoring the flash of pain
When they were in the woodlands that lay above the road, he looked across and
waved at Harris, who signaled with his machine gun in response. Cautiously,
they made their way back to the spot where the Dodge had flipped on its side,
edged to the brink of the shale walls and looked down.The Mustang was parked
twenty feet above the wreck, doors open. The two men who had been in it moved
warily in on the Dodge, pistols drawn.“Don't move at all,” Tucker told
them.They were good, if surprised, and they listened.“Remove the clips from
your pistols—but keep them pointed at the ground. You're covered from both
sides of the road.”The two men did as they were told, reluctantly but with the
evident resignation of professionals who knew they were cornered. Both were
large in the shoulders, dressed in lightweight summer suits that didn't seem
to belong on them. Gorillas. Figuratively and almost literally. They would
look much more at home in a zoo, railing at visitors through iron bars.“Now,”
Tucker said, “look up at me.”They looked up, shielded their eyes from the
bright sky, grimaced at the shotgun.“Now look across the road.”They turned as
if connected, stared up at the Thomp-son in Pete Harris's hands. Tucker
couldn't see their faces, but he knew they were properly impressed, for he
could see their shoulders draw up in an instinctive urge to crouch and
run.“Now throw your guns up here,” he told them. When he had both pistols
tucked into his belt, he pointed at the dirt-streaked Mustang and said, “Who
was driving?”“Me,” the taller of the gorillas said. He jammed both hands into
his pants pockets like a sulking child and looked up at Tucker from under his
brow, waiting to see what came next.“You a good driver?”“I do okay.”“Which of
you is better?”The man who had not been driving pointed at the man who had and
said, “He is. He drives for Mr. Baglio when—”“Enough!” the driver snapped.The
smaller man blanched and shut up. He looked at Tucker, then at his partner. He
rubbed at his mouth as if he could scrub out what he had already said.“Get
back in the Mustang,” Tucker told the driver, “and bring it right up to the
Dodge.”“Why?” the driver asked.“Because, if you don't, I'll kill you,” Tucker
said. He smiled. “Good enough for you?”“Good enough,” the driver said,
starting for the Mus-tang.Tucker said, “Don't try backing out of range. That
gentleman over there could blow the car apart before you'd gone ten feet.” To
the second gorilla Tucker said, “Stand over against the wall. Stay out of the
way and be good.”“You won't get away with this,” the gorilla said. Clearly,
though, he expected that they would. His grainy, broad-nosed face was covered
with more than a patina of defeat; the expression was deeply rooted. He was
one of those who hadn't any faith in himself unless he could get his hands on
his adversary. At this distance he was feeling exceedingly inferior.“Let's get
this moving,” Tucker said.The driver stopped the Mustang when its front bumper
was a foot from the underside of the overturned Dodge. His window was rolled
down, and he leaned out and said, “Now what?”“Move it ahead until you feel it
make contact.”The driver didn't ask questions. When a solid thunk proved he'd
obeyed, he leaned out his window again and waited to hear the next part of it.
While the man standing against the wall across the road seemed unable to
com-prehend what was happening, the driver knew what Tucker wanted. He was
going to wait for Tucker to say it just the same.Tucker hunkered down at the
top of the bank, brushed away a swarm of gnats that rose out of the grass at
his feet, pointed the shotgun at the driver's face. “I want you to put the gas
to it, slowly, build up the pressure until something happens. The Dodge isn't
wedged tight. It should slide loose. The moment it's moved enough for you to
squeeze your heap past it, do just that.”“And if I keep going?” the driver
asked. He smiled as if this were a joke between them, and he had very nice
teeth.“We'll shoot out your tires, blow out the back win-dow, very likely put
half a dozen slugs in the back of your head—and possibly blow up your gas
tank.” He smiled back; his own teeth weren't bad, either.“I thought so,” the
driver said. He eased his foot down on the accelerator.For a moment nothing
much happened. As the engine noise built into a scream, a ring-necked pheasant
took off from the brush behind Tucker and Shirillo, startling the boy but not
the older man. The Mustang's bumper popped a bolt and crunched back onto the
grill. Still, the engine noise climbed. The driver was gritting his good
teeth, aware that the Dodge might tilt the wrong way, that he might slip off
it and careen into the shale wall himself.Then the Dodge began to creak and
give. A section of the shale broke loose from the wall and crashed down over
the ruined automobile, rained on the Mustang, clattered at the feet of the
gorilla who stood against the far wall, above the, wreck. Then the big car
twisted sideways, its roof coming around flat against the shale wall across
the road. The driver of the Mustang pulled his car through the opening, badly
scraping the whole length of his side against the rock. He stopped where he
was supposed to, opened his door and got out.“Come back up here,” Tucker said.
He hadn't been sure that the Dodge would move, but now he showed no surprise.
Tucker was never surprised. It would have damaged his reputation if he had
been.The driver came back, stood beside his companion and looked very
disgusted with himself. He had a right. How-ever, unlike the other gorilla, he
didn't try to tell them that they wouldn't get away with it. He looked at his
dusty shoes, wiped each of them against the back of a trouser leg and did a
good job of pretending boredom.“Where's this road go?” Tucker asked. While he
held the shotgun on them, Harris went downslope to the place where he'd
climbed the bank, gained the road again and walked back up toward
them.“Nowhere,” the driver said.“It's a dead end?”“Yeah.”The smaller of
Baglio's men, the one who hadn't had enough sense to keep quiet before, looked
at the driver quizzically, then smiled and looked up at Tucker. His face might
as well be a blackboard with a huge, chalked message on it. “You're never
going to get out of here. Mr. Baglio will get you sooner or later, 'cause this
is a dead end.”The driver looked scornfully at the other man, spat on the road
and sighed, leaned back against the shale wall,“Is he Baglio's son-in-law, or
something?” Tucker asked the driver.“No,” the driver said. “But help's not
easy to get these days.”The smaller gorilla blinked stupidly, looked from one
to the other. “Son-in-law?” he asked.When they were all in the Mustang and
Jimmy Shirillo had pulled away from the wreck and the two gunmen, Harris said,
“Obviously, it's not a dead end at all.”“Go to the front of the class,” Tucker
said.Harris's goblin mask hung below his chin like a second face in the middle
of his chest, bobbing when he talked. “A dead end would be bad, but this is
something worse, so why go on?”“Because we can't go back,” Tucker said.
“Obviously Baglio knows we're on this road and has the other end sealed up.
But we might come to something else before we run into the roadblock.”“Like
what?”“I couldn't say, but I'll know it when I see it.”
At the beginning of May, when the trees were just green-ing and the summer
ahead seemed devoid of any job possibilities, a letter had arrived at Tucker's
midtown Manhattan mail drop, sealed in a white envelope with no return
address. He had known that it was from Clitus Felton before he opened it,
since he was accustomed to receiving letters like it on the average of ten
times a year. Half that often they contained something worthwhile. Clitus
Felton, despite his unlikely name, earned his way as a contact point between
freelancers on the East Coast, operating out of a small specialty bookshop in
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Once he had been in the business himself, expertly
planning and executing two or three substantial jobs a year. But age had
gotten to him—as had his wife, Dotty, who was afraid that the amazing Felton
luck was soon going to be stopped by a cop's bullet or a long stretch behind
walls. However, a bookshop wasn't enough to keep Felton interested in life. He
was only six months behind the counter when he began to contact old friends
and offer his middle-man service. He kept names, aliases and addresses all in
his head, and when someone contacted him about a perfect job with a need for
the proper part-ners, Felton considered the possibilities, wrote a few letters
and tried to help out. For a percentage. Usually five, if the job worked out
as expected. Vicarious crime. He lived for it.This latest letter had intrigued
Tucker. He placed a couple of telephone calls, got the information that
couldn't be trusted to the mails and flew to Pittsburgh, from Ken-nedy
International, to meet with Jimmy Shirillo.When Shirillo welcomed him at the
airport, Tucker almost said thanks-but-no-thanks, almost got right the hell
out of there before he had heard anything more about the job. Shirillo looked
far too young, seventeen at the most, and he didn't look any better to Tucker
when he said he was actually six years older than that. Despite the Italian
surname, he was fair-complexioned, blue-eyed, with sandy brown hair. He was
only about five feet four, per-haps a hundred and thirty pounds. A well-placed
bullet wouldn't just kill him; it would knock him a couple of blocks if there
was any breeze moving at all.Tucker wasn't such a big man himself, standing
five feet nine and weighing a hundred and forty-odd pounds. He supposed, too,
that he didn't look the way a man in his profession should look. He was
dark-haired and dark-eyed, with high cheekbones, a thin-boned nose, an air of
the aristocrat, and he had been told, at different times, that he was somewhat
fey. However, he looked like a bruiser compared to the kid; he looked a
thousand times more experienced and cautious and capable. The kid inspired no
confidence at all, and he made Tucker feel like a father meeting his
son.Shirillo, smiling, reached out and took Tucker's single suitcase with one
hand while he offered the other to be shaken. His handshake was surprisingly
firm, though un-forced, the handshake of a man who was certain of him-self. It
was enough to make Tucker hold his initial judgment in check.As Shirillo drove
them into and then across the city during the first wave of morning rush-hour
traffic, handling his new Corvette with caution but with no restraint
what-soever, making better time than Tucker would have thought possible, he
was forced to junk his first evaluation of the boy and come up with a
different one altogether. Beneath that somewhat fragile exterior was a man of
competence and—as he proved again and again in that freeway war— not just a
little daring.“Why you?” Shirillo had asked, weaving around a large beer
truck, squeaking back into the proper lane with no more than a thickness of
paint to spare.“Excuse me?”The boy grinned. “You've been sizing me up ever
since I took your suitcase in the arrivals lounge, and you seem to have
decided to trust me.”Tucker said nothing.“Now,” Shirillo said, “I'd like to
size you up. Why did Felton think you were especially right for this
job?”Tucker leaned back in the bucket seat, found the roll of lime-flavored
Life Savers he usually carried in a pocket, offered one to Shirillo, took one
for himself and sucked on it. He said, “I only steal from institutions. I
guess that's why Felton thought of me.”“Institutions?”“Yes. Banks, insurance
companies, department stores, diamond brokers, that sort of thing. I've never
taken any-thing from an individual, from anyone who could be hurt by the
loss.”Shirillo mulled that over for a moment, then said, “You call the Mafia
an institution?”“One of the oldest,” Tucker said.“But there are differences
between the Mafia and—and a bank or an insurance company.”“A few,” Tucker
admitted. Already he felt at ease with the kid, despite the brief time he'd
known him, despite the glittering cars that they sailed past and dueled with,
despite the angry honking of horns, squeal of brakes. “Though there are fewer
differences than you might think.”“One difference,” Shirillo said, tramping
hard on the accelerator to take advantage of an opening in traffic, “is that a
bank, if it catches up with you, will have you tossed in jail—while these boys
we're talking about will simply weight you down and drop you off a bridge
somewhere.”Tucker smiled, sucked his lime Life Saver, watched the hurtling
death machines around him as if they were play-ful animals. “They still do
things like that?”“Worse,” Shirillo said. “I don't want anyone in this who
doesn't understand the risks.”“Do you?” Tucker asked.“I was raised in the Hill
section of Pittsburgh,” Shirillo said. His manner was no longer childlike. It
was grim. His face set into tight lines, pinched up by bad memories. “That's
mostly a black neighborhood—substandard hous-ing, bad garbage pickup so you
get rats running in the streets like dogs, hardly any police patrols, streets
that haven't been paved in my lifetime, no family counseling or city services
like in the white neighborhoods. It's the kind of place where pressures build
up and up until, one summer night every couple of years, they just rip out
through the top.”“Riots?”“You been keeping up with the news,” Shirillo said.
“But I prefer to think of them as nervous collapses; it's not a physical thing
but a psychological one. Everyone clucks about it for a few days; all the
upstanding white citizens rush out and buy a lot of guns they don't know how
to use; in a month it's forgotten, and nothing's changed. Nothing at all. If
you're not black or Spanish, you've got to be shit-poor to live in the Hill
section. And that's why we were there. My father tried to keep ends together
with a shoe-repair store, and did, too, until he kicked off at fifty-six from
too much damn work. My father has had to pay Rossario Baglio's collectors for
the last fifteen years, simply for the privilege of remaining in business. An
old Italian custom.” He snorted, but wasn't amused by his own joke. “Before
Baglio, it was someone else who got the weekly install-ments. I've seen what
they do to people who miss a week or who come flat out and say no to
extortion. One of the rebels was a brother of mine, and ever since he said
'No' he limps. Badly. He's lucky that he walks at all.”“So you know the
risks,” Tucker said.“Too well.”“I know them too. But I also know that, in a
job like this one, you gain advantages along with the risks. For my part, I
think the advantages outweigh the additional risks.”“For instance?”“For
instance, you don't have to worry about organized police, the state or federal
apparatus, fingerprint experts or any of the rest of it.”“That too,” Shirillo
admitted.Out of the city, moving east on the superhighway, the traffic thinned
out considerably. Shirillo put the Corvette up around seventy and held it
there. Neither of them spoke again until he braked, slowed and drove off into
a roadside picnic area fifteen minutes later.“On foot from here,” Shirillo
said. He looked at his watch. “And we'll have to make it fast.” He picked up
two pairs of field glasses from the back seat, handed one to Tucker and got
out of the car.Twenty minutes later, having tramped a considerable distance
through a pine woods, moving silently most of the time, they reached the
vantage point Shirillo had chosen, in the trees to the side of the private
road, halfway down the mile-long straightaway that fed into Baglio's driveway.
They stood well back in the shadows under the pines, watching the big white
mansion.“Some house,” Tucker said.“Twenty-nine rooms,” Shirillo said.“Been
inside?”“Once,” the boy said. “When I was eighteen, I was a numbers runner for
one of Baglio's Hill operatives, a man named Guita. Guita thought I was a
smart kid destined for big things in the organization, and he brought me here
with him once to meet Mr. Baglio.”“What happened to your big career in the
underworld?” Tucker asked.“Guita got himself
killed.”“Police?”“No—Baglio.”“What for?”“I never knew.”Tucker said, “Some
action up there at the house. Is this it?”Shirillo had not been using his
binoculars for a few minutes, but he lifted them and peered up the slope.
“Yes,” he said. “That's Henry Deffer, Baglio's personal driver, that old
bastard there. Walking beside Deffer, the dandified one, is Chaka, Baglio's
accountant and trouble-shooter. He's the second most powerful man in the local
organ-ization.”“The other two?”“Just hoods.”“That the money, in those
suitcases?”“Yes.”“How much, do you think?”“I've asked around. No one could say
for sure except Baglio and Chaka. But it's likely to be somewhere between two
hundred and five hundred thousand, depending on what kind of two weeks it's
been.”“Where's it come from?” Tucker asked.“Baglio's suburban gambling
operations, the small stuff —punchboards in a couple of hundred gas stations,
small numbers operations out of laundromats and newsstands and beauty parlors,
small sports betting from maybe sixty or seventy barrooms. Each one of them's
a tiny situation in itself. Multiply a small stake by two thousand situations,
and it turns into big money.”“Why only a twice-a-month collection?”“Because it
is so little compared to inner-city numbers running, organization hookers,
protection money, the dope take from both suburbs and inner city. It isn't
enough to warrant all those rounds every week. Besides, these situa-tions with
the punchboards and the dollar bets are mostly legitimate businesses copping a
little dirty money on the side that they don't have to report on the
income-tax re-turns. They like holding onto Baglio's share, interest free, for
a couple of weeks; sometimes, it might help a guy make a payment he'd
otherwise be a few days late on. Baglio doesn't mind that so long as they turn
in an honest per-centage and don't get behind.”A black Cadillac limousine had
pulled out of the drive-way and was on its way toward them down the narrow
lane. They stepped even deeper into the shadows and watched it go
past.Shirillo said, “Baglio has about fifty collectors for the suburbs. Every
second and fourth Monday of every month they hit the road, picking up the
small change from these situations. They deliver it here starting
midafternoon, until dinner. Monday night it's counted, packaged and put in
suitcases for the trip into town Tuesday morning.”“What's done with it
then?”“Baglio owns a good piece of a bank in town, one of the big ones on
Forbes. Deffer parks the Caddy in the garage under the bank, while Chaka and
one of the body-guards use the bank president's private elevator to take the
suitcases to the president's sixteenth-floor office. What happens to it then,
I don't know. I imagine that it's all very cleverly laundered and made clean
again.”“Do you have a spot picked out to stop the car?”“Yes,” Shirillo said.
“Let's go look at it.”They spent that afternoon tramping the woods along the
private lane, scouting prospective sites for the execu-tion of the robbery.
That done, they drove into the city again, where Tucker took a room in the
hotel at Chatham Center. In his room, for the rest of the afternoon and
evening, they discussed the fine points of the plan, argued alternatives and
got it worked out to their mutual satis-faction. It looked good.Back in
Manhattan, Tucker needed only two weeks to locate and interest Bachman and
Harris. The four of them had met in Pittsburgh this past Sunday, had gone over
the details until they were exhausted. They monitored the delivery of the cash
on Monday, went over everything one last time on Monday night in Tucker's
hotel room, pulled the job off well. Quite well. Except for that damned woman
in the Cadillac. That damn unexpected Cadillac.Tucker hated failure more than
he hated losing the money, more than the possibility of violence and death. He
meant to see that the job did not end here.
“If Baglio's men are in front of us and behind us,” Jimmy Shirillo said,
“what do we do next?” He'd slowed the Mustang to a crawl, and he felt like
stopping it altogether. If he could freeze them here, stop time, fix this
instant for eternity, they'd not have to face Baglio at all; nothing bad could
happen to them. For his first major job he'd held up quite well, in the face
of almost total failure, but he had his limits. He remembered his brother, the
weeks in the hospital, the limp, and he didn't want to go on with this. Tucker
traced circles on the shotgun stock with his index finger and wondered how to
answer the kid's ques-tion. His own reaction to failure was different from
Shirillo's; his resourcefulness was increased, his deter-mination magnified.
He said, “I've noticed branch roads leading from this main track. We must have
passed a dozen of them since we turned off the macadam.”Shirillo nodded
quickly. “I saw them too. They were narrower than this, more rutted than this,
grown full of weeds, and absolute disaster for anything less formidable than a
Land Rover.”“I didn't pretend to mean we'd get all that far on one of them,”
Tucker said patiently. He didn't like this dawn-ing note of pessimism in the
kid, but he didn't comment on it. The best way to bring Shirillo around was to
be calm, lead him by example. He said, “At least we ought to make a mile or so
before we have to start walking.”“I don't like it,” Shirillo said.“You like
facing Baglio's roadblocks any better?”Shirillo didn't answer.Tucker said, “By
now they know that we have a man with a machine gun, and they won't be
overpowered again.”Shirillo thought a moment and said, “Why don't we just
abandon the car here and go into the woods, away from any trails they might
watch?”“Because we'd never find our way overland; we'd be lost in ten minutes.
Unless we can find that macadam road again, we won't know where we are. None
of us is a woodsman.”“That's damn straight,” Harris said, clutching his
Thompson tighter than before, his own pessimism bottled up inside of him,
behind a mask of stoic indifference that was not as good as Tucker's own
carefully maintained facade. Harris's gloom was not based on inexperience, as
was Shirillo's, but on a growing certainty that he had been too long in this
business and that he was nearer than ever to a big payment of dues. He
remembered his short time behind bars, and he knew he wouldn't go that route
here—this would be worse, much worse, and painful. Baglio wouldn't send him to
a cell but to a grave.“Okay, then,” Shirillo said, resigned to the worst. “But
you pick the road, okay?”A thousand feet farther along, Tucker pointed to a
nar-row gap in the almost solid wall of thick pine trunks, said, “That one, on
the right, ought to lead in the general direc-tion of the mansion.”Shirillo
drove into the weed-choked track with all the caution of a man who fully
expected it to be generously laced with land mines. The Mustang sighed, sank
down in the damp earth with its thick carpet of pine needles, the springs
singing unpleasantly. It trembled coltishly, bounced into and out of a muddy
hole, making a grinding noise as it pressed brambles, grass and milkweed
plants out of the way, moving slowly but deliberately forward.They rode in
silence for more than a mile and a half before the compact car settled
abruptly into a pool of black muck and refused to come out of it again, even
though Tucker and Harris assisted with a push.Shirillo finally shut off the
engine and got out of the car. He said, “She's wedged in there until someone
brings a wrecker after her.”“We'll walk now,” Tucker said.Actually, Shirillo
was feeling better than he had fifteen minutes before, because he had never
expected a Mustang to get this far over that kind of terrain. That it had
lasted as long as this seemed to be some sort of omen that the job wouldn't
turn out so bad after all.Tucker took the lead as they followed the overgrown
trail into the woods, Shirillo second and Harris bringing up the rear with his
heavy artillery. The older man carried the Thompson snout forward, at the hip,
like a wary infantryman going through a suspected enemy position. That was, in
fact, pretty much the case.Although Tucker was aware of the woods around him
and was on the lookout for Baglio's gunmen, the greatest part of his attention
was on the problem of the botched robbery. In the past three years he had
pulled off thirteen perfect operations, a couple of which were already legend
in the business. Each job had its hitches, of course, but each had turned put
right in the end. At twenty-eight he'd begun to build the kind of reputation
among other free-lancers that Clitus Felton had retired on. Reliable Mike
Tucker. He liked the sound of that, even though the Tucker part of it was not
his real name. It had been his alias for three years, and he felt that, given
another five years of continued success, he wouldn't give a damn about any
name except his assumed one; he would be Tucker then. Already, he was more
concerned about upholding Tucker's reputation than about what was said against
his real name and family. There was nothing to be proud of in his real name,
nothing at all. Tucker, however, was a name to be reckoned with. A botched-up
job . . . Remember Tucker's first disaster, the Baglio robbery? After that, it
was all downhill for him, right on to that job when he . . . No. Not failure.
He wouldn't permit it to remain a failure, because that would be playing right
into his father's hands—not Tucker's father, of course; the real father. He
refused. He would not provide anyone with a reference point for the beginning
of his decline. Before he was finished he would have those damned suitcases,
or three others exactly like them, filled with money.He looked at his watch as
he walked along the rutted, unused track, was surprised to see that despite
all that had happened this morning it was still only a few minutes past eleven
o'clock. A great deal could be done yet today—if they were lucky enough to
find their way off the moun-tain unobserved.Ten minutes after they abandoned
the Mustang, the woods began to thin out around them. The trees were smaller,
farther apart, the underbrush thicker. Tucker gave all of his attention to the
landscape now; the plan-ning could wait until later. The woods seemed deserted
except for them, but Baglio might have men stationed along the perimeter.
Whether they had a chance or not was all dependent on how many gunmen he kept
in the mansion on the day of a cash transfer.Spread out side by side now,
rather than strung out in one line, they slowly approached the edge of the
trees, circumspect, increasingly certain that they were alone. At the edge of
the forest, still in the darkness beneath the pines, they stopped and looked
down the long manicured slope of a contoured hillside. The mansion rested at
the bottom, a white flare in the middle of all that green grass.
Sprawled on the ground at the edge of the woods, the three men watched the
activity down at the Baglio mansion. On the long flagstone promenade that
fronted the great house, two gunmen had taken up positions, one at either end,
leaning against white wooden pillars from which they could survey the circular
drive and both the east and west lawns. Tucker imagined that, in the back of
the house which he could not see from here, other hoods had also settled in
for the duration. Otherwise, the picture was serene, the windows of the house
taking the bright sun-light and casting it back in doubled brilliance, a
willow tree lazily waving whiplike branches, a bird crying somewhere close
by.Tucker put down the binoculars and said, “The white Thunderbird parked in
the driveway has MD plates.”“A doctor for Bachman?” Shirillo asked.“Most
likely.”Harris said, “Then they got him out of the wreck, you think?”Tucker
nodded. “And they aren't likely to send him to the local hospital, where
someone might wonder how and where he got so banged up.”“How bad do you think
Bachman is?” Shirillo asked.“It has got to be more than a bruise or
two.”Harris seemed to be remembering the Chevy angled up onto the mangled
Cadillac, and he grimaced sourly. “Why didn't they just kill him? Why go to
the trouble of bring-ing a doctor in for him? This Baglio doesn't sound like
any humanitarian, from what I've heard.”Tucker brushed away a determined ant
that had crept onto his coat sleeve, and he said, “Bachman must either be
unconscious or in too much pain to talk coherently. Baglio sent for the doctor
to help get Bachman back in shape so he can ask him a few pointed
questions.”“About the job,” Harris said.“Yes,” Tucker said. “About the job,
about us.”“Bachman won't say anything.”“Bullshit,” Shirillo said.Harris looked
at the boy, his square face reddening again. He said, “I've worked with Merle
Bachman half a dozen times before, and I can vouch for him.”“If the police had
him, I wouldn't be the least bit wor-ried,” Shirillo said. “I'm sure he's able
to withstand any number of late-night question-and-answer sessions in the
squad room with those boys, but I also know that no one is going to make it
through much of Baglio's questioning. They'll sew him back together from the
wreck, ask him a few questions, and break every bone in his body, one at a
time, until he spills. They aren't as limited in their choice of techniques as
the police are.”Tucker picked up the glasses again, trained them on the front
doors which opened on the promenade, followed two men as they came out of the
house and walked toward the white Thunderbird. One was in a business suit and
carried a black satchel, obviously the physician. The other man was tall, dark
and distinguished, with full sideburns and a mane of gray-white hair. Twenty
pounds too thick around the middle but otherwise in good condition, he might
have been a Congressman or successful oilman. He had to be Baglio, and
Shirillo confirmed that he was.“What's going on, friend?” Harris asked.Tucker
said, “They're arguing, but not heatedly. I'd guess the doctor wants Bachman
moved to a hospital, while Baglio disagrees. Right now he's probably telling
the doc that he pays these exorbitant medical fees to be able to disregard his
advice whenever it's convenient.”A moment later the doctor got into the
Thunderbird and drove away, with Baglio waving at him in a friendly fashion. A
third person came out of the house then and stood beside Baglio: the rangy
blonde who'd been driving the Cadillac which had cut off Bachman's escape
route. She wore shorts and a halter, and everything about her was zaftig, so
ripe she would already have begun to decline by the age of thirty, when many
women were reaching the full-est bloom. Right now, though, at twenty-two or
twenty-three she was perfect, and she knew it; that was clear in the way she
carried herself, the conscious provocative tilt to her hips when she stood
beside Baglio. Tucker watched her as, with her arm around the old man, she
went back into the mansion.“You know the girl?” he asked Shirillo. “The one
driving the Cadillac?”“No, but she's probably the latest in Baglio's string of
women.”“Lives in?”“His women usually do.”Tucker watched the house, though no
one moved down there and the guards had slumped back into attitudes of
boredom. “Is there any way we can find out for certain how many people are in
that place at night, besides Baglio and this woman?”Shirillo considered that
for a moment and said, “I guess I could ask around, carefully, but I'm already
sure that there's going to be at least four bodyguards. Outside of that, I
just don't know.”“Why does it matter?” Harris asked.Tucker brushed the ant off
his sleeve again, flicked it gently away with his fingernail. “We're going to
have to go into that house and get Bachman away from them.”“Are you crazy?”
Harris's face, for once, was not even pink but the color of a mild yellow
cheese. All the lines showed in it now, and he looked as old and tired as he
was. He reached out and touched the Thompson lying in the grass beside him,
but that did not do any good this time.“Name me an alternative.”Harris said,
“We split and go quiet for a while.”“That's good,” Tucker said, a bit
sarcastically. “That would be fine if these were the cops out looking for us.
Cops have so damn much to do, they can't keep after you for long; no leads for
a couple of months, and they put you in the back files and go on to something
else. But these people, Pete, have the time and the resources. Baglio looks
and sounds like the kind of man who could hold a grudge and nurture it. He's
going to pump Bachman for our names, for Felton's name. He'll lean on Felton
until he gets a mail-drop address for each of us. Then he just has to wait for
us to pick up the mail.”“When do we go in?” Shirillo asked.
“Tonight?”“Tomorrow night, I think.”Harris said, “You're both nuts! Bachman
will have spilled it all by then, anyway.”“Maybe not,” Tucker said. “From the
way the doctor was pushing Baglio, I'd guess Bachman's in a bad way right now.
He's probably coked to the hairline and will be until tomorrow morning. Even
if he comes out of it then, he won't be a good subject for interrogation.
Especially not for Baglio's type of interrogation. What good is it to threaten
a man with torture when he's already in too much pain to think straight?”“And
if he isn't as racked up as you think?” Harris asked. “What if we go in there
and find out Bachman's talked, that he's dead and ready for planting in the
woods?”“Then we're no further behind than if we walk away now. Either way,
Baglio will be after us then.”“Tucker's right,” Jimmy Shirillo said.Harris
shook his burly head, some color back in his face now. “I just don't know. I'm
used to operating on common sense. If a man takes a fall, you let him. That's
his business; we all take the same risk.”“With the cops, yes,” Tucker said.
“If Bachman was being held by the cops, I'd walk off.” That was not entirely
true, for there was still the money they hadn't gotten, the failure he had to
erase from the record. “I know he wouldn't name any of us. But these aren't
cops, Pete. With these boys, you have to throw out the old rules and adapt to
the circumstances.”Harris looked at the house, still dubious. “How can we do
it?”“I'm working out a few angles right now,” Tucker said, tapping the side of
his head. “But I don't want to lay them out until I've thought everything
through.” He got up and brushed off his clothes. “Right now, we've got to get
off this damn mountain before they shift the search away from the interior and
back toward the macadam road.”“Down at the highway, do we just hitchhike back
to the city, friend?” Harris asked. “With a shotgun and a Thompson in
hand?”“We can still use Shirillo's Corvette, as planned, though it'll have to
seat three of us instead of two. It's parked in the picnic area three quarters
of a mile from Baglio's lane. Shirillo can drive east, take the first exit,
get on coming west again, take another exit after passing us, get on coming
east again and pick us up at a prearranged spot along the berm.”“That'll be
fast enough,” Shirillo said. “The exits are still pretty close together this
near the city.”“Let's hope you're right, friend,” Harris said.Tucker was
bothered by a sudden emergence of the “friend” tag on Harris's speech. The big
man was not new to this business, and his nervousness was far more dan-gerous
than that of the inexperienced apprentice, since its roots went deeper. Tucker
knew that, when he was dis-turbed, the odd means of address punctuated a lot
of Har-ris's conversation. That he should be this upset already, before much
of anything had happened, was not a good sign. “Let's move ass, then,” Tucker
said. “I've got a hell of a lot of arrangements to make.”
The suitcase in which Harris carried the machine gun in its less conspicuous,
fragmented form was in Shirillo's Corvette. If the job had gone well, Shirillo
and Harris would have left the stolen Dodge for the sportscar and driven back
to the city in that, while Tucker would have used the big car and disposed of
it on some quiet resi-dential street where it might not be noticed for a
couple of days. Now, jammed in the tiny, low-slung machine, Shirillo and
Harris in the seats, Tucker sitting sideways in the shallow storage
compartment behind them, they suffered Harris's elbows as he broke the large
weapon down and fitted the pieces into the Styrofoam cups that were firmly
glued to the bottom of the suitcase. He took three times longer than usual to
complete the chore, but at least he was calmed by it. When he was done he
smiled at Tucker, patted the suitcase and said, “It's a beautiful tool, isn't
it?”“Beautiful,” Tucker agreed. “I see why you never got married and had
children.”Harris didn't catch the sarcasm but took that as a compliment for
the gun.They dropped Harris in front of his hotel after he promised to stay
low and keep to his room starting tomor-row morning when Tucker might be
expected to phone.“I still don't see how we can get in there,” he said.“I'll
work it out,” Tucker said.Harris closed the door and walked off, carrying the
suitcase full of submachine gun as if it were only under-wear and shirts.When
Tucker got out of the Corvette in front of his Chatham Center hotel feeling as
if he had been folded into someone's pocket, he left the shotgun with
Shirillo, told him to wait for a telephone call and sent him home. He went
upstairs to his room, showered, dressed, packed his single suitcase and
checked out. He called the airport from the lobby, reserved a place on the
earliest flight to New York, got a cab and left the city.At 4:36 that
afternoon he landed at Kennedy, not at all happy to be home again, since it
was a temporary failure that had driven him back.In the main airport lounge,
which was static-filled by hundreds of chattering travelers, he took his
suitcase into a telephone booth and drew the door shut. He dialed the office
number of his family's banker on the off chance that the man might still be at
work. President of the bank, he was still at his desk. Tucker licked dry lips,
cleared his throat, wondered if there was any other way to handle this,
decided there was not and identified himself, though not with the Tucker
name.“Michael! What can I do for you?” Mr. Mellio asked. He was warm, sincere,
concerned. Bullshit. In truth, he was an icy bastard and completely in the old
man's tow. When he hung up in a couple of minutes, he would im-mediately dial
Tucker's father and report, verbatim, what had been said. When you were a
depositor of the position of the old man, bankers broke their professional
codes and extended you certain extra services.“How long will you be in your
office this afternoon, Mr. Mellio?”“I was just preparing to leave.”“How early
can you be there in the morning?”“A quarter past eight?”“Will you see me
then?” Tucker asked.“What did you have in mind, Michael?”“I'd like to borrow
against my inheritance.” The state-ment was simple enough, though it was
difficult to make. His father would be pleased to hear Mellio's report;
Tuck-er's financial need, his first in more than three years, would make the
old man's whole day.“Borrow?” Mellio asked, a banker who seemed never to have
heard of such a thing. “Michael, need I remind you that by signing one small
paper you may pick up your accrued allowances from the trust and—”“You needn't
remind me,” Tucker said sharply. “May I see you at a quarter past eight in the
morning for a loan?”“Of course,” Mellio said. “I'll leave word with the guards
to admit you then.”“Thank you, Mr. Mellio,” Tucker said. He hung up. His
forehead was dotted with perspiration, though he felt cold clear through. He
wiped his face with a paper tissue, then opened the booth door, stepped out,
picked up his suitcase and went outside to catch a taxi.The doorman at
Tucker's building—Park Avenue in the eighties; he had a nine-room apartment
complete with his own sauna; his father wondered most about his ability to
maintain that—greeted him with a smile and his name, turned him over to the
hallman inside, who inquired after the success of his business trip.“Well
enough,” Tucker said, though the words tasted bitter.He knew as soon as he
entered his tenth-floor apart-ment that Elise was home, because the stereo
system was carrying Rimski-Korsakov as interpreted by Ormandy's Philadelphia
Orchestra, her favorite composer by her favorite orchestra. He controlled an
urge to go looking for her and attended to important details first. At the
wall safe in the living-room closet he put away the billfold that contained
the Tucker papers, took out his own wallet and slipped that into his pocket.
He closed the safe again and spun the dial. Then he went looking for Elise.On
his way down the main hall, he stopped before the fragment of an early
fifth-century Edo shield which had come into his possession only two months
ago but which already seemed an integral part of the apartment. He and Elise
had spent hours finding the right place for it and bracing it on the wall, and
he had spent even longer examining it in detail, wishing that more than a
ragged half of the beaten copper piece had survived. Of course, if the shield
had come through the ages intact, it would have been far too valuable for him
to afford it. As it was, he had paid close to forty thousand dollars for it
and felt that the money was well spent. The oval shield, of well-worked copper
trimmed in silver, inlaid with small pieces of hand-carved purest ivory, was
the product of a nation of African dreamers who had lived on the east bank of
the Niger River, constructing elaborate shields but rarely going to war, and
it was exquisitely beautiful.Besides, the acquisition helped substantiate his
cover as a freelance dealer in primitive art objects, a front which satisfied
Elise and which his father found hard to crack. He really made little money
from his dealing, but his rec-ords were a private matter between him and the
IRS, and his father's investigators could never be sure what he cleared as an
art dealer.He had paused before the shield as much to absorb some of its
innate peace as to admire its beauty; now, having shifted out of the higher
gear that his Tucker persona demanded, he felt in a better state of mind to
meet Elise.She was sitting in a black leather chair in the den, a drink on the
table beside her, a book open on her lap. Even in a comfortable old quilted
housecoat a size too large for her, she radiated sensuality. She was a big
girl, with a showgirl's body, an inch shorter than Tucker at five feet eight,
with high round breasts, a narrow waist, slim but not boyish hips, and legs
that went on forever. To date, however, her breaks in show business had been
because of her face, not the body under it. She was a natural blonde with
green eyes, a complexion as flawless as good china. Oddly enough, she was in
demand for two kinds of television commercials: those that required a sexy,
come-hither chickee to peer at the home audience and solicit men for cigars,
beer and sportscars—and those that needed a stunning but innocent ingenue to
push makeups, soda pop, junior fashions and shampoo. With different makeups
and a change in hair styles, and with her not unimpressive acting ability, she
could be two different ages and temperaments before a camera, in the same
session.Tucker kissed her, felt it turn into something else as she began to
kiss him.“How'd it go?” she asked when he went to make him-self a drink.“It's
not finalized. I've got to go back in the morning.”“For how long?”“A couple of
days, no more.”“Was something wrong with the bells?” she asked.He said, “It's
a question of which century they're from—last half of the fifth or early part
of the sixth. I think they're more modern than the seller says they are, and
I'm having them evaluated by Heinenken in Chicago. He'll even do a carbon
dating on them, if he has to.”The lies came so easily, though he hated lying
to her. He'd told her he was going to Denver to negotiate the sale of a good
set of Javanese temple bells, and then he had gone to Pittsburgh to meet
Bachman and Harris and Jimmy Shirillo.In all other aspects, their relationship
was an honest one. They both came and went as they pleased, with no phony
jealousy between them, no lies or deceptions about whom they might be seeing,
where they were going, their plans for the future. She gave him a check every
month to pay her portion of the rent and other bills, and when he had not
cashed the first two of these she had made him see that, unless they shared
responsibilities, they could not share anything else. There was a respect and
trust between them that Tucker had never found with anyone else—and yet, when
it came to the real nature of his business, he had to lie to her. Not because
he didn't trust her but because he didn't want her involved in anything where
a court might find her an accomplice or contributing party.Besides, neither
had professed a Great Love for the other, merely a sweet affection. When this
finally came to an end, if it did come to an end, he would feel much better
knowing that she was completely ignorant of his criminal reputation.He sat
down at the foot of her chair on the thick shag carpet, kissed her knees and
then went to work on the drink that he'd built. He said, “How about you and
Madi-son Avenue?”“I got a call,” she said, grinning. “You're never going to
guess what I'm selling this time.”“They're allowing that to be pushed on
television now?” he asked.“Gutter mind,” she said.“I apologize. What are you
selling?”“Pickles.”“Pickles?”“Peter Piper Pickles,” she said, chuckling. He
was always delighted with that chuckle, almost a giggle, be-cause it was so
out of place in a woman as big as Elise, as sophisticated as Elise, and it
gave her another dimension altogether.“I thought pickles were—what do you call
things like that?”“Family goods,” she said.“That's it. You always say you
can't get jobs pushing family goods even in your breathless teenager
role.”Elise had once explained, in detail, that housewives were the purchasers
of family goods—foodstuffs, kitchen utensils, waxes, soaps and the like.
Housewives didn't want to see a stunningly attractive woman or precocious,
budding teenager selling them products, because they were reminded of their
own spreading behinds and gradually bulging middles. They didn't want to feel
as if they were competing with the women in the commercials; therefore, family
goods were sold by cutesy women or plain types. Bombshells like Elise were
reserved for pitches aimed at men: cigars, automobiles, beer and hair-grooming
prepara-tions.“They've come up with a different approach for this one,” she
said.“Who has?”“Marcus, Marcus, Pliney and Plunket,” she said.To Tucker the
name of the ad agency always sounded like the first line of a children's
nonsense rhyme.“What's the approach?”“Fellatio,” she said.Tucker almost spat
out a mouthful of good Scotch. When he did at last manage to swallow it, he
coughed and cleared his throat. “Beg pardon?”“It's another one of Plunket's
brainstorms. My agent's gotten work for me with Plunket before, both times for
crazy things. Plunket's convinced the Peter Piper Pickle people to try
something different in hopes of boosting sales. He's cooked up quite an
argument for making a sexy pickle commercial, family goods or not.”“I'd like
to hear it.”“Plunket says, with the new wave of female awareness, modern
housewives are more and more dissatisfied with their husbands as bed partners
and, more and more, have sex on the mind, either subconsciously or
consciously, and he uses polls, sociological studies and tons of other data to
make his point. He's sold the pickle people on the idea; he says they can't go
wrong by showing a sexy girl, full-face, slowly devouring a nice big Peter
Piper dill while the voice-over announcer gives the regular sort of pitch.”
She chuckled again, finished her drink and put down the glass. “Plunket says
that it'll implant, in the woman's mind, the notion that pickles from Piper
are a sensual experience. A pickle is very phallic, you know.”“I never
noticed.”“Oh, yes, indeed.”He said, “Will the average housewife really go for
this, though?”She shrugged. “It's to be a limited approach, just one
commercial, playing only in a few selected test areas. No national exposure
unless it proves workable. So, I don't get any residuals, but a pretty good
flat fee for a day's work.”Tucker recalled the night that, watching a two-hour
network special sponsored by a soap company, they saw three commercials
featuring Elise, played three times each, which had earned her an additional
five hundred and forty dollars under the residuals clause in her contract.
Most weeks, she averaged between a thousand and two thousand dollars as one of
the most popular current com-mercial faces, all of it from work already
finished and on the air weeks before; and when she worked on a new one, she
doubled that particular week's take with her initial payment. It almost seemed
to Tucker that he should give up a life of crime and start hawking
toothpaste.He finished his Scotch, stood up and put the glass on the stand. He
looked at her and said, “Do you feel like practicing?”“Practicing what?” she
asked.“The pickle commercial, of course.”Much later, finished with that
practice and a number of others, having eaten a late dinner and practiced some
more and having fallen asleep together in the big bed in the front room,
Tucker woke, his heart beating like a sledge driven against an iron block, the
rhythm ringing along his bones. He had been frightened by some night-mare that
he could not recall, and he reached out and touched Elise's warm, bare
buttocks, concentrated on her until he could see her lines draped across with
sheeting. As her nearness sank in, as he realized he was not alone, his heart
slowed and his mouth grew moist again, the fear subsiding. In a moment he was
even able to remember what the nightmare had been about: his father.
Even for the president of a Fifth Avenue bank, Mr. Mellio's office was too
rich, paneled in too much teak, carpeted in too deep a pile, furnished in much
too luxurious a style. The painting behind his desk was clearly an original
Klee, and even though it was surely on loan from the bank's investment art
collection and had not been purchased solely for Mr. Mellio, it gave you the
feeling that these people were not managing your money very properly and were,
in fact, almost throwing it away on personal ag-grandizement, baubles and
unnecessary luxuries.Mr. Mellio himself, however, countered this impres-sion
so completely that you could almost forget entirely about the riches of the
room and about the fate of your fortune. He radiated confidence and ability.
He was a tall, wide-shouldered man, and he would have fit right into an early
John Wayne movie as one of those non-speaking cowpokes who step forward to
stand behind the Duke, grim-lipped and resolute in the name of good and honor.
At fifty his hair was more white than brown, full enough to be combed over the
tips of his ears but certainly not mod. His face was blocky, with a slab of a
forehead, rocky cheekbones, a stiff straight nose, a chin like an expertly
carved piece of granite. He thrust that chin forward and offered Tucker his
hand. The hand was enormous and applied just enough pressure to avoid the
extremes of a fish shake and a bone crusher. Like the handshake, every-thing
that Mr. Mellio did seemed planned; you had the feeling he didn't take a
breath until he had assessed the need for it. Despite the decor of the room he
worked in, such a man would handle money as a priest handled the
Eucharist.“How have you been?” Mr. Mellio asked, taking his seat behind the
huge, dark, uncluttered desk. “I haven't seen you in—let's see—”“Eight and a
half months,” Tucker said. “Not since the last time I had you and my father in
court.”Mr. Mellio grimaced, smiled through capped teeth and said, “Yes, of
course, an unfortunate afternoon.”“For me,” Tucker agreed.“For all of us,
especially your father,” Mellio said. “You know, Michael, he doesn't want to
fight with you over this thing. It grieves him terribly to—”“My father never
grieved over anything, Mr. Mellio, least of all his son.” He tried to say it
without emotion, calm and easy as if he were merely reading something from a
textbook, something indisputable. He thought that he succeeded.“Your father
does care about you, Michael, cares more than you—”Tucker raised a hand and
waved the words away. He said, “If he cares so goddamned much, why doesn't he
turn over my inheritance? It would make things a good deal easier for me.”Mr.
Mellio looked pained, like a loving father who has to teach an unpleasant
lesson to a child. He leaned back in his chair, Klee looming behind him, and
said, “Your mother's will specifically stated that your father was to remain
the director of your trust until such a time as you matured to the point where
you could handle the funds yourself.”“Until such a time as he felt I had
matured,” Tucker corrected. “He weaseled that out of my mother when she was
sick, very sick, two weeks before she died.”“You pretend as if your father
attempted to gain con-trol of your inheritance to enrich his own estate. In
the face of his own considerable wealth, that's absurd.”“I pretend no such
thing,” Tucker said. “He gained control of my inheritance in an attempt to
gain control of me, but he lost the bet.”“Michael,” Mellio said, leaning
forward now, propping both elbows on the top of the desk, putting his chin in
his hands, trying to look somewhat pixie-like, failing miserably in that, “you
could see your father. You could make amends. I'm sure that, if you tried to
work things out be-tween the two of you, he'd soon turn the estate over into
your hands.”“Fat chance,” Tucker said. “Perhaps after I'd been a faithful
toady for eight or ten years, he'd give me what I want. I don't wish to give
up that much time to a corrupt, selfish old man.”“Michael, he is your
father!”Tucker leaned forward in his own chair now, his face slightly flushed.
“Mr. Mellio, when I was a child I saw my father on the average of twice a
week, for an hour each time. Once was at Sunday dinner when I was permitted to
dine with the adults, the other was on Wednesday night when he quizzed me on
my previous week's lessons. I was learning French and German before grade
school, from a nanny who doubled as my instructor, and my father wanted to be
certain that he was getting his money's worth. For a period of eighteen
months, when I was twelve and thirteen, I saw my father not at all, because he
was consolidating his European ventures then. My secondary schooling was at a
boarding school considerably farther away from home than my first military
academy had been. I saw my father at Christmas for a couple of hours. By the
time I was in college, I stayed away from home on purpose. That's how much
he's my father. Christ, Mr. Mellio, I don't even know the man.”Mellio said
nothing.Tucker said, “I early decided that the last thing I wanted to be was
like my father. If having money meant you had to spend all of your time
shepherding it and none of your time enjoying life, then money wasn't for me
at all.” He leaned back in his chair now, the intensity of his voice sliding
away. “Money, to me, is to be spent. That appalled the old man, and it was
because he found that I was unamenable that he got that clause in my mother's
will. He wanted me to be an empire builder like himself. Life's too short,
however, to waste in a series of board-rooms.”“To have money you must make
money,” Mr. Mellio said, as if he were reading the sentence from a lacquered
wall plaque. “A fortune can be squandered quickly, Michael. Even one the size
of your inheritance—or the much greater size of your father's estate.”“My
mother left three million dollars, give or take a few thousand in small
change. Even invested at a paltry six percent in tax-free bonds, that earns
back a hundred and eighty thousand a year. I could live with that very nicely,
Mr. Mellio.”“Your father believes you couldn't, that you'd start nibbling away
at the principal.”“My father doesn't give a damn about that,” Tucker said. “He
simply wants me under hand so he can mold another corporate mastermind. In the
next step of the court tests, or the step after that, a judge is going to
agree with me. He can't continue to pay off every court official who comes up.
One of them is going to be honest, especially the higher the courts
get.”Mellio dropped the pixie pose and picked up the role of the shocked
banker taken aback by irresponsible accu-sations. He was even worse at that
than at playing pixie, about as believable as Elise would be if she tried to
play a sexless, weary housewife in a television commercial. “You can't be
seriously implying that—”Tucker cut him short. “Can we talk about the loan,
please?”Mellio moved his lips up and down, like a man with something caught in
his throat, finally closed his mouth and ordered his thoughts. He said,
“Michael, there is an account in this bank composed solely of the monthly
allowance checks from your trust—which you have not picked up or cashed in
more than three years. I believe there are now thirty-seven deposits in the
account, each in the amount of ten thousand dollars. I cannot see why you
would wish to make a loan when you have these funds available.”“Credit me with
at least a modicum of intelligence, Mr. Mellio,” Tucker said. He sounded
tired, and he was tired. This sort of fencing was something he was no good at
and was, to boot, completely out of practice for. He was anx-ious to be done
with Mellio, the bank and the city so that he could get back to the most
pressing problem of all— getting Merle Bachman out of Baglio's mountain estate
before the driver was forced to spill everything about the rest of them. “I am
aware that my father has conditioned the delivery of those checks, and I am
thoroughly ac-quainted with what I would be losing by meeting his conditions.
I have a good lawyer. He and I have talked a great deal about all of this, all
of you.”Mellio looked shocked again, apparently decided that this was not one
of his better roles, gave up on it and got very businesslike. “Okay, by
signing the waiver to get your allowance checks, you'd be endorsing your
father's control of the inheritance. But what does that matter, Michael? It's
nothing more than a formality, anyway. Your father, by virtue of your mother's
will, already has control.”Tucker sighed again, slumped down in his chair,
looked at his watch: a quarter of nine. The Klee was beginning to strain his
eyes, and the dark teak paneling seemed to be closing in on him. “Signing for
the allowance checks, I'd be signing away my right to carry on with the suit
we now have in federal court. I'd be limiting myself to the position of a
minor for the rest of my life—or for the rest of my father's life,
anyway.”“But you've said you only care about having money to spend,” Mellio
argued quietly. “This way, you would have that nice monthly check.”“I said
that I could get along on a hundred and eighty thousand a year, but I can't
possibly make it on a hundred and twenty. One thing I did acquire from my
father was expensive tastes.”“The allowances could be raised, naturally,”
Mellio said.Tucker shook his head. “No. It's not just that. Once I'd signed
the waiver and no longer had a lever to use against my father, he'd have more
control over me than I want him to have. He could even cut back the allowances
until I had to knuckle under and go through the charade of learning the
business from him.”“He wouldn't do that,” Mellio said.“You're full of it,”
Tucker said politely, smiling.Mellio said, “You must hate him.”“Not merely
that; I loathe him.”“But why?”“I have my reasons.”He thought of many things,
but most of all he thought of the women his father had kept, a string of
mistresses which, cruelly, he hadn't hidden from his wife. In fact, he seemed
to take some strange pleasure in flaunting his adultery in front of her.
Tucker remembered sitting with her, once when he had come home over the
holidays from the boarding school, listening to her as, hating herself, she
told him about his father's women. She had been a strong family-oriented
woman, and this was an attack at her base, her sacred foundation. She had
huddled in upon herself and cried, silently, shaking, her face cold to his
touch. If only his mother had had a bit of Elise in her, less of an
old-fashioned outlook and more modern fire, she would have stood up to the old
man; she would have left him. Instead, she had stayed on, unable to admit it
all had gone bad. Then the cancer, the long slow hospital death, when the old
man was too busy to visit her for more than an hour or two a week, her knowing
that it wasn't only his financial affairs that took so much of his time.“Your
father is a fascinating man and one of the kind-est that I've ever known,” Mr.
Mellio said. “I can't imagine what reasons he would have given you to loathe
him.”“Then you don't know him well.”“Perhaps I know him better than you
do.”Tucker smiled frostily. “Considering that you're a banker and that my
father was always more interested in money than in his son, perhaps you
do.”For the first time the banker seemed to see beyond Tucker's facade and to
catch a glimpse of the man behind it. He looked quickly down at the bare top
of his massive desk, as if that single glimpse had frightened him, and he
said, “What size loan were you considering?”“Only ten thousand,” Tucker said.
“I've suddenly found myself short of operating cash.”“Collateral?” Mellio
asked, looking up as his courage flooded back in the course of a conversation
he must have gone through a thousand times before with a thousand different
customers. Familiarity always breeds confidence, especially in men of
finance.“My trust,” Tucker said.“But you do not, strictly speaking, have the
right to put up the trust-fund monies as collateral. Only the trust
ad-ministrator can do that.”“My father.”“Yes.”“Then I can put up that account
full of uncollected allowances.”“The same holds true there,” Mellio said.
“Until you sign for the checks, they aren't legally yours.”Tucker sat up
straight in his chair, sensing a battle of wills that he had to win. “What
would you suggest I use as collateral, then?”“Well, you seem to be running a
very profitable busi-ness,” Mr. Mellio said. “You live in the style you like,
without touching your inheritance, so you must have other assets.”“Forget
that,” Tucker said.Mellio leaned back in his chair, testing the hinged
backrest to its limits, looking at Michael across the curious perspective of
his raised knee. It was evident that he felt in command of the situation once
more. “Now, Michael, there isn't any sense in your attitude. If you'd give me
a full picture of this art business of yours, initial capital and estimated
income, sources and projections, we could get you a loan. We could make it a
sweat loan on the power of your success thus far. And, I might add, if you'd
tell your father exactly what you've been doing, he might very well be so
impressed with your business acumen that he'd free your inheritance.”“No
chance,” Tucker said. “My business isn't in the empire-building mold, but
erratic and highly chancy. I don't attend board meetings, float stock options
or employ thousands of people. My father wouldn't be impressed the way he'd
have to be to give me a free hand with my in-heritance.”Mellio's voice
softened into a patently false sentimen-tality. “You might at least let him
know the nature of your art dealings, inform him of some of your more notable
triumphs, as a son extending the minimal courtesy to a father. He's proud of
your evident success, believe me. But he's much too proud to come and ask you
how you've achieved it.”Tucker grinned and shook his head. “You're still full
of it, Mr. Mellio. I'm sure you know how many times my father's had me
followed by private detectives, trying to learn what dealers I work with, what
prices have been paid for certain objects and what profits other sales have
brought me. Unfortunately for him, I've been cleverer than any of them; I've
spotted each new tail from the start.”Mellio sighed, still looking across his
knees. He said, “Your father wouldn't have you followed, Michael. But, very
well, forget about your work. Is there any other collateral that you can offer
the bank against this ten thousand you need?”“My furniture, automobile, some
art objects.”“Inadequate, I'm afraid.”“I have some very good artwork.”“Art may
be worth a fortune today, nothing tomorrow.The critics and the connoisseurs
are fickle in their approval of any talent.”“And the bank is involved in such
unsound invest-ments?” Tucker asked, feigning innocence, pointing at the
Klee.Mellio said nothing.Tucker said, “These aren't paintings but primitive
artifacts, valuable as antiquities and as art.”“I'd have to have them
appraised,” Mellio said. “That would take a week, maybe longer.”“I can send
you to a reputable appraiser who would verify their value in half an
hour.”“We'd prefer to use our own man, and we'd need a week.”“God,” Tucker
said, “I can't wait for the next stock-holders' meeting so I can point out how
you people are throwing money away on Klee paintings and other such claptrap.
By your own admission—”“You're being childish,” Mellio said.“And you are being
dishonest, Mr. Mellio. I'm sure my father directed you to take every step to
deny me this loan and to force me into signing the waiver. But you must see
that if I don't get the ten thousand now, right now, I've got excellent
grounds to level yet another suit against you, the bank and the administrator
of the trust. No judge is going to believe that you seriously fear losing what
you loan to me. It will be quite evident that your re-fusal is a spiteful
tactic and nothing more.”Mellio sat up and reached for his intercom controls.
To Tucker he said, “I'll want a signed note from you, at least.”Tucker said,
“If I approve of the note's wording.”“Of course.”Mellio called for his
secretary to bring the proper loan papers, though he was clearly unhappy about
being forced into this.'“I'll want it in cash,” Tucker said. “I'll tell you
the denominations of the bills.”“Cash?” Mellio asked, raising his
eyebrows.“Yes,” Tucker said. “I'm afraid your check might bounce.”
At nine-thirty, four blocks from the bank, with his ten thousand dollars
packed into a slim briefcase, Michael Tucker made three short telephone calls
from a public phone booth in a department store—one to a number in Queens, one
to a number rather far out on Long Island and the third to Jimmy Shirillo in
Pittsburgh. Satisfied that everything was moving along smoothly, he hailed a
cab and rode to a point two blocks from the Queens address, got out, paid the
driver, watched the taxi pull away and disap-pear in heavy traffic, then
walked the rest of the way. That might have been an unnecessary precaution,
even though the driver kept fare records that could be checked, but he had
grown accustomed to his father's occasional private detectives padding in his
wake, and he did not mind the slight inconvenience. No one followed him the
rest of the way to Imrie's place.Imrie's place was a ground-floor showroom of
a three-story brick structure on a quiet side street in Queens. A sign
outside, reproduced in gilt lettering on the cracked glass door, said:
antiques and used furniture. When Tucker went inside, the opening door caused
a buzzer to shrill loudly far back in the stacks of chairs, tables, scarred
bookcases, lamps, hutches, beds and a considerable variety of bric-a-brac. A
moment later, as if unwillingly propelled forward by that noise, Imrie waddled
out of a shadowed aisle between stacks of chairs and picture frames both used
and antique.He said, “Just let me attend to the door, and I'll be with you.”
And he went to attend to it.Imrie was in his early fifties, bald except for a
fringe of curly gray hair that accentuated the smoothness of the top of his
skull, almost like a medieval friar. He stood no taller than five feet six,
but he weighed an even two hun-dred pounds. Though his store looked like the
streets of a Florida town after a hurricane disaster, and though his own style
of dress was no style at all except comfort, he was a tidy man when it came to
his specialty. His specialty was guns.“Upstairs,” he said, passing Tucker on
his way back into the maze of tarnished, tottering furnishings.At the back of
the store, through a yellow cloth curtain, they went up a set of narrow wooden
stairs, passed the second floor where Imrie lived, climbed to the third and
last level where he kept his gun collection. Here, as on the first floor, the
partitions had been knocked out-to make one large room. Racked on the walls,
shelved against wooden display lifts, nestled in velvet-lined cases and—in the
case of new acquisitions not yet touched by Imrie—dumped unceremoniously in
cardboard boxes, were more than two thousand rifles, shotguns and handguns,
with the over-whelming emphasis on the last category. Also in the room,
against the far wall, were a number of metal-working machines, including a
complete miniature gas-fired forge and cooling pot where metals could be
melted and shaped.“I think I have exactly what you want,” Imrie said. 'In the
store downstairs he'd seemed bland, as gray as his fringe of hair, a little
sleazy but not sleazy enough to be colorful. Here, among his weapons, he came
alive like a puppet jerked up on strings and touched, magically, by some good
fairy. His eyes, hooded and dull in the antique store, were wide, bright and
shifted quickly from one thing to another—not ignoring, either, Tucker's
reaction to everything he said and, in a few moments, to everything that he
showed him.They stopped at a bookcase that filled half the wall to the right
of the door, and Imrie looked up over the bushy gray thatch of his eyebrows,
embarrassed. He said, “Mr. Tucker, I hope you'll excuse the television
dramatics here.”“Of course,” Tucker said. He had been in contact with Imrie
nine times before. Three times Imrie had opened the hidden closet in Tucker's
presence—the sign of trust and respect he gave few customers—and every time he
apologized for the melodrama.“You can't be too careful these days,” Imrie
said, using both hands to remove several volumes of poetry from the fifth
shelf. He handed the books to Tucker, who took them and waited patiently.
“There was a time, not so many years ago, you could leave everything out in
the open. If I was working on a gun—making special changes—and I got sleepy,
I'd leave it on the workbench while I caught a few winks, you know?” Tucker
said he knew. “But now you can't take any chances. All this public uproar
about guns puts pressure on the cops and, directly, pressure on me too. You'd
think, listening to these anti-gun nuts, that every handgun in existence is
used in crime of some sort. Take a look around this workshop, though. I got
maybe twelve hundred, thirteen hundred handguns. How many of them am I going
to sell to special customers like you? Thirty? Forty? No more than that.” He
made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat, located the lock previously
covered by the books, used a key on his chain to open it. He stepped aside and
swung the bookcase out of the way, walked into a closet about four times his
own size, pulled on a chain that lighted a forty-watt bulb, located a
card-board box he wanted, turned out the light and stepped into the main room
again. He put the box down, closed and locked the bookcase door, took the
poetry volumes from Tucker's hands and slipped them onto the shelf again.
“Makes me feel like a criminal,” he said, grunting in the back of his throat.
He sounded as though he were looking for someone to spit on.At the main
workbench, Imrie showed Tucker what he had for him. “Three Portuguese National
Guard contract Lügers, all in excellent shape.”“Fakes?”Imrie looked hurt.
“Genuine, I assure you. A good fake, of course, would be sufficient for
anything you'd want to use it for. But these are the real article, 1906-type
with four-and-three-quarter-inch barrels.”“In 7.65 mm?”“Yes.”Tucker worked the
unloaded pistol.“See?” Imrie asked.“What about the silencers?” Tucker ran his
thumb over the threads that had been cut into the outer circumference of the
Lüger's barrel.Imrie lifted three bright tubes from the box, handed one of
them over. “I guarantee the continuity of the barrel.”“Of course.”Tucker
fitted the silencer to the Lüger and had almost eleven inches of barrel. The
effect was at once silly and deadly.“Ammunition? Clips?”Imrie took those out
of the box and placed them neatly on the table. He watched while Tucker fitted
the silencers to each of the weapons, loaded them, held them, did every-thing
but shoot them. He was not offended by the thorough-ness of the examination,
for he knew that Tucker was making no comment on his own trustworthiness but
was merely taking as many precautions as he could. Indeed, he admired the
other man's professionalism.Tucker broke the guns down and said, “How
much?”“You understand that a genuine Portuguese National Guard Låuger is a
collector's item?”“Even modified with a silencer?” Tucker asked.“Still,
yes.”“How much?”“I paid four hundred and fifty dollars for each gun, thirteen
hundred and fifty altogether, the going market price.” Tucker knew that Imrie
had not purchased the weapons from another collector but from various
unin-formed sources, probably for as little as fifty or a hundred dollars
each. He did not say anything. Imrie was good enough to be permitted as much
chiseling as he could reasonably expect was his due. “I restored them to full
functional status, supplied the ammunition—considerable ammunition—machined
the silencers, a delicate operation that takes no little amount of time—”“How
much?” Tucker interrupted.Bright eyes flickering over his face, down at the
guns, up at his face again, Imrie realized Tucker was in a hurry, perhaps
pushed the price up a little because of that. “Twenty-two hundred for the
three.”“Two thousand,” Tucker said.“There is the added problem that these
particular weapons were originally prepared for another gentleman, as an
advance order. He'll be around to collect them in two days. To fill that
order, I'm going to have to close the store and stay up eighteen hours a
day—”Tucker cut the fat man short. “Hardly likely,” he said. “We both know
that you always keep a bit ahead of the demand. That's one reason you keep the
hidden closet. You've probably got two more like this—maybe not Lügers but
something as sufficient—ready to hand behind the bookcase.”“Really—” Imrie
began.“Two thousand.”“You'll want a case to carry them out of here?” Imrie
asked, folding thick fingers together.“Yes.”“Two thousand for the guns,
twenty-five dollars for the attaché case.”Tucker smiled. “You're
unbelievable.”“The antique business has suffered through a recent economic
recession you might have read about in the papers,” Imrie said. He took his
hands apart and put them palms up as if to ask, “What can I do?”Tucker counted
out the money while Imrie put the guns, silencers and ammunition into a
pearl-gray attaché case with a silvery stainless-steel handle. He snapped it
shut, locked it and gave two keys to Tucker, in exchange for the proper cash
compensation.“I think you'll be pleased,” Imrie said.“I hope I will
be.”“Goodbye, then.”“Goodbye,” Tucker said.The fat man led him down the stairs
again, into the darkened furniture store, past a row of old floor cabinet
radios and a Gramophone on a maple stand. The Gramo-phone trumpet, once gilded
and now tarnished, made Tucker think of Elise Ramsey. She had appeared in a
cigar commercial seated on a divan beside an ancient Gramophone. That was one
of his favorite commercials, perhaps because she had been wearing a plunging,
lacy-necked dressing gown; he had always had the feeling that, as in a
cartoon, the Gramophone trumpet was alive and that its gaping mouth was opened
in awe of her formidable cleavage.Imrie unlocked the front door.Tucker went
out and away without saying anything more.The time was 11:06 on Wednesday
morning.
The small Long Island airport out of which Paul Norton and Nick Simonsen
operated their catch-all air service had two macadamed runways, one new and
even, the other cracked and eroding and hoved up at the center like the back
of an angry cat. Both runways were in use. Three buildings—one a warehouse,
the second a hangar and the third a combination office suite and three-plane
berth—had all seen better days. The corrugated roofing was badly rusted, and
the wooden walls needed painting. Tucker paid the taxi driver, tipped him well
for running out to such an unlikely spot from which he'd hardly obtain a
re-turn fare, and went inside the nearest structure, which contained Norton's
office.Norton was there, behind a scarred desk that looked ready to collapse,
leaning way back in a rickety spring-backed chair, his booted feet propped on
the stained, notation-cluttered blotter. He was a big man, five inches taller
and sixty pounds heavier than Tucker. His face was broad and flat, since his
nose had been squashed and his cheeks scarred during his tour in Vietnam. He'd
never told Tucker how or why that had happened, or even if the two injuries
were from the same source. Perhaps, with un-limited resources and several
major operations, a very good plastic surgeon could have rebuilt that ruined
nose so it would look as good as new, though no improvement in his appearance
would have been noticeable until some-thing was done with the white scars on
both cheeks. Looking at him, Tucker had the eerie feeling that some enormous
cat had sneaked up behind Norton, dug its claws into his face and shredded the
flesh backward in one powerful jerk. Despite the disfiguration, he was not a
particularly ugly man—just damned mean-looking.When he spoke, however, your
impression of him shifted like the colored glass in the bottom of a
kaleido-scope. The voice was soft, the tone even, the words measured and warm.
His was the voice of a man who had seen too much and gone through more than
his share of agony, the voice of a man who never wanted to have to kill or
hurt anything again. “A beer?” he asked.“This time of day?”“It's after noon,”
Norton observed, taking his feet off the desk and rising. He moved smoothly,
gracefully. From an old refrigerator in the corner of the room he got two
chilled beers, opened them and put them on the desk without offering any
glasses.Tucker sat down in the client's chair, both briefcases beside
him.Norton did not give either of the satchels a glance. He knew that if they
were any of his business, Tucker would tell him so. Vietnam had not only made
him a gentle man but an extraordinarily wary one as well.“Ballantine's India
Pale Ale,” Norton said, lifting his own bottle. “I've tried everything, and
this is the only one that makes me happy.” He drank a third of his beer in one
long swallow that set his Adam's apple bobbing like a dinghy in a
typhoon.Tucker sipped his beer, agreed with the judgment and said, “I need a
chauffeur.”“So you said on the phone.”“You have the copter ready?”“It only
took a few minutes.”“Efficiency.”“My trademark.”Tucker swallowed some beer,
sighed, put the bottle down, lifted the lighter of the two briefcases,
unsnapped the latches and opened the top. He said, “All you have to know to
set your price is the destination. Pittsburgh. And the length of time I'll
need you—perhaps it'll be as late as tomorrow noon before we get back here.
Maybe it'll be some time tonight. Your own complicity involves nothing more
than the alteration of the markings on the copter. It's damn unlikely that the
FAA will find out about that, and, besides, you're accustomed to risking as
much.”“Quite accustomed,” Norton agreed. “But you forget that, according to
the law, I'll be aiding and abetting you with whatever you have in mind.
Understand me, Mike, I don't want to know what that is. I just want to point
out that I'll be liable for criminal charges.”“This operation isn't directed
against anyone the law would rush to defend,” Tucker said.Norton raised his
eyebrows, picked up his beer and took another third of it in one
swallow.“That's the last factor you have to consider. We're going up against a
man named Baglio, against his entire machine.”“Organized?”“Let's call him an
entrepreneur.”“Successful?”“Very.”Norton considered the angles for a moment,
scratching unconsciously at the three long white marks on his right cheek.
“Three thousand sound all right to you?”Tucker paid without any argument,
closed his briefcase again. It was a fair enough price for everything that he
was going to ask of Norton and his machine.The big man put the money in the
lockbox in the bot-tom drawer of a filing cabinet behind his desk, locked both
the box and the drawer, pocketed the keys and came back to his desk.“Someone
could carry the whole cabinet away,” Tucker said.“It's bolted to the
floor.”They drank the remainder of their beer in silence, and when they were
finished Norton said, “You ready?”“Yes.”They left the office and walked to the
third berth in the same building, where a gray helicopter sat on a wheeled
towing platform. It was the same four-seater quadra-prop that Norton had used
twice before when Tucker had required his services, though its own markings
had been expertly masked with colored tape. New numbers, also formed with
tape, decorated the proper plates on the nose and both sides. The Pennsylvania
state seal, with its two rearing horses, was firmly attached to both doors of
the craft; below the seal, in white letters, were the words pennsylvania state
police. It all looked very genuine. It should have, since the insignia were
exact copies of those in use by the authorities, rendered by a friend of
Norton's who worked in an ad agency during the day and moon-lighted however he
could. He had drawn Norton nine sets of state seals so far, though Tucker had
not had the op-portunity, thus far, to operate in so many different colonies.
Norton had other customers.“Good?” Norton asked.“Fine,” Tucker said.A golf
cart was already hooked up to the platform on which the copter stood, and
Norton hopped into this. He started it and drove slowly outside. Out of the
hangar, he stopped, detached the cart from the platform, drove it back inside
and parked it. They boarded the helicopter.“You've got a change of clothes?”
Tucker asked.“I packed as soon as you called.”“Good.”“Even before I went out
to doctor the copter.”“Fine.”A few minutes later, they drifted onto the
cracked macadam runway. Both Tucker and Norton sat in the forward seats;
behind them was a pair of seats that folded down to form a large cargo area.
Most of Paulnik Air's freight work was handled with one of the two twin-engine
Apaches that they maintained, though the dense, built-up New York area often
required a helicopter to land where there was no runway. Besides, the copter
was the most lucrative of the three Paulnik craft, thanks to Tucker and to
others like him.As they lifted into the early-afternoon sky, Tucker wondered
where Simonsen would be hiding. Simonsen professed to know absolutely nothing
about Norton's willingness to bend the law for a buck. He handled none of the
illegitimate work, though Norton knew his partner always stood at a window and
watched proceedings such as these, as if he secretly envied what he supposed
was a glamorous mission. He would be down there now, watch-ing and a little
jealous, a little frightened.Then the airfield and the hangars were out of
sight as they banked west toward the city.The time was 2:12 as the copter,
laden with auxiliary fuel tanks, began the longest leg of the journey.Tucker
wondered if Baglio had had an opportunity to question Merle Bachman. The
driver had been in the man-sion more than a full day. If he was not badly
injured, that was plenty of time for Baglio to break him, enough time for
Bachman to spill everything he knew about Tucker and the others.Norton had
said something which Tucker, lost in the reverie, had not heard.“What?” Tucker
asked.“I said, 'The pollution sure is nice today, isn't it?' ”Norton waved one
burly arm at the vista of yellow-white mist that rose up from all quarters of
the city, meshed high overhead and roiled like a ball of snakes, smoke snakes.
He indicated the awful scenery much as a legitimate guide might gesture
grandly at the undeniable splendor of Niagara Falls.“Beautiful.”“It'll make a
grand sunset.”“Lovely.”“Too bad we can't see it.”“Too bad.”But Tucker could
not bring himself to think very long about sunsets and atmospheric
pollution.Perhaps Baglio's people wouldn't be able to trace the Tucker name
any farther than the downtown mail drop. They had contacts, yes, of course
they had, but they were not omniscient.Yet, even if they got that far and no
farther, he would have to forget the Tucker identity altogether, assume a new
name, purchase all new credentials in that name, and strictly avoid everyone
who had, to date, known him only as Tucker.That would require an outlay of
cash and a period of relative inactivity, and it would be, in the vulgate, a
pain in the ass.And he could not expect an identity change to provide safety
for very long. Sooner or later, when one of them was using a new name himself,
he would encounter an old acquaintance who'd remember the Tucker identity.
Then a second name change would be necessary—and after that, a third and a
fourth.He could see no end to it.Much better to think the driver had not
talked yet. If Baglio didn't get through to Bachman in the next twelve hours,
they were all home safe.
Tucker looked at the map spread out on his knees, glanced through the front
window of the copter as Norton flew at an angle to the roadway below them, and
shouted, “There! That's the highway that runs past the turn-off for Baglio's
estate—and I think the house is over that way, in those slopes. If I'm right,
the turn-off should be just ahead.”It was.“Good work!” he shouted at Norton,
grinning.Perhaps he wouldn't have had to shout quite so loudly, for the cabin
was fairly well insulated against the roar of the overhead rotors. But after
several hours in the air, listening to that thumping racket, his ears buzzed
like the core of a beehive on a busy spring morning, and he shouted mostly to
hear himself.Norton nodded and said, “Is that a likely place to put down?” He
pointed across the highway, almost directly opposite the entrance to the
Baglio drive. A thousand yards from the road's edge, the woodlands broke for
several hundred feet, providing a clean, grassy, somewhat sloped expanse of
land between arms of the forest.“Good enough,” Tucker said.They went that way
and, five minutes later, were on the ground. Norton cut the engines, let the
blades stutter down. The bees began to fly out of Tucker's ears, until the
numbed ringing was gone and he could hear once more.“Now what?” Norton
asked.“Now, you'll wait here while I go telephone a col-league,” Tucker said,
working loose of the seat belt and the shoulder harness which had bitten deep
into his flesh.Norton stretched his long legs as well as he could in the
recess below the control dash and looked around at the pine trees. “I know
you're clever at organizing opera-tions, Mike. God knows, I've been in the
thick of two of them, and I could tell as much about your expertise without
knowing just what in the hell was going on. But I can't believe that you've
had a branch line run into these woods just on the off chance that you might
have to telephone someone from here.”Tucker smiled. “No branch line. But
there's a picnic area not too far from here, along the main highway, with a
phone booth at the end of it. Sit tight until I get back.”He pushed open the
heavy copter door, jumped out, reached up and slammed the door shut. Fifteen
minutes later he made his call from the booth in the picnic area. An hour
after that, Jimmy Shirillo drove into the parking lot in his red Corvette, cut
the engine and climbed out, smiling.Another man got out of the low-slung car.
He was at least twenty years older than Tucker, about Pete Harris's age,
though he was slim and almost delicate-looking, like Shirillo, quite unlike
the bearish Harris. He wore heavy-rimmed glasses with thick lenses, combed his
hair back from his forehead and looked, from the neck up, much like a
turn-of-the-century schoolmaster. From the neck down he looked not unlike a
hippie, in bellbottom blue jeans and a rumpled blue work shirt with the cuffs
rolled up. He looked at Tucker, smiled slightly, bent back into the Cor-vette
to get his equipment which he had packed into a shoulder-slung leather satchel
and a small metal suitcase.Shirillo introduced them—Ken Willis, photographer—
and let them shake hands. Willis's handshake was indiffer-ent, as if he felt
formalities of this sort were a waste of time. Close up, Tucker saw in him an
impatience, a need to keep moving, a quality that was unsettlingly like his
own.“You know what we want?” he asked Willis.“Jimmy told me the most of it.”To
Shirillo Tucker said, “Are you sure of him?”“Of course. He's my uncle, on my
mother's side, by marriage.”“For one thing,” Willis explained, “even if I were
will-ing to sell out on you, I wouldn't know where the hell to go to do it. My
line is mostly weddings and freelance nude photography for men's
magazines.”“Good enough,” Tucker said. “It's a fifteen-minute walk to the
helicopter. Jimmy, you'll stay here with the car until we come back. You can
pretend you got sleepy driving and pulled off for a nap—that is, if a cop
stops and wants to know if you're just loitering. We'll be back be-fore dark,
I hope.”Shirillo returned to the car.Tucker picked up Willis's heavy metal
suitcase and said, “Across the highway. We'll wait until there aren't any cars
coming before we try it. We don't want to stir up anyone's curiosity.”The big
red summer sun had already touched the peak of the mountain on which the
Baglio mansion rested, caressed the gentle ridgeline with bright fingers and
slowly began to settle out of sight. Full darkness was still more than an hour
away, the true sunset obscured by the mountainside, but even so they were
going to have to scramble to get done everything they had come here for.Norton
took them over the roof of the huge white house, a dozen yards above the
television antennae, peeled to the right when they had reached the end of the
lawn and circled back, swept over the house from the opposite direction, even
closer this time.“Can you get it like that?” Norton shouted.Willis shook his
head vehemently, negatively. “I'll either have to hang out of the door or
shoot through the nose glass here.” He reached across the narrow dash and
thumped his knuckles on the windshield. They made a hollow tok, tok, tok
sound.“I can stand her on end a little,” Norton said.“And do it going away
from the sun,” Willis said, “so there's no glare against the glass.”Tucker sat
in the seat directly behind Norton, watching the mansion closely, waiting for
the first sign of Baglio's bodyguards. He wondered what they'd think when they
came dashing out and found a police helicopter buzzing their retreat.Norton
stood the helicopter on its nose at a thirty-five-degree angle, slanted enough
so that they all slid forward on their seats, testing the belts that bound
them in.“Good,” Willis said.The photographer had loaded his camera, unfastened
his seat belt and was now out of his bucket-form chair, leaning across the
dash, his face pressed close to the win-dow as he focused and shot one frame
after another.Paul Norton didn't like the fact that Willis wasn't strapped
down, but he didn't say much about it. He con-centrated on keeping the
copter's flight path as even and steady as possible so that there was little
chance of Willis being thrown around.Below, two men came out of the front door
of the white house and looked up at the circling craft, raised flattened hands
to shield their eyes from the last direct glints of sunlight that touched the
polished framework and the windshield of the copter as it fluttered in a tight
little turn. They were, Tucker saw, the next thing to non-entities, two husky
muscle types, their sports coats hanging open so that guns would be more
quickly at hand.Tucker leaned forward and said, almost in Norton's ear, “The
glass isn't bulletproof, is it?”“Plexiglass,” Norton said. “It'll deflect a
pistol shot pretty well, even if we were close enough for them to use
handguns. Even when it cracks under rifle fire, it can throw the slug away
first.”Tucker remained forward in his seat, bracing himself against the back
of Norton's seat, staring down through the tilted nose window. “I think we
have enough front-to-back shots. Let's try cruising it from end to end.”Norton
obliged, brought the copter around in a whine of engine noise, coasted the
length of the mansion while Willis busily used his camera.Baglio himself had
come out of the house and stood in front of the pillared promenade in the
circular driveway, looking up at the copter. Right now he would be wonder-ing
whether they knew that Bachman was in the house or whether this was only
routine police harassment. He would be wondering, too, how he could get
Bachman out of the mansion under their noses if they should land with a search
warrant. Tucker hoped that, when Norton took them away from here without
landing, Baglio didn't panic and have Bachman killed and buried. It would be
so easy for him to have the driver tucked away in a grave beneath the pine
trees upslope of the house. Of course, Bachman might already be dead. He might
have talked and been put to sleep without the proper honors.Tucker said, “Can
you take her down and parallel the house so Willis can get some ground shots
of all four sides?”“Sure,” Norton said.He leveled the machine and, when they
were behind the mansion, took it down within five feet of the lawn while the
photographer took his shots through the side window. When they came around in
front of the house, where Baglio and his two men were standing, the hoods
danced quickly back out of the way of the chopping blades that were still much
too high to reach them but which must have looked sobering anyway. They were
too busy, then, to notice the copter's occupants.“Now up,” Tucker said. “Let's
get some shots of the house in perspective, the entire lawn and the perimeter
of the forest.”When that was done, Norton said, “Next?”“That's it,” Tucker
said. “Let's get back to home base.”By the time they landed on the grassy
floor of the forest clearing nearly two miles from Baglio's mansion, Willis
had packed away all of his gear and was ready to go. The moment the chattering
rotors began to stutter down into silence, he pushed open his door and jumped
out, reached back inside and dragged his two cases of equip-ment after
him.“Wait a moment,” Norton said as Tucker pushed Willis's seat forward and
made to follow the photographer.“Yeah?”Norton said, “Obviously, you're going
in there. Since you told me to be ready for four passengers—and since I've
only heard about three of you so far—it seems likely you're going in to get
back a man of yours.”Tucker said nothing.Norton continued: “Wouldn't they be
expecting some-thing like this—the copter and all?”“No,” Tucker said. “They're
expecting small-time tactics, if they're expecting anything at all. They're
very secure up there, or think they are. Besides, I'm sure they were
altogether misled by the police insignia on the copter.”“That's another
thing,” Norton said. “Wouldn't they think it's pretty odd to be harassed like
this? Wouldn't they be making regular payoffs to eliminate just this kind of
hassle?”“Not to state police,” Tucker said. “There are rotten apples in every
police force, and they probably do carry a couple of the state boys on their
payroll, but they can't buy off one of the toughest and best forces in the
country. The price would be too high.”Norton said, “Okay. I wasn't being
nosey. I just wanted to know what to expect the next time I have to take this
crate in there. If they're going to have me figured out and be waiting for me,
then I want to know about it.” He stretched again, arched his back and pressed
upward against his seat belt.“They won't be expecting you,” Tucker said. “A
flat guarantee.”“I'll be here when you need me.”Tucker jumped out, took the
two briefcases that Norton handed to him, one with less than five thousand
cash packed into it, the other containing the guns. He also handed down a soft
khaki tote bag with a heavy load in the bottom, special equipment that Tucker
had asked him to supply when he had originally called him from the
de-partment-store phone that morning. Tucker carried the briefcases in one
hand, since they were both slim, the tote bag in the other, led Willis back
into the woods and, fifteen minutes later, to the red Corvette where Jimmy
Shirillo was still feigning sleep.By a quarter of ten they were in the city
again. Merle Bachman had been in Baglio's hands slightly over thirty-six
hours.
In the dream he lay upon a soft bed, the covers drawn away from him, a
feather pillow propping his head up. The room was almost completely dark,
though swaths of soft blue light striped the thick carpeting and made odd
shadows on the walls; the source of the light, though he looked for it, was
not apparent. Elise Ramsey appeared on the far side of the room, held for a
moment in a band of blue light, like a specimen in a collection, on display,
then stepped for-ward into shadow. She was nude, striding toward him with the
confidence of a lioness. She came out of shadow into light again, cupping her
heavy breasts in her hands, making him an offering, one that he was instantly
willing to accept. She stepped into shadow again, reappeared in light, all
slickly moving, sinuous curves. He would have been aroused to full ability in
another moment—except that he saw the incredible hand rising up behind her,
the hand that she was clearly unaware of and which, even had he warned her,
was moving too fast for her to avoid. It was large enough to cup Elise in its
palm, a giant's hand that faded away into the darkness of the ceiling just
beyond the thick wrist. The fingers were spread to encircle her, the flesh
gray and cold and rigid in appearance. It was an iron fist, and it would crush
her in another moment. What made the dream metamorphose into a nightmare was
not the fact that she would be squashed like an insect, or even the
understanding that the hand would come after Tucker when it was finished with
the girl, but the cer-tainty that the hand did not belong to Baglio this time.
This time, the iron hand was his father's. Shadow and blue light, bare
breasts, stiffened nipples and the convulsing grasp of iron digits . .
.“Hey!”Tucker blinked.“You all right?” Pete Harris asked, shaking his shoulder
gently but insistently. “You okay, friend?”“Yeah,” Tucker said, not opening
his eyes.“You sure?”“I'm sure.”Tucker sat up and rubbed his eyes, massaged the
back of his neck and tried to decide what had crawled into his mouth and died
during his nap in Harris's hotel bed. He flicked his tongue around and didn't
find any corpse, de-cided that he must have swallowed it and that he would
have to scrub his teeth well to get rid of the last traces of its
demise.“Jimmy's here,” Harris said. “He's got everything you told him to bring
back.”Tucker looked up, saw Shirillo across the bed, sitting in a chair by the
standard-model hotel writing desk. Sev-eral paper bags with store names on
them rested on the floor near his feet. “What kind of job did your uncle do on
the photographs?”“Great,” Shirillo said. “Wait till you see them.”“Have them
ready for me,” Tucker said. He got up and went into the bathroom, closed the
door behind him. He felt like hell, stiff and weary, though he had been asleep
for only an hour and a half. He looked at his watch. One o'clock in the
morning. Make it a two-hour nap. Still and all, he should not feel as bad as
this. He splashed water in his face, dried off, found Harris's toothpaste and
squeezed a worm of it onto his index finger, then scrubbed his teeth without
benefit of a genuine brush. It didn't do much good for the tartar that had
built up since this morning, but it freshened his breath and made him feel
somewhat more human than he had when he woke up.Back in the main room, he
found that they had posi-tioned the three chairs at the writing desk and had a
stack of 8 x 10 glossies lying there for his inspection. He took the middle
chair which they had left for him and picked up the stack of pictures, went
through them carefully, se-lected a dozen and gave the rest to Shirillo. The
boy put them in a plain brown envelope and put the envelope out of their
way.“We'll be ready to go in half an hour,” Tucker told them, “if you pay
attention the whole way through.”“You have it all figured out?” Harris
asked.“Not all of it,” Tucker said, aware of Harris's streak of stubbornness.
The big man had gone along with every-thing Tucker ordered up to now, but he
would have his limits. It was best to make him think he played an equal role
in at least part of the planning. “I'll want your com-ments and suggestions so
we can hammer out the fine points.”“What if Bachman's dead?” Harris
asked.“Then we're wasting our time, but we don't lose any-thing.”“We could get
killed,” Harris said.“Look at the photographs, please,” Tucker said. “They
cost me nearly three hundred dollars.”Harris shrugged and settled back in his
chair, quiet. He looked at the photographs, listened to what Tucker had to
say, looked as though he wanted to put his Thompson together and caress it for
a while, began to make a few suggestions and finally regained his nerve. He
was getting old, with twenty-five years in the business; no one blamed him for
being a little more on edge than his colleagues. They'd be the same way in two
more decades, if they lived that long.On the drive out of the city, Shirillo
behind the wheel of a stolen Buick that Tucker had picked up only a few blocks
from the hotel, Harris in back with his Thompson across his lap, Tucker
hungrily devoured two Hershey chocolate bars and watched the occasional
headlights of other cars blur by them. He had not eaten since breakfast, but
the candy stopped his stomach growling and steadied his hands, which had
become slightly palsied. The food did not, however, do anything about the
shakes that had hold of his insides, and he resisted an urge to hug himself
for warmth.Eventually, they pulled off onto the familiar picnic area three
quarters of a mile beyond Baglio's private road and stopped behind another
car.“It's empty,” Shirillo said.Harris had leaned forward, and he said,
“Couple of kids parking.”Shirillo grinned and shook his head. “If it was that,
the windows would be all steamed.”“What do we do?” Harris asked.Wishing he had
another Hershey bar, Tucker said, “We sit here and wait, that's all.”“What if
nobody shows up, my friend?”“We'll see,” Tucker said.A minute later two tall,
well-dressed black men walked out of the woods behind the picnic area, making
casually for the parked car, one of them still zipping up his fly.“The call of
nature,” Shirillo said. “You'd think the state could afford a few comfort
stations along a highway like this.”The black men gave the Buick only a
cursory glance, not at all afraid of whom they might encounter in a lonely
spot like this, got into their own car, started up and drove away.“Okay,'
Tucker said, getting out of the car.Harris rolled down his window and called
to Tucker, “Maybe we ought to hide it better than we planned—in case there's
anyone else with a bad bladder problem.”“You're right,” Tucker said.Using a
flashlight, Tucker inspected the edge of the woods, found a place between the
trees where the Buick could squeeze through, motioned to Shirillo. The kid
drove the big car into the woods, following Tucker as he cau-tiously picked
out a route that led deeper and deeper into the underbrush. Fifteen minutes
later he signaled Shirillo to stop. They were more than a hundred yards from
the last picnic table, two hundred from the road, screened by several clumps
of thickly grown mountain laurel.Getting out of the car, Harris said, “Anybody
who's prude enough to walk all this way from the road just to take a piss
deserves to be shot in the head.”Shirillo and Tucker quickly unloaded all the
gear from the Buick and put it on the car roof where everyone could get at it.
Quickly they undressed and changed into the clothes which Shirillo had
purchased earlier in the evening according to the sizes they had given him.
Each man wore his own black socks and shoes, dark jeans that fitted loosely
enough to be comfortable in almost any circum-stance, midnight-blue shirt and
dark windbreaker with large pockets and a hood that could be pulled over the
head. Each man drew up his hood and fastened it beneath his chin, tied the
drawstrings in a double knot to keep them from loosening.Harris said, “You
sure have rotten taste, Jimmy.”“Oh?”“What's the alligator patch on the
windbreakers?”Shirillo reached down and fingered the embroidered alligator on
his left breast. “I couldn't find any wind-breakers without them,” he said.“I
feel like a kid,” Harris said.Tucker said, “Relax. It could have been worse
than an alligator. It might have been a kitten or a canary or
some-thing.”“They had kittens,” Shirillo said. “But I ruled those out. They
also had elephants and tigers, and I couldn't make up my mind between those
and the alligators. If you don't like the alligators, Pete, we'll wait here
while you exchange your jacket for another one.”“Maybe I'd have liked the
tiger,” Harris said reflec-tively, letting the idea roll around in his mind
while he spoke.Tucker said, “What's wrong with elephants?”“Oh, elephants,”
Harris said. “Well, elephants always look a little stupid, don't you think?
They certainly aren't ferocious; they don't instill fear in anyone. Baglio saw
me coming in an elephant-decorated windbreaker, he might think I was the local
Good Humor man or someone selling diaper service, something like that.
Besides, I've been a life-long Democrat, and elephants aren't my
insignia.”“You vote?” Shirillo asked, surprised.“Sure, I vote.”Both Shirillo
and Tucker laughed.Harris looked perplexed, rubbed at the alligator on his
chest and said, “What's wrong with that?”“It just seems strange,” Tucker
explained, “that a wanted criminal is a registered voter.”“I'm not wanted
yet,” Harris said. “I was wanted twice before, but I served less than two
years both times. I'm a clean citizen now. I feel it's my duty to vote in
every elec-tion.” He looked at them, at what he could see of them in the dark.
“Don't you two vote?”“No,” Shirillo said. “I've only been eligible a few
years, and I just never got around to it. I don't see what good it
does.”“You?” Harris asked Tucker.Tucker said, “Politics never interested me. I
know people who spend half their lives worrying about how everything's going
to hell in a basket—and it all goes to hell in a basket anyway. I figure I'll
survive no matter what nincompoop the public puts in office next.”“That's just
terrible,” Harris said, clearly taken aback at their unpatriotic sloth. “It's
a good thing neither one of you has any kids. You'd be the kind of parents
who'd set rotten examples.”Tucker and Shirillo laughed again.“Come on,” Tucker
said, prying the lid off a small can of greasepaint, “Let me blacken your
face.”“What for?” Harris asked.“For one thing,” Tucker said, “it'll make it
harder for anyone to see you in the dark. More important, with a hood over
your hair and black paint covering your face, it's going to be difficult for
Baglio or any of them to make a positive identification of you later. Change a
man's facial color, and you alter him almost as thoroughly as if he'd donned a
mask. And in the close work we'll be doing to-night, a mask wouldn't be good;
it would just get in the way. The greasepaint will conceal you and give you
the optimum in mobility, the use of your eyes.”Grunting unhappily, Harris
submitted to this indignity, all the while fingering the outline of the raised
green alli-gator on his breast.Ten minutes later they had all been
black-faced, the paint put aside with the clothes they had taken off.“Now?”
Harris asked, plainly expecting yet another indignity.“I'll show you the
guns,” Tucker said.“I always use the Thompson,” Harris said, lifting it away
from the car where he had leaned it.“You'll take it along,” Tucker agreed.
“But you'll use it only if you have to. If at all possible, you'll keep it
shoul-der-slung and you'll use this.” He got out the three Lügers and three
silencers, fitted the parts and distributed the weapons. He divided up the
clips of ammunition, four each, and supervised the loading.“Very nice,” Harris
said.Tucker relaxed as the big man strapped the submachine gun over his
shoulder and tested the pistol in his hand. “Keep the ammunition zipped into
the right-hand pocket of your windbreaker.”Harris said, “Holsters?”“None,”
Tucker said.“Gun goes in left-hand pocket?”“No. Keep the pistol out at all
times.”“Sometimes you need both hands for other things,” Harris said.“Not
tonight, I think. We've got to keep a gun ready. For one thing, getting that
damn long silenced barrel out of a holster could be tricky in a pinch. For
another, once we're in the house, we could be come upon and shot before we had
time to draw. Remember, Baglio keeps at least four armed men in that place,
four professionals. And it's their home ground, not ours.”Shirillo had been
unable to learn exactly how many people lived in the Baglio mansion.Tucker
took out a special belt from which hung a num-ber of tools in thin plastic
pouches. He pulled up his windbreaker, buckled the belt around his waist, drew
the jacket down again.“Shirillo get you that?” Harris asked.“Yes.”“Looks like
a nice set.”“It is,” Shirillo said. “I picked each piece myself, spent a
couple of weeks honing them where that was necessary, made up the belt and the
pouches in my brother's shoe-repair shop.”Harris scratched his blackened chin,
looked at the tips of his fingers, said, “You think we'll have to break in,
then?”“If all the main doors and unlocked windows look too damn inviting,”
Tucker said, “we'll make our own entrance.”Harris nodded.“One more thing,”
Tucker said. He got the khaki tote bag that Paul Norton had given him that
afternoon, opened it and took out two compact walkie-talkies. He gave one to
Shirillo and took one himself, strapped it to his shoulder and let it hang
down against his right biceps. He explained the operation of the radios to
Shirillo, insisted that they test them, was finally satisfied that the boy
knew what he was doing.“I don't get one?” Harris asked.“You're already
carrying the machine gun,” Tucker pointed out. “It may be necessary to split
up and be out of each other's sight. I won't, however, have us cut into three
separate units. You'll always be with either Jimmy or me, and when we've gone
two different ways, we can keep in contact with these. Later on, of course,
we'll need them to get in touch with Paul.”“The copter jockey?” Harris
asked.“Yes.”“I'm anxious to meet him.”“You will before long.”They gathered up
everything that had not been in the Buick when they stole the car—the clothes
they had taken off, the attaché case in which the three pistols had lain, the
bags the clothes they were now wearing had come in, the black greasepaint, all
the sales slips—stuffed every-thing into the tote bag that the walkie-talkies
had been in. The bag was filled to bulging.“Back in a jiffy,” Tucker said.He
took a five-minute walk into the woods, much deeper than the car had gone,
and, when he felt he was far enough away from the Buick, he heaved the tote
bag away into the dark trees. It glanced off a pine trunk, struck some-thing
else, landed with a crash in deep greenery and was still. Good enough, then.
He went back to the others.They took ten minutes to wipe down the Buick,
inside and out, until they were sure no one would pick up any prints from it.
They had not worried about prints on the stolen Chevy and Dodge that had been
wracked up in Baglio's estate the day before, because they knew that Baglio
would have those wrecks tucked away and that the police would never have a
chance to go over them. This was different, for the Buick would be abandoned
here and would eventually be returned to its proper owner. Though Harris's
fingerprints were on file, neither Shirillo nor Tucker had been inked into
public records yet. Shirillo was too young to have been caught yet; Tucker was
simply too careful. Also, Tucker had never been printed in his real identity
as the man with the penthouse apartment on Park Avenue, and he most likely
never would be; the rich are seldom subjected to that kind of humiliation
unless the case against them is as tight as an angry fist, and Tucker intended
to be perfectly law-abiding in his real identity. Printed as Tucker, then, his
true name and background could be kept a secret, even if he was arrested and
had to serve time—although, once out on bail, he could ditch the Tucker name
forever and slip back into the Park Avenue world without much worry about
being traced and appre-hended. As Tucker, however, having his prints on file
would severely limit his mobility.Tucker shut the last open door of the Buick,
using his handkerchief to keep it clean. He put the handkerchief in his pocket
and turned to Shirillo. “Time?”Shirillo looked at his watch in the pale yellow
glow of the flashlight, and he said, “A quarter to three.”“Plenty of time,”
Tucker said.Around them, the darkness was complete when Shirillo flicked off
the light. The thickly criss-crossed boughs of the pines even held back the
dim brightness of the stars.Tucker said, “Have we forgotten anything?” He knew
that they had not, but he wanted to give Pete Harris the feeling that he was
helping to guide the operation.No one responded.Checking the flimsy rubber
surgical gloves which they'd all put on when they'd changed clothes, Tucker
said, “Let's go, then. We've got a good piece of walking to do, and we can use
the flashlight for only about half of it.”They struck out for Baglio's
mansion, while the night closed in around them, and the silenced crickets near
the Buick, alone again, took up their chirruping.
Their line of march paralleled the main highway, though they remained out of
sight of it. In a while they came across Baglio's private macadamed lane.
Moving back into the woods again, still guided by the flashlight beam, they
followed the twisting lane as it cut inland, and they began to move upward
into worn limestone foothills. The trees were thick, as was the brambled
underbrush. But deer, smaller animals and the run-off from rainstorms had
pressed paths through the weaker vegetation. These natural trails often
wandered considerably between two points, but they afforded an easier way than
any of the men could have chosen with the jumble of bushes, rocks, gullies and
brambles on all sides. To make up for the extra distance they had to cover,
they jogged thirty paces for every ten they walked, running as far as they
could for three min-utes, cutting back to a walk for one, running another
three, walking again. Tucker wanted to be within sight of the mansion by
three-thirty and inside of it no later than a quarter to four. That still gave
them plenty of time before dawn to do everything they would need to do.Running
through the darkness with the crazily bob-bing light picking out the narrow
trail ahead of him, Tucker was reminded of the nightmare that he had
experi-enced in Harris's hotel room: the hand descending sud-denly out of
shadows, moving stealthily through bands of darkness and blue light, stalking
the nude Elise.He could not shake off the insane conviction that the same hand
was behind him now, that it had already dis-posed of Harris in a most brutal
fashion, that it was wrap-ping around Shirillo at that very moment and would
be gripping him in cold iron fingers any time now.He ran, then walked, then
ran some more, listening to the matching steps of the two men behind him.Twice
they stopped to rest for exactly two minutes at a stretch, but they did not
speak to each other. Drawing breath was all they cared about. They stared at
the ground, wiped sweat out of their eyes and, when their time was up, moved
on again. Harris's breathing was the most labored, whether from exhaustion
alone or from fear as much as weariness Tucker couldn't say. A life of crime
wasn't meant for any but young men.Fifteen minutes after they had started out,
Tucker flicked off the flashlight and slowed their pace consider-ably. At 3:35
in the morning they came to the perimeter of the forest and the beginning of
Baglio's immaculately cared-for lawn.In the forest, as they were on the way up
from the picnic area where they had changed clothes, a thin layer of ground
fog had clung to the bottoms of the trees and twined through the undergrowth
like a tangle of wispy rags, now and again obscured the way ahead, cold and
wet and clinging. Here in the open the aisles of trees fun-neled the fog
between them, poured it onto the shrub-dotted lawn where it lay like piles and
piles of heavy quilts. The lights on the front promenade, under the pillars,
were diffused by it, as were the dimmer lights that shone through a few
downstairs windows. The result was an eerie wash of yellow light that filled
the immediate lawn about the house but illuminated nothing, lay upon the dense
shadows but did not disperse them.Tucker, Harris and Shirillo lay in the woods
at the edge of the mowed grass and studied the stillness of the early-morning
scene, not wanting to find any movement up there but more or less resigned to
it. Apparently there were no guards prowling the grounds, though one or more
of them might be stationed at fixed points from which they could scan the
entire lawn. Tucker knew that was a strong possibility, but he pretty much
rejected it anyway. Baglio would not be expecting them to return. There was no
reason for him to mount an extraordinary guard tonight unless he had been
especially impressed with the state-police helicopter during the day. That was
possible, Tucker supposed, but not very likely. Baglio's sort did not like
policemen much, but they were not as paranoid about them as a lesser
criminal—say, a common burglar or mug-ger—might have been. For Ross Baglio,
there were always payoffs that could be made, influence that could be bought;
or, failing that, there were always top-notch lawyers, bail bonds and an
eventual dismissal of the charges on one ground or another.“Probably inside
the house this early in the morning, this kind of weather,” Harris
whispered.“Of course,” Tucker said.“As planned, then?”“As planned.”Harris went
first. He crouched so that he was only half his normal height, and he ran
toward a line of shrubbery that ringed the inside of the circular driveway and
pro-vided a well-concealed vantage point from which they could safely gauge
the presence of sentries at any of the front windows. For a moment there was
the sound of his receding footsteps, soft, wet hissing as he disturbed the
dewy grass. Then there was nothing at all. The fog swal-lowed him
completely.“He'll be in place now,” Tucker whispered.“Right,” Shirillo
said.The boy ran now, making even less noise than Harris had, bent even lower.
The heavy fog opened up and swal-lowed him too, in one gulp, leaving Tucker
completely alone.And alone, Tucker remembered the nightmare more vividly than
ever: the shadows and the light, the reaching hand. He felt an itch between
his shoulder blades, a dull cold ache of expectancy in the back of his neck.He
rose and, crouching, ran to join the others.They lay on their stomachs behind
the evenly trimmed hedge on the inside of the driveway fifty yards from the
front doors of the mansion. Through breaks in the foliage they had a good
view. The fog was not thick enough to shroud the house altogether at such a
short distance, but it did dull the outlines of the roof and softened the
joints between slabs of siding so that the place appeared to be made of a
single piece of expertly carved alabaster. From their position they could see
all the windows on the front of the house: four of them backed by dull yellow
light, six of them perfectly dark on the first level; all ten windows on the
second floor were dark.“Been watching,” Harris said.“And?”“I don't think
anyone's at the windows.”“That's unlikely.”“Just the same . . . Watch them and
see.”Five minutes later Shirillo said, “I don't see anyone, either.”“Four
windows are lighted,” Tucker said.Harris said, “I didn't say there wasn't
anyone inside there, awake. I just don't think there's anyone watching the
windows. Probably that's because of the fog; they figure they wouldn't see
much of anything even if there was something to see.”In a few minutes Tucker
was willing to agree that they were not being watched. If one of Baglio's men
were standing at any of the front windows, on either floor, in a darkened
room, he would most certainly be visible as a lighter gray blur against the
deeper blackness of the room behind him. There was only half a moon, and the
light from that was considerably diluted by the fog; still, a man's face
positioned only inches from the glass ought to reflect enough light to stand
out plainly to any knowledgeable observer. The lighted windows, of course,
would have clearly revealed any posted guard; those windows were empty, the
rooms beyond them apparently quiet and still.“Well?” Harris asked.Nerves. A
case of nerves. After all, he was twenty-five years in this business, with two
tours of a federal prison already behind him. He was too old and had weathered
too much to risk getting shot down by a Mafia gunman in the pursuit of
something as quixotic as tonight's goal; they would bury him above the house,
in the woods, where his body would decompose, the component minerals washing
down the slope to fertilize a hood's landscaped estate. In the grave, the only
things that would survive the flesh were his bones—and the vinyl windbreaker
with its alligator insignia. So Harris had a case of nerves. Of course,
every-one had nerves; that definition of his condition was impre-cise. Still,
one day Tucker would be the same as Harris, tensed to the breaking point,
promising himself he would retire, taking that “one last job” over and over
again, until his case of nerves led to one final misjudgment.No. It would not
be that way for Tucker, because he would have his inheritance by then. His
father would be dead, his problems solved. It was, he thought, a sad way to
have to live: waiting for your father to croak.Tucker studied the house one
last time to make sure he knew what he was doing. All four of the ground-floor
windows which had light behind them were to the left; the six dark windows on
that level were all on the right of the huge white double doors. Tucker nodded
toward the un-lighted glass and said, “One of those.”“Not the doors?” Harris
asked.“Bound to be locked,” Tucker said. “Try for the next to the last window.
The telephone wires feed in there, too.”The submachine gun held at hip level
in one hand, his finger on the trigger, clutching the silenced Lüger in the
other hand, Harris got up and ran lightly, quickly, to a place along the front
wall to the left of the second window. No one cried out.“Go,” Tucker
said.Shirillo followed Harris without incident.Tucker brought up the rear,
used a small set of shears that he carried in his windbreaker to cut the
telephone wires as planned. He had stopped directly before the window which he
was going to open, but he saw no use in shielding himself from it. If anyone
was in the room be-yond, he was going to know about Tucker soon enough when he
cut the glass.Move ass.Tucker unbuckled his belt of tools and handed it to
Shirillo. He'd intended to break into the house himself, because he trusted
his own ability to make the entrance in silence. Now, he belatedly realized
that Shirillo must be good at this (why else would he own a custom-made set of
tools?) and that the boy would get them in faster since the instruments and
the pouch were his and were more familiar to him than to Tucker. “Ever done
this?” Tucker asked unnecessarily, in as low a voice as he could use and still
be heard.“Often.”Tucker nodded, stepped back, took Shirillo's pistol and
watched him as he knelt before the dark glass.Pete Harris turned and faced the
longest length of the mansion, waiting for someone to appear at the far end of
the promenade or to step out of the front doors. If they came through the
doors, they'd be near enough to be taken out with the pistol; if they came
from the far end of the house, however, a pistol shot wouldn't be accurate,
and the Thompson would come in handy. He held both weap-ons slack in his
hands, parallel with his legs, so that they would not unduly tire his arms but
so he could bring them up fast in an emergency.There very well might be one,
too.Tucker wished the place were less well lighted. Di-rectly above his head,
in the promenade ceiling, a hundred-watt bulb burned inside a protective wire
cage.Tucker faced away from Harris, in the opposite direc-tion, and thought it
might be a good idea to step to the corner of the house where he could command
a view of the side lawn as well as of the driveway. He took a single step in
that direction just before one of Baglio's men appeared.He was tall and lean
and broad across the shoulders, not at all stupid-looking but stamped by the
same die as the gunmen who had been riding in the back of the Cadillac when
Tucker and the others had forced it to stop on the mountain road only two days
ago. Perhaps he was one of them. He was strolling along, distracted by his
thoughts, slouched into himself as if he had been folded at the mid-dle. He
was looking at the ground in front of his feet. He didn't suspect a thing.
Abruptly, however, as if he had been warned by some extrasensory perception, a
sudden clairvoyance, he snapped his head up, his eyes wide, hand moving
beneath his jacket with the oiled sureness and the economy of movement that
signified a trained professional.No, Tucker wanted to say. Don't make me.
Relax. You haven't got a chance, and you know it.The gunman had his pistol
half in the open when Tucker put a shot into him, high in the chest, by the
right shoulder.The gunman dropped his pistol.It clattered softly on the
concrete promenade floor.The shot had pushed him half around, so that he
leaned back against the wall and, just now beginning to reach for his
shoulder, fell forward and lay still.
Despite the high risk associated with his profession, Tucker had only twice
been pressed into a position where he had no choice but to kill a man. Once,
it had been a crooked cop who tried to force his point with a handgun; the
sec-ond time it was a man who'd been working with Tucker on a job and who'd
decided there was really no sense in splitting the proceeds when one shot from
his miniature pearl-handled revolver would eliminate that economic
unpleasantry and make him twice as rich. The cop was fat and slow. The partner
with the pearl-handled revolver was as affected in every habit as he was in
his choice of handguns. He didn't choose to shoot Tucker in the back, which
would have been the smartest move, but wanted instead to explain to Tucker, in
the course of a melodramatic scene, in very theatrical terms what he intended
to do. He wanted to see Tucker's face as death approached, he said. He'd been
very surprised when Tucker took the revolver away from him, and even more
surprised when, during the brief struggle, he was shot.Both kills had been
clean and quick, on the surface; but both of them had left an ugly residue
long after the bodies had been buried and begun to rot. For months after each
murder Tucker was bothered by hideous nightmares in which the dead men
appeared to him in a wide variety of guises, sometimes in funeral shrouds,
sometimes cloaked in the rot of the grave, sometimes as part animal—goat,
bull, horse, vulture, always with a human head—some-times as they looked when
they were alive, sometimes as children with the heads of adults, sometimes as
voluptuous women with the heads of men and as balls of light and clouds of
vapor and nameless things that he was nonethe-less able to identify as the men
he had killed. In the few months immediately following each kill, he woke
nearly every night, a scream caught in the back of his throat, his hands full
of damp sheets.Elise was always there to comfort him.He couldn't tell her what
had caused the dreams, and he would pretend that he didn't understand them or,
some-times, that he didn't even remember what they had been.She didn't believe
him.He was sure of her disbelief, though she never showed it in her manner or
in her face and never probed with the traditional questions. She could not
know and could hardly suspect the real cause of them, but she simply didn't
care about that. All she was interested in was helping him get over them.Some
nights, when she cradled him against her breasts, he could take one of her
nipples in his mouth as a child might, and he would be, in time, pacified in
the manner of a child. He wasn't ashamed of this, only welcomed it as a source
of relief, and he did not feel any less a man for having clung to her in this
manner. Often, when the fear had subsided, his lips would rove outward from
the nipple, changing the form of comfort she offered, now offering her a
comfort of his own.He wondered how other people who had killed handled the
aftermath, the residue of shame and guilt, the deep sickness in the soul.How,
for instance, did Pete Harris handle it? He'd killed, by his own admission,
six men during the last twenty-five years, not without cause—and countless
others before that, during the war when he had carried the Thompson and used
it indiscriminately. Did Harris wake up at night pursued by demons? Dead men?
Minotaurs and harpies with familiar human faces? If he did, how did he comfort
himself, or who comforted him? It was difficult to imagine that lumbering,
red-faced, bull-necked man in the arms of someone like Elise. Perhaps he never
had been consoled and nursed out of his nightmares. Per-haps he still carried
them all inside him, a pool of that dark, syrupy residue of death. That would
explain the bad nerves as well as anything.“I think his shoulder's broken,”
Shirillo said, looking up from the wounded gunman.“He's not dead?”“You didn't
mean him to be, did you?” the kid asked.“No,” Tucker said. “But a silenced
pistol can kick off the mark, even if it's been well machined.”“He's
bleeding,” Shirillo said. “But it's not arterial blood, and it won't kill
him.”“What now?” Harris asked.Tucker knelt and looked at the gunman's wound,
peeled back his eyelids, felt for and found the rapid beat of his heart.
“He'll come to before long, but he'll be in shock. He won't be any threat if
we leave him behind.”“He could sound a warning,” Harris said.Shirillo said,
“He's not going to have the strength for that, even if he's thinking clearly
enough to try it.”“We could gag him.”“And maybe kill him if the gag triggers
convulsions,” Tucker said. “No. We'll just take him inside with us and tuck
him in a closet and hope for the best.”Shirillo nodded, still cool, much
cooler than Tucker would have expected him to be at a time like this, and he
went back to the window, finished applying the masking tape to the center
pane, cut a circle of glass, lifted that out of the way, reached in and
carefully felt around with his fingers. “Wires,” he said. “An alarm.”“Know the
type?” Tucker whispered.“Maybe. Flashlight, please.”Tucker took that out of
his windbreaker pocket and handed it over.Shirillo flicked the light on and
directed it through the hole he had cut in the window glass, angled the beam
left and right, grunted softly as if confirming something he already thought
to be true, flicked the light off and returned it to Tucker.“Well?”“I know
it.”“Built in?”“No. The wire loops through two brass guide rings screwed into
the base of the window. When I lift the window, I stretch the wire and trip
the alarm—if I'm stupid.”“You aren't stupid,” Harris said.“Thanks. I needed
your reassurance.”Tucker said, “How long to finish with it—two or three
minutes?”“Less.”“Go on, then.”Working more quickly than Tucker himself would
have been able to, Shirillo taped and cut another pane in the bottom row of
the window segments, lifted that out of the way and, using the special tools
in his pouch, reached inside and worked the guide rings free of the wood. That
done, the wire would lie in place on the sill no matter how high the window
was lifted. Finished, he returned the tools to his pouch, belted that around
his waist beneath his jacket. Reaching through the window with both hands, he
freed the latch and carefully slid the whole works up high enough for a man to
pass under it. The frame was a tight fit, and the window remained open.“You
first,” Tucker said.Shirillo hunched and went inside.“Help me with him,”
Tucker said, indicating the wounded man who was still unconscious on the
promenade floor.He and Harris put their guns down and lifted the guard, worked
the man through the window and into the darkened room, where Shirillo helped
settle him gently to the floor. They had to work more carefully and take more
time with the man than they would have if he'd been dead. But that was okay.
That was fine. At least there wouldn't be any nightmares this way.“Now you,”
Tucker said.Harris handed his Thompson through the open window and went in
quickly after it, as if he would be unable to function if the weapon were out
of his hands and out of sight for more than a brief moment. He had to twist
himself around painfully to force his bulk through that narrow frame, but he
didn't protest, made no sound at all.Tucker picked up the circles of glass
that had been cut from the window panes, peeled the tape off the window around
the holes and passed these through to Shirillo, then looked around to see if
they'd left any other trace of their work here.Blood.He studied the pattern of
the blood on the promenade floor where the wounded man had lain. There was not
much of it, because the blood had come in a thick trickle rather than a spurt,
and the guard's clothes had absorbed most of it. Already, what little blood
there was had begun to darken and dry. Even if someone passed this way—and
that seemed unlikely if this was the wounded man's patrol sector—he might not
properly interpret the stain. In any case, there was nothing to be done about
it.He looked around the fog-shrouded front lawn one last time, at the hoary
shrubbery, the mist that laced the big trees, the grass made colorless by the
dim house lights.Nothing.He listened to the night.Silence.Except for the
wounded man, no one else had discov-ered them. Now their chances were pretty
good. They would finish the job properly. He felt it, beyond intellect, beyond
reason. Success was theirs. Almost. Unless Merle Bachman had talked, in which
case they were all blown.He followed Harris through the window and into the
house, closed the window behind himself.
“It's a library, friends,” Pete Harris said as Tucker let the flashlight play
across the big, comfortable reading chairs, an outsized oak desk and hundreds
of shelved books.“A cultured crook,” Shirillo said.Tucker moved cautiously
about the room until he was sure that it was clear. He located a closet and
helped Shirillo move the unconscious wounded guard into it.“No turning back
from here on out,” Harris said.“Too right,” Tucker said.Cautiously they opened
the main library door and filed into the dimly lighted first-floor corridor,
closed the door after them. Across the hall another door opened on steps that
led down into darkness.“Basement,” Shirillo explained.“What's there?”“Swimming
pool, sauna, gymnasium.”“This the only entrance?”“Yeah. Nobody down there at
this hour anyway, not in the dark. It's safe enough.”Tucker stared down into
the blackness, then shook his head. “Check it anyway,” he said.Shirillo didn't
argue. He took the flashlight and went down to the basement, out of sight.The
silence in the house was oppressive, deep and still enough to touch and, in
their present state of mind, subtly false, as if they were being witched every
moment and had been prepared for.Not three minutes after Shirillo reached the
bottom of the cellar steps, Harris deserted his post from which he had been
covering the corridor, went to the open cellar door and looked down into the
inkiness. His face was red, beaded with perspiration, and he was trembling
slightly. He said, “Come on, friend.”“Take it easy.”“Where is he?”“Give him a
few more minutes.”Harris turned back to the open corridor, obviously unhappy
with the waiting, both the machine gun and the pistol raised from his sides.
Tucker hoped no one would come upon them accidentally, because Harris couldn't
be trusted to use the silenced pistol first. He'd open with the big Thompson,
out of habit, out of need, out of fear. He'd ruin any element of surprise.Two
minutes later, as Shirillo had promised, he re-turned. “No one down there,” he
said.Harris smiled and used the back of his pistol hand to wipe the
perspiration from his face. He wondered if he was sweating only because he was
scared, or because he was rapidly becoming physically exhausted as well. God,
he felt old. He felt much older than he really was. This wouldn't be the last
job now, with the money gone, but the next one would have to be.“Let's
hustle,” Tucker said. He was afraid that if they remained still for much
longer, he'd be unable to maintain the composure he was known for. All they
needed to louse up this operation was both he and Harris quaking in their
boots and only the green kid with any nerve left.Quickly they opened doors on
both sides of the cor-ridor and ascertained that all the rooms beyond were
de-serted. Past the front entrance to the house and the main staircase, past
the foyer with its eagle-print wallpaper, in the other ground-floor wing where
the lighted rooms lay, they were almost certain to find things more difficult
than this.Harris watched the closed doors to the two lighted rooms, his Lüger
and the machine gun raised into firing position. He was running with sweat and
breathing harder and faster than either Tucker or Shirillo. While he stood
guard, the other two men opened each of the four doors at the back of the
house and examined the rooms there: a small art room, windowless, the walls
tastefully hung with original oils; the ultramodern kitchen; a storage room
full of canned goods, racked wine and whiskey still in card-board cases; a
full bathroom carpeted in white shag. No one was in any of these rooms. They
closed the last two doors almost as one and turned to Harris, who looked as if
he were being pulled apart: neck strained so veins and arteries stood out like
thick strings, head thrust forward, shoulders drawn up tight toward his ears,
feet spread and legs tensed, legs bent at the knees, arms out from his sides
with white knuckles bent around the weapons in each hand.Tucker motioned for
Shirillo to accompany him to the end door and directed Harris to take the
first. At a signal from Tucker, Shirillo and Harris stepped forward and opened
the doors on the lighted rooms, throwing them wide without banging them
against walls.Tucker saw Harris move quickly into the room on the left as if
he had seen someone in there who would need settling down, but he did not wait
to see what happened. As the door of the end room began to swing slowly shut
again of its own momentum, he preceded Shirillo into the room, where he found
a pudgy, mustached, bald-headed little man sitting up in a Hollywood-style
bed, a book open in his hands.“Who are you?” the pudgy man asked.Tucker
leveled the silenced Lüger at the shiny forehead and said, “Shut up.”The
stranger shut up.He turned back to Shirillo and said, “I can handle this one.
Go see if everything's all right with our friend.”Shirillo vanished through
the open doorway.Tucker pulled up a chair, facing the man on the Holly-wood
bed. “Who are you?”“Who are you?” the stranger asked. The book he was reading
was a popular sociological study of the criminal mentality, and it had
recently reached the best-seller lists. Tucker supposed that was funny, though
he didn't laugh.“Who are you?” he repeated, pushing the gun closer.The pudgy
man blinked. “Keesey. I'm the cook.”“Sit still, Keesey, and don't try to sound
an alarm. If you open your mouth once when I don't tell you to, you'll never
open it again.”Keesey understood. He sat stiff, still, quiet, blinking at
Tucker until Shirillo and Harris entered the room a couple of minutes
later.“Well?” Tucker asked.“It's all taken care of, my friend,” Harris said.
“Next door's a big room that two of Baglio's men share. One of them was in
there drinking coffee when I opened the door. He looked like he'd just
swallowed a frog when he saw me.”“And?”“I caught him under the chin with the
Thompson's butt. I don't think I broke his jaw, but he won't be up and around
for a while. Jimmy tied him with his own bed sheets, just to be sure.”“His
roomie?” Tucker asked.Harris said, “Must be the one you got outside.” He
turned directly to Keesey. “What've we got here?” He was smiling without
humor. It was clear to Tucker that Harris was moving closer to the edge, now
growing antagonistic without reason.“The cook,” Tucker said.“What's he
say?”Tucker turned back to Keesey. “How many gunmen does Baglio keep in the
house?”“None,” Keesey said.Tucker reached across the bed, gently lifted the
book out of the cook's hands, marked the man's place with a leaf of the dust
jacket, put the book down, leaned forward and slammed the barrel of the Lüger
alongside the pudgy man's head.Just in time Keesey remembered not to yelp. He
slid down in the bed and rubbed at his bruised skull, drawing deep and
trembling breaths.“How many gunmen does Baglio keep in the house?” Tucker
repeated.The cook said, “Just two.”“The two in the room next to this
one?”“Yes.”“They mount the night watch?”“Yes.”Tucker said, “No day shift?”The
cook rubbed his bald head, looked at his hand as if he expected to find it
covered with fresh blood, said, “We don't need a day guard most of the time.
Mr. Baglio has those only on Mondays and Tuesdays every other week.”“What do
you think?” Shirillo asked. He was leaning against the wall by the foot of the
bed, and he looked twice as thin and as ineffectual as ever.Tucker shrugged.
“If he's lying, I can't tell.”“I wouldn't lie!” the cook said, raising a hand
to touch-his tender scalp.Tucker said, “Who's upstairs right now?”The cook
stopped rubbing his head and said, “Mr. Baglio, Henry Deffer, Louise and
Martin Halverson—and Miss Loraine.”“Deffer is the chauffeur?”“Yes.”“Who are
the Halversons?”“Maid and handyman.”“How old?”“Fifties?” the cook asked,
questioning himself. He nodded, grabbed his neck as the pain forced him to
stop nodding, said, “Yes, in their fifties somewhere.”“He pack a
gun?”“Halverson?” the cook asked, incredulous.“Yes, Halverson.”“Of course
not!” The cook chuckled. “Did you ever see Halverson?”“No.”“Well, then—”“Who
is this Miss Loraine?” Tucker asked.The cook actually blushed and, for a
moment, forgot about his wounds. The blush carried over from his face and
stained the top of his gleaming skull. He said, “She is a very nice young
lady, a very pleasant girl. She's Mr. Baglio's—uh, his—well, his lady.”“They
sleep together?”“Yes.”“Is she a big blonde, well built, tall?” Tucker asked,
remembering the girl who had climbed out of the demol-ished Cadillac.The cook
continued to blush and looked at the other two men as if they might tell him
he didn't have to answer that. He looked as if he had never heard much about
sex and had certainly never tried it himself. Neither Harris nor Shirillo, of
course, told him he was free not to answer. Reluctantly he said, “That's
her.”Tucker smiled. “Now, if you'd tell me the location of each of their
rooms, I'd appreciate it immensely.”Keesey said, “What are you going to do
with them?”“That's not your concern.”“It is. I might find myself without a
job.” He put one hand on his stomach, as if to illustrate the deprivations he
might have to face if he were out of his job. “Will you kill Mr.
Baglio?”Tucker said, “No. Not unless he forces us into it.”Keesey looked at
them again, one at a time, reached some sort of judgment about them, nodded
and, briefly, explained the layout of the rooms on the second floor. Deffer
and Halverson and Halverson's wife were all di-rectly overhead, while Baglio
and his woman were all alone in the largest wing of the house, on the far side
of the main staircase.“Now, what about the man who was hurt in the wreck?”
Tucker said, still smiling, not smiling inwardly, the Lüger ready for another
slash at Keesey's head. This time he would use the side of the barrel with the
sight on it and tear a little of the cook's skin.“I don't know anything about
him,” Keesey said.“Sure you do.”“No.”“You cooked for him?”Keesey shook his
head back and forth. “He's only been allowed to take liquids.”“He's
upstairs?”“No.”“You just implied he was when you mentioned his restricted
diet.”“They moved him this morning,” the cook said.“Alive?”Keesey squirmed and
looked as if he had been insulted. “Well, of course,” he said. “Alive, of
course.”“Where did they take him?”More rubbing of his head. Scratching of his
mustache. “I don't know anything about that.”“You didn't ask?”“I never ask Mr.
Baglio anything.”Tucker nodded, watched the pudgy man for a moment, sighed and
motioned to Shirillo. “Tie and gag him.”Shirillo completed the job in less
than five minutes and joined Harris and Tucker where they waited in the
cor-ridor. He said, “Do we still go upstairs?”“Why not?”“If Bachman isn't
there—”“He's there. I'm sure he is,” Tucker said. “That little sonofabitch
Keesey was lying.”Shirillo said, “You sure?”Tucker's smile was broad, visible
even in that dim light. “Don't you think Keesey's capable of trying to
mis-lead us?”“Truthfully, no.”“Why? Because he's fat and he blushes easily?”
Tucker shook his head, looked Shirillo up and down. “In that case, I'd say
you're too thin and too young to be worth a damn on a job like this. But here
you are, and you're holding up your end well enough.”“Okay,” Shirillo said.
“Then Bachman's upstairs. That's a good sign, isn't it? It must mean he hasn't
talked yet.”“Maybe.”Harris said, “Friends, we're wasting time.”“Too right,”
Tucker said. “Let's go up and say hello to Mr. Baglio.”
They climbed to the second floor by way of the back stairs and came out in
the wing where Deffer and the Halversons had their quarters. Tucker listened
to the stilled corridor, squinted at the deep shadows that lay the length of
it, then motioned for Harris and Shirillo to take the door on the left, where,
according to Keesey, the maid and the handyman would be sleeping, while he
went to the first door on the right and leaned against it, listening. He
couldn't hear even the slightest sound behind it. If Henry Deffer had been
alerted by their muffled voices in Keesey's room just below his own, he was
playing it very cool indeed. Tucker slowly twisted the knob as far around as
it would go and eased the bedroom door inward. As if that were a signal,
Harris and Shirillo went into the Halversons' room across the hall, flicked on
the light there and, briefly, backlighted Tucker until he could locate the
switch just inside the door of Deffer's room.In the sudden burst of bright
light the old man sat up as if he'd been given a jolt of electricity, slid
quickly to the edge of the bed, jammed his white feet into a tattered pair of
slippers and started to stand up.“Sit down,” Tucker said.Deffer looked like a
plucked turkey, his scrawny neck bright red, the stubble of his beard like the
pinfeathers that the plucker had missed. He scowled at Tucker and smacked his
lips as if he were considering pecking out his adversary's eyes.“Sit down and
be quiet,” Tucker said again.Deffer looked longingly at the top dresser drawer
only three steps away. He raised his arms like wings, let them drop to his
sides when he realized he couldn't fly, caught himself staring, looked away
from the dresser and back at Tucker again. “Punk,” he said. He evidently liked
the sound of it. He wrinkled up his gray face and said it again: “Punk!”
Satisfied that he hadn't been completely cowed, he sat down on the bed as
directed.Tucker went to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer, lifted out
a Marley .38 that lay on top of two piles of neatly folded underwear. It was a
beautiful gun, well cared for, and it was also fully loaded.“That's mine!” the
chauffeur snapped.Tucker turned to face him and raised the barrel of the Lüger
to his lips, like a long finger, to signal the need for silence. In a thin
whisper he said, “Be quiet, or I'll have to kill you with it.”Deffer tried not
to look upset.Tucker unloaded the Marley, admiring the craftsman-ship and
design even now when the situation would seem to rule out consideration of
anything but the job. He put the empty gun and the bullets in the unused
pocket of his windbreaker, zipped the pocket shut.“You don't got a
chance—punk,” Deffer said.Smiling falsely, Tucker stepped up to the chauffeur
and put the cold end of the silenced barrel against Deffer's forehead. He
said, “I asked you to whisper.”Deffer scowled. His teeth were in a glass of
water on the night stand, smiling at Tucker like a fragment of the Cheshire
cat. Without his dentures he looked older than before. “What do you want?” he
asked in a whisper.“Why don't you relax, just stretch out there on the bed,”
Tucker directed.“ 'Cause I don't feel like it,” the turkey said, fluffing his
wings again, smacking his lips.“That wasn't a question,” Tucker said wearily,
motion-ing with the barrel of the Lüger.Deffer stretched out on his
back.Tucker got a chair and dragged it to the bed, sat down. He felt less
nervous sitting down, because he couldn't feel the weakness in his legs that
way. He said, “I'm going to ask questions, and you're going to provide
answers. If you lie to me, I'll make sure you don't get a chance to collect
your pension from the organization.”Deffer said nothing at all. He simply
glared at Tucker with malevolent red-rimmed eyes, lying as stiff and straight
as if he were on a plank bed.Tucker said, “Where's Baglio keeping the man who
wrecked the Chevrolet Tuesday morning?”Deffer's eyes brightened. Clearly he
had not connected this affair with the events of Tuesday morning. That was all
Tucker had to see to understand why Baglio, a much younger man, was in the
driver's seat figuratively, while Deffer was there literally.The chauffeur
cleared his throat and smiled broadly. He said, “You can't get away with this.
You punks. Nice bunch of punks. There's guards all over this place.”“You're
lying,” Tucker said.“See if I am.”“I've already talked to Keesey. Two guards.
One gagged and tied downstairs, the other knocked out by a bullet
wound.”“Dead?” the turkey asked, his grin fading.“Not yet.” Tucker asked about
Bachman again.“They moved him,” Deffer said.He had lost all expression in his
wizened, gray face. He only looked old and tired now. But that wasn't genuine;
it was a poker face, and there was no way to tell what all it concealed.
Deffer might not be exceptionally bright, but he had a lot of guts for an old
man and a canniness that was not going to be easy to break down.“Killed him?”
Tucker asked.Deffer looked at the silenced Lüger with more respect than he had
shown to this point, though that might be as much pretense as was his
expression of weariness. He said, “No.”“Where'd they take him?”“Don't
know.”“Bullshit. You're the chauffeur.”“They didn't move him by
car.”“How?”“Ambulance.”“That's a lie. The last thing that Baglio wants is a
pub-lic record of that man's injuries. The police come nosing around a
hospital, our man might find it to his advantage to spill the beans about
Tuesday's caper. Baglio doesn't want anyone to know about those biweekly
shipments of cash.”“It was a private ambulance,” the turkey squawked. He
looked, just a little, as if he were beginning to be afraid, a patently
manufactured fear.“What's that got to do with anything?”“They didn't
necessarily take him to a hospital.”“Where, then?”“I don't know.”“The whole
story's a lie,” Harris said. He had entered the room without Tucker hearing
him, and he stood beside Tucker's chair, the machine gun pointed directly at
Deffer.Deffer swallowed hard. Maybe he really did respect something as heavy
as the Thompson. It was impossible to be certain.“You questioned the
Halversons?” Tucker asked.“Not yet.” Harris jabbed the gun toward Deffer.
“But, friend, this old crock would lie to God and the angels. A whole life
working for the organization, for Baglio? He'd have long ago forgot what truth
is.”“I think you're right,” Tucker said. “Our man's still in the house—or
dead.”“I want to talk to you about that possibility,” Harris said. He was
still red-faced, still sweating.“In a minute,” Tucker said. “First, I have to
make Grandpa secure.”“Takes much less than a minute,” Harris said. He stepped
forward, shifting his grip on the Thompson, and slammed the heavy metal hip
rest of the gun into the underside of Deffer's chin. The old man gagged,
flopped once and lay still. A light foam of blood frosted his wrin-kled lips,
and a spreading bruise the color of grape juice seeped out from his chin, sent
stains down his thin neck.“That wasn't necessary,” Tucker said.“He didn't have
any teeth to lose, friend,” Harris said. He was using the “friend” much too
often, further on the edge than he had ever been before.“I was going to tie
and gag him.”Harris looked at the old man, prodded him with the barrel of the
machine gun and said, “He's only uncon-scious. He'll stay completely out of
the way and this saved us time.”Tucker got out of his chair and felt the
quivering weakness behind his knees again. “You said you wanted to talk.”“I
do,” Harris said. He crossed to the window, looked out, turned, sidestepped
and leaned against the wall. Still in a whisper, he said, “What if Bachman
talked? What if they killed him?”“Then we get out of here and go to ground for
a while, until they've given up on us.”Harris shook his head violently. “No. I
can't afford that. I've got nothing to show for this job, and I needed the
cash. I have another idea altogether.”Tucker knew what it was, but he asked
anyway.“If they got it out of Bachman, got anything at all out of him, we'll
have to kill Baglio, maybe Deffer—maybe the guard downstairs.”“What about the
girl, Miss Loraine?”Harris looked genuinely perplexed. “What about
her?”“Baglio's sleeping with her,” Tucker explained pa-tiently. “He's a
fifty-year-old man, and she isn't half that. She's one hell of a looker, the
kind of chick who sometimes engenders gratitude in a man that old. It's
possible that he could think of her as more than just another lay—that he
might be telling her more about his affairs than he should. Other men have
been known to make fools of themselves in the same manner.”Harris thought
about it a moment, his deep-set eyes sinking even deeper. He said, “I don't
like it—but we kill her too if we have to.”“The Halversons?”“They wouldn't
know anything,” Harris said confi-dently. “A man like Baglio wouldn't be
blabbing his busi-ness to the maid and butler.”“Handyman.”“Whatever.”Tucker
shook his head sadly and went to the bed, took Deffer's pulse and checked his
breathing. He began to tear the pillowcase apart to make strips of binding. He
said, “Pete, you're in a bad way. I recommend retirement as soon as
possible.”“You do, huh?”Tucker nodded, not bothering to look at him, hoping to
avoid a show of temper that way. He began to tie Deffer's ankles together. “If
you kill Baglio and the others, this becomes a police affair. This greasepaint
doesn't make us invisible. It would have been enough to thwart any search that
Baglio might be able to mount; but the police, when they get the descriptions
from the Halversons and from Keesey, are going to be able to match those to
your photograph where it appears in about a million' mug books. That's a small
chance of discovery, admittedly, but large enough to worry about. You want to
kill everyone in the house, then, even the maid and the handyman?”Harris
softly cleared his throat and stood away from the wall, though he couldn't
think of anything to say. He had made a fool of himself in front of Tucker. He
couldn't afford that.Tucker flopped Deffer onto his stomach, got his hands
behind him and tied them in place, rolled him onto his back again. Even if the
old man's throat permitted him to speak in more than a whisper when he
regained conscious-ness, there did not seem to be any need to gag him. By the
time he came to, everyone in the house would already know the place had been
breached.“Still . . .” Harris said at last, trying to break the silence.“Even
if you kill everyone in the house,” Tucker inter-rupted, “how do you know
Baglio hasn't communicated what Bachman told him to others, maybe to that
dandified accountant, Chaka? If he did, all your killing's for nothing.”“A
flaw in your reasoning,” Harris said. “This is al-ready a police affair. The
guard you shot makes it that.”“Bullshit, and you know it,” Tucker said.
“Baglio will get his own doctor to fix his boy up.”Harris knew that, but he
still wouldn't let go of it. “I can't afford to go to ground for a year,
dammit.”Because he had to get Harris off the subject, Tucker said, “Maybe by
the time we leave here you'll have a bank-roll to last you for a year or even
longer.”“How?”“Wait,” Tucker said, because he had no real answer.They left
Deffer's room, turning off the lights and clos-ing the door behind them.Jimmy
Shirillo was waiting with the Halversons. He was standing just inside their
door, while they were sitting up against the brass headboard of their bed,
bound and gagged, their hands tied to the brass bars behind them. She was thin
and somewhat pretty, though with the sagging look about the eyes that
indicated a woman wearied and almost beaten by life. Her husband, a tall,
thin, sallow-faced man with bushy eyebrows and ears that looked as if they had
been grafted from a hound, had been weathered even worse by the years, servile
and eager to please. And terrified.“Questions?” Shirillo asked.Tucker looked
at the Halversons again and saw exactly what Keesey had meant. “No questions.
If they even know what Baglio is, I'd be amazed. I have a feeling our man
could have been kept in this house for the last month without these two ever
being aware of it,”Shirillo nodded. “They were so obliging, I thought they
were going to tie each other up.”“Let's check out the rest of the rooms on
this side,” Tucker said. “Just to be safe.”In the last two rooms in that
smaller of the mansion's two wings, they found proof that both Keesey and
Deffer had lied to them: two used bedrooms with full closets. A cursory
examination of each was enough to convince Tucker that two more gunmen were up
and about and currently unaccounted for.“I wouldn't have guessed the cook
would lie to us,” Harris said. He had pocketed his Lüger and was using his
free hand to caress the sleek lines of the machine gun.“He did, though,”
Tucker said. “And when Deffer mentioned more than two guards, I thought he was
lying.”“But where are they?” Harris asked. Anxiously he turned to face the
unlighted stairwell, the long arm of the corridor, then the short one.Shirillo
said, “They have to be outside yet.” He wasn't ruffled at all. He had
surprised himself, and Tucker, with the degree of his adaptability. If Harris
became unreliable, Tucker would still be able to count on Shirillo.“They must
have seen us,” Harris insisted. His voice was coarse, unsteady. “The way we've
been turning the lights off and on in this place, anyone outside would—”“We
haven't, really,” Shirillo said. “We've mostly used the flashlight, and the
draperies would block that much from a man outside. The only places we used
ceiling lights were the art room, storage room and the Halversons' bed-room.
The first two don't have any windows, and the third alone wouldn't necessarily
arouse suspicion. I think the guards must be behind the house; that's why I'm
eliminat-ing what lights we turned on in the front rooms.”Good. Clean,
reasoned thought. Tucker knew, if they got out of here, he'd use Shirillo
again, on another job. To Harris, whom he knew he would never use again, he
said, “I agree with Jimmy.”“Well, friends, even if this is true, it doesn't
change anything. Even if those two loose guards don't know we're in the house,
they're still down there, below us. Any time now they might go off duty or
step inside for a cup of coffee, and when they do it's over.” The last couple
of words came out of his throat like juice squeezed through a fine-web
strainer.“On the other hand,” Tucker said, “we might get finished before they
know anything at all.”“Unlikely,” Harris said. He revised that opinion:
“Im-possible.”Tucker said, “Just the same, our best chance is to be quick, to
get this done and call in the copter. Let's go see Mr. Baglio.”They turned off
the lights in the Halversons' room and closed the door, went quickly to the
main stairs, where Tucker stopped and turned to Harris. “Stay here with the
Thompson. You're in a good position to guard the stairs— even the back stairs
if anyone enters the corridor from those.”“Give me a walkie-talkie?”“You won't
need one,” Tucker said. “Not if there's trouble. We'll hear the Thompson
chatter no matter where we are.”“Okay,” Harris said.He stepped back into the
shadows. For such a big man he was able to conceal himself well, was all but
invisible.Quickly, then, Tucker and Shirillo split up and ex-plored all of the
remaining rooms except the one in which —according to Keesey—Baglio and Miss
Loraine were sleeping. Finding nothing worthwhile in any of those
rooms—certainly not a sign of Merle Bachman—they met before the last door,
tried the knob, twisted it, pushed the door inward and flicked on the beam of
the flashlight.
For a long moment Tucker thought that the bedroom was uninhabited and that
Keesey had been lying to them again, for everything there remained in
sepulchral silence. Then the mound of jumbled bedclothes, cut across with an
intri-cate lacework of shadows, convulsed and was flung out-ward from the huge
bed as the woman reacted to the light, rolled, bounced onto her feet, her face
taut, not unlike a groggy fighter coming out of a delirium with the sudden
realization that he's on the verge of unconsciousness and may lose the
match.“What the hell's this?” she asked.She was wearing a floor-length flannel
nightgown, rumpled and worn and obviously comfortable. It was a sign that her
relationship with Baglio was more than a temporary one. If she'd merely been a
bed partner, she'd have slept nude or in a frilly bikini outfit calculated to
make a man like Baglio keep her around awhile longer. The flannel nightgown
was a symbol of her independence and her security within the Baglio household.
She didn't need to advertise her sexuality. She was confident that Baglio was
always aware of it and that something more than that was what made her
interesting to him.Her hands were out at her sides, as if she were trying to
gauge her position and the chance she had of running past them.“No chance at
all,” Tucker said.Shirillo said, “Watch Baglio!”The strongman had gotten out
of bed on the far side and was reaching into the top drawer of the night
stand. As he came up with a small, heavy pistol, Tucker placed a shot in the
general direction of his hand. He didn't care if he ruined Baglio's golf grip
for life; but as it happened, he didn't hit flesh. The silenced shot snapped
off the pistol case. Baglio cried out and dropped the gun.The woman was still
unconvinced and took a couple of steps toward the door. When Tucker put two
more bullets in the floor a foot in front of her, she stopped cold, having
more fully assessed the situation, and she satisfied herself with glaring at
him.Even in the yellow flannel she was a spectacularly lovely woman, and she
reminded him of Elise Ramsey. The resemblance wasn't really one of looks or
measurements; but Miss Loraine had Elise's way of standing, her attitude of
self-control, an air of confidence and competence that was undeniably
attractive. It was this about her which had temporarily mesmerized him so that
he hadn't noticed Baglio going for the gun.On the other side of the bed,
Baglio, dressed in only a pair of blue shorts, was rubbing his numbed hand. He
said, “You could have hit me, you idiot.” He sounded like a schoolteacher
reprimanding a thoughtless and irresponsi-ble child.“No chance,” Tucker said.
“I'm an excellent shot.” He did not know if Baglio would believe that anyone
could have planned to hit the gun in that dark room, with that much space
between them, with a silenced pistol, but he didn't think it would hurt to
puff himself. “Don't get the idea I'm shy about putting one through your hand
if you reach for anything else.”“I don't know what you're after,” Baglio said,
unaf-fected by Tucker's bravura. “But you've made a mistake breaking into my
house. Have you any idea who I am?” A real schoolteacher.“The famous Rossario
Baglio,” Tucker said. “Now, come along with us.”Baglio was responding to the
situation with admirable aplomb, not at all frightened by the hooded,
greasepainted specters carrying silenced pistols and not the least humili-ated
at being caught in his shorts. He'd already figured out who they were, in a
general sense, and knew the threat they posed wasn't mortal. And he had less
to be ashamed of about his body than most men fifteen years his junior: from
his wide shoulders to his loose-skinned but relatively flat stomach he was in
good shape; evidently he made use of the swimming pool, sauna and gymnasium in
the basement. Too, the Loraine woman would give him a strong motivation for
staying fit. It was also the woman, Tucker decided, who helped Baglio meet the
situation with so much cool: a man hated to be made a fool of in front of a
woman he'd been bedding.Baglio said, “Come along with you—where?”“Across the
hall.”“As soon as I dress,” Baglio said, starting for the closet. He carried
himself well, his back straight, head high. If he had had time to drag a comb
through his silvery hair, he would almost have been presentable enough for a
stint on nationwide television—perhaps as a Presidential candi-date.“No time
for that,” Tucker said.In the study across the hall, Shirillo pulled out two
sturdy straight-backed chairs and placed them side by side in the middle of
the room, indicated them with the barrel of his Lüger and stood out of the way
as the couple sat down.“You still haven't explained yourselves,” Baglio said.
He continued to be the schoolteacher: lips tight, eyes grim, nostrils flared a
bit in indignation. He was going to give them detention minutes if they didn't
shape up damn soon.“We're looking for a friend,” Tucker said.“I don't
understand.”Miss Loraine laughed slightly, though Tucker couldn't tell whether
the laugh was directed at him or Baglio. Or at herself.“He was in the car
Tuesday morning,” Tucker said. “The driver.”Miss Loraine looked up and smiled,
not nastily, not as a friend either but as if in remembered pleasure of that
collision, as if the excitement still lingered and still touched all the right
pleasure centers in the brain.“I'm sorry you came this far for so little,”
Baglio said.“Oh?”“Yes. The driver's dead.”Tucker smiled. “Of old age?”Baglio
said, “He was banged up pretty badly.” His voice had a note, almost, of
indifference. “He died yester-day.”“The body?”“Buried.”“Where?”“I've a whole
graveyard here,” Baglio said. His diction was excellent. Either he had gone to
the best schools as a boy or he had hired private tutors in his middle age.
The last was far more likely than the first. He seemed to take pride in his
word choices, his conscious wit, his clear pronunciation, much in the same way
a college boy might. “The pine trees are the markers, suitably engraved.” He
looked at the woman and grinned winningly, elicited a chuckle from her.Though
he forced himself to react emotionally, Tuck-er's next move was guided solely
by intellect. It was clear that neither Baglio nor the woman expected any harm
to come to them and that neither of them would make a good subject for
interrogation so long as he was com-forted by this assumption. Grunting, then,
Tucker leaned in and raked the barrel of the Lüger across Baglio's face, using
the sight point, gouging him from temple to chin. Blood popped up in a bright
line.“It's time to stop playing games to impress the lady,” Tucker said. “It's
time to come to grips with your decidedly disadvantageous position.” He
wondered if Baglio under-stood, by his choice of words and tone, that Tucker
was mimicking him.Baglio touched his bleeding face, stared at his car-mined
fingers in disbelief. A long minute later he looked at Tucker, the humor in
his face metamorphosed into hatred. “You've just bought yourself one of those
pine-marked graves,” he said. His voice had not deteriorated. School-master
meting out punishment to the bad boy.Distasteful as he found this, Tucker
swung the Lüger again and scored a red ribbon on Baglio's undamaged cheek.The
strongman started out of his chair, head lowered like a bull ready to ram,
yelped and crumpled backward as Shirillo delivered another brutal blow from
behind with his own pistol on Baglio's right shoulder. He clutched at the
bruised and spasming muscles, hunched forward as if he might be sick.
Gradually he'd begun to look his age.The girl looked older too.She licked her
lips and shifted her gaze around the room as if she thought she'd see
something that would unexpectedly turn the tables. That fantasy lasted a brief
moment, because she realized, as she must have done often before, that her
best weapon was herself—her body and her wits. She looked up, aware of
Tucker's eyes on her, and without being obvious about it she shifted inside
her tentish yellow gown to mold it at strategic points to her. An offering.
But poisoned.He smiled at her, for he had the vague idea that he might need
her cooperation later, then turned back to Baglio. “We were talking about a
friend of mine.”“Go to hell,” Baglio said.Shirillo, unbidden, stepped forward
and, judging the position of Baglio's kidneys through the slatted back of the
chair, jammed the barrel of his Lüger hard into the man's left side.
Ordinarily this sort of tactic was beyond him. Now, he kept thinking of his
father. And his brother. The shoe shop. His brother's limp.Baglio grunted,
sucked breath, reared up, then crum-pled under Shirillo's second, swift chop
to his shoulder. He fell off the chair, to the floor.“My friend?” Tucker
asked.Baglio got his hands under himself and, feigning more weakness than he
felt, started up, shifted toward Tucker's feet. That was a stupid move for a
man in his situation, the first indication that he'd been frightened and that
he was acting on a gut level. Tucker back-stepped and kicked him alongside the
head. When he went down this time he stayed down, unconscious.“Get a glass of
water,” Tucker told Shirillo.The kid went after it.Miss Loraine smiled at
Tucker.He smiled back.Neither spoke.Shirillo returned with the water, but
before he could throw it in Baglio's face Tucker said, “No vendetta, kid. We
can't afford it.” He had remembered Shirillo's mono-logue when they'd first
met several weeks ago, remembered the worn-out father and the brother who'd
been badly beaten.“I'm finished,” Shirillo said. “I thought at first I wanted
to kill him. But I've decided I don't want to pay him back in his own coin; I
don't want to be like he is.”“Good,” Tucker said. “Think he'll recognize
you?”“No. He saw me once for five minutes, a year and a half ago.”“Wake him,
then.”Shirillo tossed the water into the bruised and bloody face, went around
behind the two chairs again.Baglio blinked, looked up.“We were talking about
my friend,” Tucker said.Baglio's lips were swollen, but that could not account
for the change in his voice. Behind the slurred words there was a different
tone, no more haughtiness, the tone of a man suddenly brought down from a high
place and made to see his own mortality. “I told you, he's dead.”“Why does
your cook tell a different story?”“I wouldn't know.”“And Deffer?”Baglio looked
up. The hate was still in his eyes, though it had been veiled now, as if he
knew it would be dangerous to show any sort of resolve. “What did they
say?”“An ambulance came and took him away.”“It did. To a grave in the
woods.”“Bullshit.”“Again on the shoulder?” Shirillo asked from behind Baglio.
“Or another kidney punch?”“Wait,” Tucker said, smiling. He apologized
pleas-antly to Baglio for his partner's overeager attitude. He said, “I'm sure
our friend's in this house. Otherwise every-one's story would match.
Otherwise—a lot of things. Now, where is he?”“No,” Baglio said.Tucker nodded,
looked at Shirillo. “Tie him to the chair, then go keep our friend company at
the stairwell. You could cover the back stairs while he watches the main
ones.”“Expecting trouble?” Shirillo asked.“It's going to take longer than I
thought,” Tucker said. “And Mr. Baglio may be screaming loud enough to attract
his boys outside before I'm done with him.”Shirillo nodded, used a letter
opener to cut down the cords of the draw drapes and expertly lashed Baglio to
the straight-backed chair. The older man offered no resistance.“What about
her?” Shirillo asked.“I can handle her.”“Sure?”“Positive.”Shirillo left to
join Harris at the stairs.Tucker looked at his watch: 5:10 in the morning.
Shortly the dawn would come. Would the two men sta-tioned outside the house
leave their posts when the sun had fully risen?Tucker shook off the thought
and directed the woman to move her chair away from Baglio, which she did,
putting it down so that it faced him from the side. When she was seated again,
like a spectator at a sporting event, Tucker stood behind her, watching
Baglio, tracing his fingertips along her warm neck.Baglio laughed out loud,
even though that must have hurt his face.“Something funny?” Tucker asked. He
let his hand become more sure, lying full against her throat, feeling her
pulse. He hated himself for trying to get to Baglio through whatever
relationship he enjoyed with the woman. He kept thinking how it would be if
things were reversed, if he were in the chair and Baglio were caressing
Elise.“That won't work,” Baglio said.Tucker moved his hand, traced the edge of
her jaw-line, tenderly tilted her head up. She responded to his touch, or he
imagined that she did.Baglio said, “I've always got a different woman around.
Women are nothing to me, nothing at all. I've got nothing special with her. I
wasn't the first with her, and I know I'm hot going to be the last, so go
ahead, be my guest.” All that talking made a tiny stream of thick blood run
from the corner of his mouth, down his blackening chin. He made no attempt to
lick it away, perhaps because his tongue was cut and swollen—or perhaps
because he didn't notice it, his entire attention riveted on Tucker's
proprietary hand.“I think you're lying,” Tucker said.“Think what you want.”“It
would get to a man like you if a stranger walked into his house and made him
watch, powerless, while—”“Powerless” was the word that did it. Baglio flared
up again, inwardly, hatred rising in his eyes and burning brightly a moment
before he veiled it again. “See if I care.”Tucker turned her face toward him,
tilted it higher, looked into her green-blue eyes. “If I were to pistol-whip
her?” he asked Baglio. “Put a couple of scars on her face —say, from the
hairline straight down to the chin—break a few of those perfect teeth?” If
Elise could hear him now, what would she say? It wouldn't be good.But Baglio
laughed again, more genuinely this time, or with his act more under
control.The girl stiffened, looked worriedly up at Tucker, shifted her eyes
sideways, straining to see Baglio. She hadn't expected this. And in her eyes
was a hatred more intense than Baglio's, not for Tucker but for her lover. Her
former lover. She'd been made aware, in one brutal instant, that though there
might be more between them than just sex, the old man found her expendable.
Watch-ing her now, as her face set into grim lines, Tucker knew she would
perform a vendetta far better than any Sicilian ever could.Now that her
circumstances were clear, she adjusted quickly, recovered her composure; and
decided what she must do. Earlier, Tucker had imagined that she reacted
favorably to his caress, but now the reaction was real and not imagined at
all. His hand slid down her throat until it lay just above her heavy breasts;
and she sat up straighter, leaning into his hand, trying to accommodate him,
tempt-ing.Baglio noticed.She smiled at Tucker, turned to Baglio and smiled at
him too, though differently.Something was building here, maybe something quite
useful, though Tucker didn't see how it could help him just yet.His watch read
5:20. Time was passing too swiftly.What next? How could Baglio be broken? Or
how could the woman be persuaded to tell him what he wanted to know? She was
on the verge of that, he knew, and she needed only the slightest push to ...
His concentration was broken by the bark of an unsilenced revolver shot
echoing in the confines of the second-floor corridor. That single explosion
was answered by the furious chatter of Pete Harris's Thompson submachine gun.
A man screamed, but not for long, his voice fading out into an unintelligible
gasp of meaningless words, and that into silence. Pete Harris mouthed a string
of obscenities; they were all blown.
Down at the far end of the corridor, by the rear stairs, Jimmy Shirillo
located a panel of switches and flooded the second-floor hallway with
startlingly white light. That didn't matter any longer, because there was no
hope of keeping their presence a secret from the men who were standing guard
outside the house. Harris's burst of mar chine-gun fire had tossed the cards
into the air, and the only way to be sure the cards landed in the right suits
was to move fast and cover all the contingencies.Tucker pushed the woman ahead
of him, not rudely but firmly, as he hurried toward the main stairwell. He
didn't bother to keep the pistol trained on her. Alone, she had nothing to
gain by a grandstand play for escape, and she knew it.Pete Harris sat against
the wall, just this side of the entrance to the stairs, the Thompson lying on
the carpet beside him. He was trying to work the trouser leg up over his right
knee without touching the wound he'd suffered. His greasepainted face
glistened with sweat that had popped through the black cover and had streaked
it.Shirillo waited at the back stairs, on guard for attack from that
direction.“You okay?” Tucker shouted.“Yeah!” Shirillo called back.Halfway
between Shirillo and Harris, against the rear wall, lay a dead man. He was
stretched out on his back, one leg twisted up under his buttocks, his arms
thrown above his head, nearly cut in half by the burst of machine-gun fire. A
lot of blood decorated the walls and spread darkly over the expensive
carpet.“How is it?” Tucker asked Harris.Harris looked up as he finally rolled
the trouser leg above his knee. “He got me in the calf. It hurts like hell,
but I don't think it's really too bad.”Tucker bent and looked at the wound,
squeezed it to force blood out of it, peered intently into the jagged slash
before it could fill with new blood. “It seems to be just a graze,” he said.
“Just a crease. You'll live, I believe.”“Thanks, friend,” Harris said.
“Christ, the shit has hit the fan, has it not?” He didn't seem to notice Miss
Loraine.“We've still got the advantage,” Tucker said.Too much white showed
around the irises of Harris's eyes, giving him an expression of shocked
horror, no mat-ter what his lips were doing. “Sure, friend,” he said, none too
enthusiastically.“Where'd he come from?”Harris looked at the dead man, cleared
his throat, spat on the rug. “I can't figure that one.”“Up the steps?”“No,”
Harris said. “And he couldn't have come up the back way without knocking Jimmy
down to get a shot at me. My friend, he simply popped up like a ghost be-tween
the two of us. I was hit before I saw him. When I caught his outline, I didn't
waste time.” He was upset. He had mentioned Shirillo's first name in front of
the girl— as he had mentioned it in front of Keesey, the cook—and he looked on
the edge of hysteria. He patted the Thompson, though, and forced a weak
grin.“You think he was already upstairs?” Tucker asked.“I know it.”“Where was
he hiding?”“In one of those rooms.”“Couldn't have been. We searched them
all.”“Not well enough, friend.”Was that possible? They'd looked in closets,
under beds, been most professional about it. No. They hadn't overlooked
anything. Tucker stood up and looked at Miss Loraine. “Where would he have
been?”“Who?”“Don't be funny. The dead man.”“I wouldn't know.”He moved quickly,
grabbed her arm, twisted it, levered it up behind her back, forcing her to
bend and grunt in pain. “Remember what I told Baglio about your face?”“You
wouldn't do that to me.”She was right, but he couldn't afford to strengthen
her certainty, so he pushed harder on her arm.“I don't know where the hell he
was!” she snapped, jerking straight up and breaking his hold. He hadn't
applied full pressure, not what he would have used against a man. The ease
with which she'd pulled away from him was a warning not to misjudge her
again.“Keep her covered,” Tucker told Harris. “You feel up to it?”“Sure,
friend,” he said, lifting the machine gun.Tucker went to talk with Shirillo
and found that the kid didn't know where the gunman had come from. “I didn't
know he was here until he shot Pete. Then I fell flat and stayed flat to keep
out of the way of ricochets from the Thompson.”Tucker looked at his watch. He
examined the corridor again, stared at the corpse, tried to imagine where he'd
come from. He said, “Did you look in the closets in the Halversons' room?”“You
know I did.”“What about those rooms you checked out on your own, down there in
the other wing?”“Give me some credit.”“Dammit, he came from
somewhere.'”Shirillo grimaced and said, “He came from the same place they're
holding Bachman.”Tucker wiped at his face as if there were cobwebs over it.
The greasepaint made his skin feel sticky. His vision was blurry, his mouth
hot and dry. He said, “How do you get that notion?”“It's logical.”“The attic?”
Tucker said.“We can go look. But I doubt that's it, because I seem to be
standing under the attic door.” He pointed to a trap in the ceiling directly
overhead, reached up and gripped the chromed handle, pulled down a set of
folding metal steps that led up into darkness.Tucker went up and came back in
less than five min-utes. “Empty,” he told Shirillo. “And this is the only door
in or out.” He left the stairs unfolded because, according to the plan, they'd
need to use them later.“Now?” Shirillo asked. He was in complete control of
himself, holding it all together.Tucker took a roll of lime-flavored Life
Savers from the pocket of his windbreaker, offered one to Shirillo, popped one
into his own mouth when the kid declined, sucked on the candy. He said, “How
do you go about finding a hidden room?”Shirillo blinked, wiped a hand over his
hooded head as if he wanted to run fingers through his hair, said, “Isn't that
a bit much?”“You're the one who sold me on the idea that the Mafia is
melodramatic, remember?”“But a hidden room?”“Bachman's in this house
somewhere. I know it. But we've looked in every room and closet from the
basement to the attic.” He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets and
worked at the ring of sweetness in his mouth. “A man like Baglio might find a
hidden room very useful. For one thing, he could store the money there every
other Monday night—and anything else he might think is too hot to leave out in
the open or put into a safe-deposit vault that federal agents could get a
court order to open.” He cracked the Life Saver in two.Shirillo said, “But a
safe would do it. A hidden room is a grandiose way of—”“A safe wouldn't do,
say, for a large drug shipment. And if cops showed up at the door with a
warrant, they'd be empowered to open a safe, whereas they'd bypass a hidden
room altogether.”“Maybe.”“So how would you go about looking for a hidden
room?”Shirillo considered it awhile and finally said, “I guess you'd have to
compare partitions from the corridor and from inside the rooms, try to find a
discrepancy some-where.”Tucker nodded, looked at his watch.5:36.“I better get
moving then,” he said.Shirillo nodded.“Our missing guard is either in the
hidden room, some-where between you and Pete, or he was outside the house when
he heard the shots.”“If he was outside,” Shirillo said, “we would have heard
from him by this time.”“Unless he decided not to come in here after us.”“Why
wouldn't he?”“Maybe he knows he's outnumbered.”“He couldn't know.”Tucker
finished the candy. An unpleasant possibility had occurred to him, and he
didn't want to have to talk about it, though he knew that Shirillo had a right
to hear what he was thinking. Of course Harris had the same right, though he'd
never tell Harris. The kid, he felt sure, would be able to think about it
without panicking. Harris might break. “Maybe he was outside, heard the shots,
knew he wouldn't do any good rushing in here alone. Maybe he opened the garage
door, got out the limousine, managed to drift it down the drive and out of
earshot, started it and went after help.”“Christ.” For the first time during
those long evening hours Shirillo looked scared.“Don't worry about it,” Tucker
said. “It's just a thing I thought we should keep in mind.”“Sure.”“We'll be a
long time gone before he beats it back here with the reinforcements.” He
smiled and slapped Shirillo's shoulder, feeling like an older brother. “If he
went away after anyone.”“He did.”“We can't be sure.”“Yes, we can. It's the
worst thing that could happen— and that's been par for this whole operation.”
Despite his sincere pessimism, the kid wasn't ready to run for it.Tucker knew
what Shirillo said was true, and he felt the hard, emotional intolerance of
failure that had driven him this far. He thought of his old man, of Mr. Mellio
at the bank, of the trust monies held up in the long court battles, and he
knew he wouldn't louse this up. He couldn't fail like that.“Anyway,” he said,
“who's going to shoot at a state-police helicopter?”“If they fall for it,”
Shirillo qualified.“They did before.”“That's why they might not fall for it a
second time. Familiarity breeds suspicion.”“Contempt, I believe it is.”“Not
with these guys.”“The old Iron Hand, huh?”Shirillo smiled.Shirillo was
correct, of course, no matter how much Tucker might attempt to minimize their
problems. Still, Tucker couldn't see any good in standing together,
depress-ing each other with speculations on the nature of their imminent
demise. Soon they'd be in as bad a way as Pete Harris, jumping at the
slightest noise, overreacting to every imagined movement in the shadows.“Got
to go,” Tucker said.He turned away from the kid and began to check the
partitions between the rooms, searching for any obvious disparity.The time was
5:41 in the morning, well after dawn of a new day.
Five minutes later Tucker knew where the hidden room lay and where, by
extension, Merle Bachman was being kept. He entered the back room in the short
wing where a guard—either the dead man, the wounded man or the missing
gunman—slept, and he removed the clothes from the closet. He wasn't worried
about wrinkling what he tossed out of the way, and he'd begun to examine the
closet walls with the beam of his flashlight when he heard the Thompson start
to chatter again in the corridor.He went to see what was wrong, went to
Harris, who stood at the head of the stairs with the big weapon aimed down at
the landing wall.“Tried to come up,” Harris said. His wounded leg didn't seem
to be bothering him as much as before That could be good or bad; it might mean
the wound was as shallow as it looked and had stopped bleeding, or it might
mean that Harris was too afraid to register pain. “It was the same bastard we
tied up downstairs. I thought I put him out for a good long while.”“Get
him?”“No.”At least the missing guard hadn't high-tailed it off the estate, as
he'd feared. Instead, the man had come inside and revived his workmate and was
probably now trying to figure a way to get upstairs.Down at the end of the
hall Shirillo shouted something unintelligible. When Tucker turned he saw the
kid shoot-ing into the narrow confines of the rear stairs' shaft, though his
silenced Lüger made very little sound.“Any luck?”“No!” Shirillo called.“There
are only two of them,” Tucker said. “They can keep harassing us, but they
can't very well rush us.”“There's the cook,” Harris said.“Keesey may lie, but
he doesn't fight,” Tucker said. “Besides, one more man isn't enough to put us
on the de-fensive. We could stand off a dozen from here.”Harris stepped away
from the head of the stairs so he could not see or be seen by anyone coming
up. He re-mained facing the steps, though, with the machine gun at his hip,
but his attention was on Tucker. His face was a mess of sweat, greasepaint,
deeply carved lines of fatigue, and when he spoke he didn't have to whisper:
his voice was hoarse with fear. “Let's get the hell out of here. Bach-man
isn't here. There's nothing here we want.”“Bachman's here,” Tucker corrected
him.“Yeah?”“Definitely.”“I don't see him,” Harris said, grinning. The grin was
malicious, and it threatened a further breakdown, one that would permit him to
disregard Tucker's orders and call his own shots.Harris was no longer
trustworthy. Tucker did not let him see that he'd reached that conclusion, and
he said, “Bachman's in a concealed room.” He took two large steps to the back
wall and rapped on the plaster with his knuckles. “Doesn't it seem odd there's
all this wall space and no rooms behind it?”Harris blinked at the long expanse
of unmarred plas-ter, looked right and left at the nearest doors. “I thought
those two rooms accounted for it.”“You've been in the one in the short wing.
The one adjacent to this empty space in the long wing is about the same size.
There's something in between them.”Harris squinted, thought about it. He would
have pre-ferred to get out of there; he didn't want to have to think about
anything besides running, hiding, staying alive. However, he said, “Okay. How
do we get him?”“I think it's through a closet in one of the two adjacent
rooms, but I haven't found the door yet.”“Make it fast,” Harris said.He turned
back to the stairwell, waiting for something to happen, for something to shoot
at.“Hold the fort,” Tucker said, turning back toward the room from which the
stuttering Thompson had called him.The walls of the closet were featureless
plaster, too smooth to contain a secret doorway. He got down on his hands and
knees and gave the quarter round a careful inspection to see if any of it was
loose or movable. None of it was. Satisfied that the entrance was in the other
room in the long wing, he went to raid a second closet.Passing Harris and the
woman, he said, “We'll have him out in a couple of minutes.”“Wait,” Miss
Loraine said.He almost didn't hear her. When she called again he turned and
said, “Yeah?”“I want to talk to you.”“No time,” Tucker said.“I want to make a
deal.” She spoke softly, but her voice carried well. “I can help you.”“Too
late for that.”“No, it isn't.”“Sorry.”“I could save you half an hour finding
Bachman.”He said. “I doubt that. The entrance to that hidden space has to be
in the closet in that room. I'll have it worked out in . . .” He suddenly
realized that she'd used Bachman's name, that both he and Harris had given it
to her. What the hell. Was he losing his edge? He said, “Christ!”She walked
toward him and held out her hand as if to take his. “You can buy Bachman, and
my silence, if you want to.”“It'd be easier for Bachman to change his name,”
he said.“Untrue. Besides, Ross would find him sometime.”That was right enough.
But he said, “Buy your silence? With what?”“Money.”“We haven't any.” He
sounded angry and bitter, but he couldn't help it. He'd had to keep up his
renowned facade too long already.“You will if you deal with me,” the girl
said. She dropped the offered hand, waiting. She looked even more like Elise
now, a secret smile of self-satisfaction tinting her lovely face.Tucker said,
“What's the deal?”She pursed her lips, licked them. She said, “Okay, you're
going to find this Bachman on your own, I see that. You're going to make a
fool out of Ross like no one's ever done before. He won't want me around once
I've seen him humiliated, so I haven't any reason to stick around here. The
deal is—I get twenty percent of whatever's in those three suitcases, plus a
free ride out of here.”Tucker blinked, felt his legs grow momentarily weaker,
then smiled. “I'll be damned,” he said. “The Tuesday shipment?”“That's
it.”“The cash?”“Yes.”“I didn't think it'd be here yet.”“It wasn't sent out a
second time, for reasons I'll ex-plain if you'll deal.”He shook his head
ruefully. “Now that I know it's here, why do I need to deal at all?”“Because
you could waste hours hunting for it. There are a thousand places in a house
this size that three suit-cases could be hidden. And from the way you've been
act-ing, you can't spend much more time in here—you've got someone coming to
pick you up.”He admired her despite the fact that she'd started out on the
other side of the fence. When she saw that the cir-cumstances had gotten
beyond her control, she maneu-vered to increase the range of her power. He
could see why Baglio had respected her. The old man's only mistake was in not
respecting her even more than he had. He was also pleased with her demands.
They were eminently reason-able if she could supply what she boasted.“Okay,”
he said.“Deal?”“Deal.”She frowned and said, “It's not as easy as that, though.
We'll have to talk some more.”“Talk,” he said. He reached into his pocket and
took out the roll of Life Savers, popped one into his mouth.“Not
here.”“Where?”“In the room you're on your way to.”Tucker looked at his watch:
6:06. He didn't feel much like finishing the operation in broad daylight,
though it ap-peared as if they were going to have to do just that. He said,
“We can't take long bargaining. It's getting damn late.”“I'll need two
minutes,” she said.“Come on, then.”She stepped over the corpse on the corridor
floor, her pretty bare toes squishing in the damp carpet, went with Tucker to
the guard's bedroom. Behind them, Harris fared another burst down the main
stairwell.
In the bedroom she sat down on the corner of the mattress and tucked her long
legs under her, now very demure and innocent in the flannel gown. She said,
“How do you expect to get out of here?”He hesitated, then said, “A
helicopter.”She made a face. “I'm serious.”“So am I.”She said, “I don't want
to make a deal if you're really a bunch of clowns who didn't think this thing
through.”He explained, in detail but as rapidly as possible, about Norton and
the helicopter with the state-police markings.“I'm impressed,” she said.“Now,”
he said, “impress me. Do you know what hap-pens to people who upset Ross
Baglio?”“I know.”“But you're willing to risk it?”“A girl has to provide for
herself,” she said. She sounded like an earnest, homely high-school freshman
deciding to take the sensible secretarial program to prepare to meet the bills
four years hence. She was delightful.“Baglio knows your name. It'll be easy to
track you down.”“A name can be changed,” She was implying that Loraine wasn't
her real name anyway.“You can't change the way you look. Every man who sees
you is going to remember you.”“You're exaggerating my appeal,” she said.
“Besides, I know something about makeup and disguise.” She got off the bed and
said, “Are you trying to talk me out of helping you?”“No,” he said. “I just
want to understand exactly why you're doing this so I have a better idea of
what's going to happen later. For instance, I wouldn't want you to go through
with this with the idea of bringing your twenty percent back to Baglio and
telling him all you learned about us while you were counted as a friend.”“I'd
have to be a fool,” she said.“I know.”“But I'm not.”He sighed. So much like
Elise. “I know that too.”“Well?”“Deal,” he said again.She went to the closet
and started tossing out suits, trousers and dress shirts. When everything was
cleaned out of the way, she asked him to step back and to direct the
flashlight on the floor between them. Kneeling, she studied the floorboards a
moment, got her nails into the cracks on both sides of one of them, tugged at
it, let it go. She tried the one beside it, which looked identical to the
first, sighed when it rattled and came away in her hands, a two-inch-wide and
four-foot-long strip of wood. She put it out of the way, revealing a lever
that lay under the tightly fitted but unnailed board.“I'd have found that in
no time,” he said.“Of course,” she said. “And you'd have gotten Bach-man too.
But I'm along to help you get the money, which you didn't even know was
here.”“Go on,” he said.She pressed the lever down with the heel of her hand.
On Tucker's right the entire back wall of the closet swung inward, a feature
that negated the need for a telltale seam in the middle of the wall where an
ordinary secret door might have been.He said, “Is Baglio a chronic
paranoid?”“Among other things.”The wall swung wider open.“Don't feel you have
to catalogue them.”The room beyond the closet was nearly as large as the
guard's bedroom on the other side, lighted by fluores-cent ceiling strips,
windowless. Merle Bachman was strapped in the bed against the far wall,
looking their way and trying to grin.
Tucker saw at once why Bachman had not been forced to tell Baglio what he
knew, why he was still alive and why they still had a chance to keep their
identities intact. The crash in the Chevrolet had ruined the small man's
lovely smile by breaking loose eighty percent of his teeth and splitting both
his lips. The upper lip was split clear to his septum and swollen four or five
times larger than it should have been. He had to breathe through his mouth,
since the lip closed off his nostrils, and his breathing was so noisy Tucker
wondered why that hadn't been audible even through all these walls.Bachman
made a gagging sound that was apparently some sort of greeting, though it
didn't succeed any better than his smile.“You can't talk?” Tucker
asked.Bachman made chortling sounds.“Then don't try,” Tucker said. “You sound
disgusting. And while you're at it, wipe that—smile?—off your face.”Bachman
didn't try to speak again, but he kept smiling. His left eye was puffed shut
and his right was blackened, though not swollen like the other. Several
fingers on both hands had been splinted and bandaged by Baglio's doctor.
Otherwise, he looked well enough.“No broken legs or arms?” Tucker asked,
kneeling at the bed. “Just shake your head.”Bachman shook his head no.“Can you
walk?”Bachman shook: no.“Why not?”It was a badly phrased question. Bachman
looked ear-nest and began to make gagging noises again, trying to
explain.“Forget it,” Tucker said. “You're drugged, aren't you?”Bachman sighed
and nodded yes.Miss Loraine said, “Shall we get on with the second part of
it—the money?”“It's here?” Tucker asked.“Yes. But he doesn't know it,” she
added, nodding to Bachman.“Get it, then.”She walked away from the bed to the
back of the room, where she opened the door of a white metal storage cabinet
bolted to the wall.He stepped up beside her and said, “What gives?”“The wall.”
She slid away the metal back of the cab-inet, revealing another lever exactly
like the one in the closet floor, pressed it down. The cabinet which was
bolted to the wall beside this one swung into the room, revealing a narrow
storage space large enough for a few suitcases, or for a body. Right now it
contained just suitcases.“A hidden room inside a hidden room,” Tucker said,
amazed.“He's a clever man,” she said.Tucker said, “Then why didn't he take
this into town? Why'd he leave it here?”“Ross didn't know who'd hit him,” she
explained. “He thought it might be someone inside his own organization, and he
left the cash here because he didn't trust sending it into town again—not
until he could get Bachman to talk.”“A careful man.”“This time he was too
careful,” she said. “Let's get it out of here.” She hefted the smallest
suitcase and carried it back to Bachman, while Tucker muscled the other two
out of the niche and followed her.They put the cases on the low table next to
the bed and opened them one at a time. The two largest were packed with
tightly wrapped bills, while the smaller was half full and padded out with
butcher's paper.“Ahhh,” Merle Bachman said. He seemed surprised that the cash
had been in the room with him; apparently Miss Loraine was telling the truth
when she said he hadn't known about it.Tucker said, “We scored after all.”
While Miss Loraine went to find suitable clothes to wear for an airborne
escape, Tucker explained the situation to Shirillo and Harris. The kid
accepted it, trusting Tucker, but Harris, more agitated than ever, had some
questions.“She's a woman,” he said. “Can she keep her mouth shut when we get
out of this?”“As well as you can,” Tucker said. Then, to soften that, he
added, “Or as well as I can.”Harris said, “She'll run out of money fast.
She'll squander it, and then she'll start making plans.”“I don't think so.”“If
she does, though, she'll come back to one of us, some way, and want more.”“She
won't.”“Okay, she'll run back to Baglio.”“He'd kill her.”“Maybe she's too dumb
to know that.”“She's not. She knows the risks, and she knows how to handle
herself. We can trust her; we have to.”“Not necessarily,” Harris said. He
looked ugly. Maybe his wound was hurting him again—or maybe it had nothing to
do with that look.Tucker said, “We can't kill her, if that's what you
mean.”“Why not?”“I made a deal with her.”“So?”Tucker said, “Is that the way
you'd have me do busi-ness? Remember, I've made a deal with you, too. If I can
give my word to her, then kill her, what's to keep me from working the same
thing with you?” Before Harris could answer, he said, “No, we can't do
business that way. Besides, killing her would make the whole caper too hot.
Baglio can cover up the death of one of his gunmen easily enough. But that
woman's got a family somewhere, a life outside of the organization, and her
death would probably mean the police getting into the act sooner or
later.”Harris wiped at his face. His gloved hand came away black, and some of
his disguise was gone. “I hope you're right about her,” he said.“I am. And
cheer up. Now you can retire, like you want.”Tucker went back to the hidden
room, leaving Harris and Shirillo to guard the stairs, and unstrapped Merle
Bachman, helped him out of the bed, tried to get him to stand on his own feet.
As Bachman had warned with a shake of his head, that proved impossible.
Evidently he hadn't been permitted on his feet during the last couple of days,
hadn't eaten anything in all that time—couldn't have because of his ruined
mouth—and had only drunk what he was forced to drink to keep from dehydrating.
His weak-ened condition, magnified by the pain killers that the doc-tor had
prescribed, had turned his legs to rubber which bent and twisted under him.
Finally, though, Tucker got him to the end of the corridor under the attic
door and left him with Shirillo.Five minutes after that he'd transferred all
three of the money-stuffed suitcases to the same spot. “Anything hap-pening
here?” he asked Shirillo.“No. They're too quiet down there.”Before Tucker
could respond, Miss Loraine came up behind him and said, “I'm ready.”She was
wearing white levis and a dark-blue sweater, all of it cut to fit like second
skin, both functional and sensual. Tucker remembered how she'd looked the day
of the robbery in the miniskirt and tight sweater, and he wondered why, with
that canny head of hers, she still was so careful to keep her sex honed as a
bargaining tool.As if reading his mind, she said, “It always pays to be
prepared for anything.”“It does,” he agreed. He looked at his watch: 7:02.It
was full daylight outside.He'd told Norton that the operation would be
con-cluded by dawn at the very latest. Paul would be chewing his nails and
wondering how much longer he should hold on. Tucker hoped he'd wait another
ten minutes, until they could put a call through on the walkie-talkie. No, he
wasn't just hoping for that—he knew Norton would wait. He would wait. He was
sure of it. Damn, damn, damn.He slipped a new clip into his Lüger, pocketed
the de-pleted clip and relieved Shirillo of his watch over the pear
stairs.“Get the suitcases up first,” he said.The kid nodded, picked up the
largest piece of luggage and struggled with it to the top of the metal steps,
muscled it overhead and slid it onto the attic floor. He didn't have the
physique for heavy work, but he wasn't complaining. By the time he'd taken the
second case from Miss Loraine and worked it through the trap door overhead,
his face glistened, his black makeup streaked. When he shoved the third bag
into place above, he leaned into the steps and let out a long wheeze of
exhaustion.“Want me to get Bachman up?” Tucker asked.“No. I will.”The time was
7:10.Norton would be waiting.Shirillo examined Bachman, helped the battered
man to his feet, found an acceptable hold on him and went sideways up the
narrow collapsible steps. Near the top he had to let go of his burden. Bachman
gripped the top steps, his weakened hands clumsy with the splinted and
bandaged fingers. Shirillo scrambled quickly into the attic, turned, reached
down, took Bachman by the wrist and, with a little help from Merle himself,
got him through the trap door and into the upper chamber.“Ready up here,”
Shirillo called down.“Good work.”“Just plenty of motivation,” Shirillo said,
grinning.7:14.“Move,” Tucker told the woman.She went up the ladder fast, took
Jimmy's hand and was gathered into the overhead room.7:15.Harris looked up the
hall, saw that most of the work was done, nodded in response to Tucker's hand
signal.We're going to make it, Tucker thought. He'd done it. He'd made a
botched job into a success; he'd persevered.Turning, he started up the
steps—but got no farther than the third rung as the window shattered beside
him and two closely spaced slugs struck him hard on the left side.
He fell and struck his head on the last rung of the metal ladder before he
rolled up against the corridor wall. Strangely, the moment he'd been hit, he
thought: Iron Hand, recalling the nightmare. Then he was too numbed from the
shock of being wounded to think of anything. When pain began to replace the
paralysis, seconds later, he thought the man at the bottom of the back steps
had shot him, but then he realized, as he sat up in the middle of all that
broken glass, that the shots had come from outside the house.The shots were a
signal to the man downstairs to try to come up now that their attention was
diverted. Harris was prepared for that strategy, and he let out a long chatter
of machine-gun fire down the main stairwell.Shirillo came off the attic steps
fast, drawing another shot from outside as he moved quickly past the window.
“How is it?”“The nerves are still mostly deadened from the impact, but it's
starting to hurt pretty badly. I got it twice, I think, close together. Damn
hard punch.”“Rifle,” Shirillo said. “The garage roof connects with this end of
the house. I saw him standing out there when I went by the window just now.”
As he spoke he removed the shattered walkie-talkie from Tucker's arm and threw
it into the middle of the hallway. “I was going to tell you that you'd
overprepared by bringing two of these, since we never needed to use them
between us. Now I'm glad I kept my mouth shut.”“The damn thing didn't take
both shots, did it?”“No,” Shirillo said. “There's blood.” He probed the wound
with a finger until Tucker was sweating with pain. “You only stopped one
bullet,” he said. “It passed through the back of your arm and out the top of
your shoulder, right through the meaty part, then out again. At least, by the
way your jacket's all ripped up, I'd say that's how it is. But I wouldn't want
to swear to it until we have you in the copter and can get your clothes off.
There's a good bit of blood.”Tucker winced at the pain, which, having held off
for several minutes, now throbbed relentlessly, and he said, “It's easy enough
to come down that ladder fast. But going up again is another thing altogether.
He'll have enough time to pick us off like painted targets.”“Clearly true,”
Shirillo said. Even now he did not appear to be shaken. Tucker thought he
could see in the kid's manner, however, his own kind of bottled-up terror
below a facade of calm maintained at only the greatest expenditure of nervous
energy.Tucker said, “Now don't shout for him, but get Pete. Walk down there
and ask him to come up here. I think, as long as there's one man on the garage
roof, there isn't any-one else down there to come up the steps. Not unless
they untied Keesey, which I seriously doubt.”“Be right back,” Shirillo said.He
returned with Harris, who listened to Tucker explain the situation, which he
had figured out on his own anyway. He assured them that he could use the
rapid-firing Thompson to clear the garage roof while running little risk of
getting hit himself.“Just be damned careful,” Tucker said. “You deserve your
share after making it this far.”“Don't worry your ass, friend,” Harris said,
grinning. He got up and flattened himself against the wall next to the
shattered window. He let a long minute pass, as if one unknown moment were
better than another, then suddenly whirled around, facing the open window, the
Thompson up before him, chattering away at the rifleman. No one screamed, but
a moment later Harris turned to them and said, “He's finished. But one thing:
it wasn't one of the gunmen. It was Keesey.”“The cook?”“The cook.”“Shit,”
Tucker said. “Then there's still one of them downstairs, and he knows you're
no longer guarding the stairs.”He got to his feet despite the thumping
invisible stick that seemed to be trying to drive him down again. The pain in
his arm lanced outward, crossed his entire back, over to his other shoulder,
down to his kidneys.“You make the stairs yourself?” Harris asked.“I can. But
Jimmy has to go first.”Shirillo began to protest, realized he was the one
carrying the last walkie-talkie, nodded and scrambled up-ward into the
attic.“Follow me closely,” Tucker said.“Don't worry about that, friend.”Tucker
gripped the stair railing with his good hand and climbed toward the square of
darkness overhead which framed Jimmy Shirillo's anxious face. He felt as if he
were with some Swedish mountaineering 'team, but he finally made it, with the
kid's help.“Move ass!” he called down to Harris.The big man started up the
steps.Tucker looked at his watch.7:28.Norton would be waiting. He would.
After Harris drew up the attic steps, made certain the bottom plate was
closed firmly over the trap opening and threw the bolt back to keep it that
way, Jimmy Shirillo got out his walkie-talkie and, following Tucker's
instructions, attempted to call up Paul Norton, the copter pilot.The open
frequency hummed distantly, an eerie sound in the warm confines of the
attic.Shirillo repeated the call signal.“Why doesn't he answer?” the woman
asked.Tucker felt the future seeping away from him. He be-gan to think of
Elise, of the peace and quiet of the Park Avenue apartment.Abruptly, Norton's
voice crackled over the walkie-talkie, strange and yet familiar, acknowledging
the sum-mons.“Thank God!” Harris said, his voice weak.“How long will it take
him to get here?” Miss Loraine wanted to know. She was sitting between the two
largest suitcases, one arm draped over each of them, as if she were daring
Tucker, or any of them, to leave her behind.Tucker said, “Less than five
minutes.”She laughed and said, “Hell, then we're home free.” Despite her good
humor, she hung onto the pair of suit-cases.“Hold the celebrations,” Tucker
said.“You okay?” Shirillo asked.“Fine,” Tucker said. In reality, he felt as if
he'd been dragged several miles from the back of a horse, aching in every
muscle, exhausted, the pain in his arm spreading out until it was no longer
localized but hard and hot through-out his body. To get his mind off the pain,
he considered their situation and decided what must be done next. “You better
go find the door that leads onto the roof,” he told Shirillo. “According to
those photographs your uncle took, it's down at the other end of the
house.”Shirillo nodded, got up, hunched down somewhat to keep from cracking
his head against the bare rafters and went down that way to have a look
around. In a couple of moments he located the overhead door, worked it loose
of its pinnings, shoved it out of the way and called back to the others.“Let's
go,” Tucker said.He felt as if he were always telling someone to move, in one
way or another. It would be good to get home again, to pay back the
ten-thousand-dollar loan and to relax, to take a couple of months off before
seriously considering any proposals that were forwarded to him by Clitus
Felton out of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Maybe if he could set up a few good
deals on some of his artwork he could take as much as half a year off, and
he'd hardly have to move at all.Pete Harris helped Merle Bachman the length of
the low-ceilinged attic, while Tucker was able to make it on his own. He had a
strong urge to grip his wounded arm and to stop the rapidly vibrating pain
that made his bones sing, but he knew that would only make the pain worse. He
let his arm hang at his side, and he tried not to think about anything but
getting out of there.The woman carried the smallest suitcase, while Harris
went back to fetch the last two after depositing Merle Bachman under the door
to the mansion roof.Tucker stood over Bachman, swaying, needing to sit,
refusing to allow himself that much. They were close, too close to stop being
alert and prepared.In the distance the sound of a helicopter rattled through
the still morning air.“Got to hurry,” Tucker said.It had occurred to him that
the gunman downstairs would hear the copter and might go outside where he
could, at such close range, make an attempt to kill the pilot.Shirillo was the
first onto the roof, making the move with little trouble, and, with Harris
assisting him from below, managed to get Merle Bachman outside just as Norton
brought the chopper in low over the house. The girl went next, looking back
only once at the three bags full of money, and she did not require any aid.
Tucker followed her, his shoulder blazing with pain as he bumped it on the
beveled rim of the trap door, requiring Shirillo's help to make the last part
of the trip. Pete Harris handed out the suitcases one at a time, almost as if
they were filled with nitroglycerin, then followed them.The time was
7:38.“Fantastic!” the girl said, looking up at the chopper.Tucker said
nothing.An automatic rope ladder wound slowly out of the passenger door of the
helicopter, a feature which Paul Norton had installed for the benefit of his
string of less than legitimate customers. In a half minute from the time it
had begun to unroll, the ladder's final hemp rung scraped against the mansion
roof.“Who first?” Shirillo asked, grasping the ladder and turning to look at
the others. He wasn't having any trouble keeping his balance on the gently
slanted roof, though to Tucker the angle seemed precipitous and the shingles
seemed to move under them.Harris said, “I'll take Merle up first. I don't
think any of the rest of you can manage him on that ladder.”“Go,” Tucker
said.He longed to sit down and rest, even to sleep, but he knew that sleep was
a dangerous desire right now.Harris gave Shirillo his Thompson submachine gun
and said, “If you need it, do you know how to use it?”The kid checked it out,
nodded, said, “Yes.”Harris turned, gathered up Merle Bachman as if the smaller
man were a child, slung him over his shoulder and held onto him with his left
hand. He wasn't even bowed by the weight. Now, Tucker realized, despite the
danger he'd posed throughout the operation, Harris was doing his share and had
become as valuable as any man on the team. He gripped the rope ladder with his
right hand, stepped onto the bottom rung and held tight as Norton drew them up
toward the open copter door.A gentle wind swept over the mansion and, in
conjunc-tion with the copter's wallowing motion, caused the ladder to swing
back and forth in a wide arc that threatened to dump both of the men clinging
to it. However, Harris held on, and the sway declined as the ladder shortened.
Then the ladder stopped; Harris climbed the last few steps, worked Bachman
into the open door and followed the wounded man.The ladder raveled downward
once again.“You next,” Tucker told the woman.She was on the ladder the instant
it fell before her, and she didn't wait to ride it while it retracted. As it
pulled up into its mechanism, she climbed and gained the copter door in short
order. Tucker wondered what Norton would think, whether he'd be nonplused by
her unexpected appear-ance. He was relieved when, after she'd been inside the
craft a moment, the ladder dropped swiftly again.The copter bobbed but stayed
pretty much in one spot, riding the back of the wind.Shirillo shouted, “What
about the suitcases?”Tucker looked at them. “Give me the 'Thompson. You take
the bags up one at a time.”Shirillo handed over the gun, lifted the smallest
case, gripped the ladder and rode upward as it retracted. Harris, who was
waiting for him, took the suitcase out of his hands. S'hirillo started back
down.A rifle cracked from below, the sharp noise muffled by the heavy thumping
of the chopper's blades but nonethe-less frightening and recognizable, like an
ax splitting wood.Tucker edged farther down the sloping roof until he could
see the gunman on the lawn. Bracing the Thompson between his knees, weaker
than ever now, his head swim-ming back and forth and his vision too blurred to
take good aim, he clenched his teeth and let go a long, rattling burst of
fire.Down there, where bullets were plowing up the grass like rain, the gunman
turned and ran, dived for cover behind a cement flower planter a hundred yards
out from the house.Tucker looked at Shirillo, saw the kid was just stepping
onto the ladder with the second suitcase in hand.“Move!”Shirillo couldn't make
the ladder operate any faster than it was doing now, and he couldn't very well
climb it while carrying the luggage, but Tucker couldn't repress the shout.
His calm facade was cracking, his carefully cultured composure slipping away.
It had been one hell of an operation, and it mustn't go bad now because of one
gorilla with a rifle, one punk out to impress the boss with his bravery.The
man behind the concrete planter stood up long enough to aim and take a shot at
Tucker.The bullet tore across the shingle two feet on Tucker's right, spraying
chips of tarry fabric.He loosened a chatter of machine-gun fire, chipping the
cement all to hell.Shirillo picked up the third suitcase and started up the
ladder again, jerked as the man behind the planter got him in the thigh.Son of
a bitch, Tucker thought. His weariness and dizziness flopped over and were
anger on the other side, anger enough to bring him into sharp, fast movement.
He pulled hard on the Thompson's trigger and was rewarded with the sight of
the gunman stepping frantically back-ward out of the way of a line of dancing
bullets.The man turned and ran, the rifle on the lawn where he'd dropped it,
darting this way and that, seeking the shelter of shrubbery.You dumb bastard,
Tucker thought. I could have killed you, and what percentage would have been
in that?Everyone seemed anxious to die, as if they couldn't wait for it, like
this man and the man he'd wounded on the promenade earlier in the evening. And
like Baglio, ready to take a beating rather than tell where Bachman was. Of
course, in this business you took a blood risk, be-cause you worked with
dangerous men at dangerous times. But a risk should be reasonable, the chances
of success greater than the chances for failure. Otherwise you were no better
than a fool.“Hey!” Shirillo called down, breaking Tucker's reverie. He'd
gotten the last suitcase into the chopper and had followed close behind
it.Strapping the Thompson around his chest, Tucker got to his feet, almost
fell, almost lost it all right there, grabbed desperately for the rope ladder,
caught it, jerked as the device began to draw up into the hovering aircraft.A
blood risk: he'd taken it, and he'd won.Harris leaned out of the open door,
reaching for him, grinning broadly. He said, “Been waiting for you,” and he
took Tucker's hands to pull him the rest of the way. Tucker noted that Harris
hadn't added “friend.”
Dr. Walter Andrion was a tall, slim, white-haired gentle-man who wore
tailored suits and fifty-dollar shirts, drove a new Cadillac and traveled in
the fastest social circles. He was married to Evanne Andrion, a black-haired,
blue-eyed lovely thirty years his junior, a young lady with incredibly
expensive tastes. When Junior called him, he dropped everything and came out
to the airfield right away, carrying two heavy bags instead of one, for he had
long ago learned that he should meet any such call as fully pre-pared as he
could be. This was not orthodox medicine by any means. He worked fast and was
clean, bored out wounds, flushed away clotted blood and dirt, stitched the men
up as well as they could have been in a hospital. He didn't speak, and no one
spoke to him as he worked. He had made it abundantly clear to Tucker three
years ago that he did not want to have to hear anything about the origins of
such wounds and that he wanted these sessions to be terminated as rapidly as
possible. When he was done, he insisted on taking Merle Bachman back to his
clinic for a couple of weeks' rest and recuperation, enough time to have his
entire mouth rebuilt as well. He accepted two thousand dollars from Tucker in
fifties and hundreds, tucked this into an already fat wallet, helped Bachman
into his Cadillac and drove away.“We'll take the doctor's fees from the
suitcases,” Tucker said. “Before we decide on a split.”Everyone was in
agreement on that, except Miss Loraine, who didn't like it but didn't argue
either.While Simonsen, Paul Norton's partner in the air-freight business, was
conveniently out having supper, they opened the three suitcases in Norton's
office and counted the money, which they found totaled $341,890. Estimating
Bachman's additional medical bills at more than four thou-sand dollars, they
settled on splitting $335,000.Which wasn't bad, either.Miss Loraine looked at
her $67,000, frowned and said “I thought it was going to be a lot more than
this.”“It'll keep you,” Tucker said.“Not for long.”“A girl of your talents?
You'll build it into a fortune before the year is out.”“Does anyone have
something I can put this in?” she asked.Norton said, “Paper bag do?”She took
the brown paper bag from him and tucked her cash away inside it, not having
bothered to respond to Tucker.Harris said, “I want to know what you're going
to do, what your plans are.”“That's my business,” she said.“It's all of our
business,” Harris said.She looked around, saw them watching her, set her lips
tighter and said, “Will each of you tell me what you intend to do when we
split?”“Of course not,” Harris said. “You're the intruder. You're the one
we've got to be sure about.”Paul Norton, sitting behind his dilapidated desk,
tilted back in his chair and drinking a bottle of India Pale Ale, had thus far
maintained a low profile. Now, however, he said, “You could stay here with me
for a while, Miss.”She looked at him, her face unreadable, her eyes cold, and
she said, “I don't even know you.”Norton blushed, his face reddening except
for the white scars on his cheeks, and he said, “Well, I sure didn't mean
there were any conditions on the offer, if that's what you mean. I've got a
nice apartment here on the field with two bedrooms, and the guest room has its
own private bath, real snug. You wouldn't have to see me at all for days if
you didn't want to.”Tucker said, “I thought you never wanted to know anything
about my business or the people I deal with.”“I don't,” Norton said, raising
both hands, his big palms flat, and pushing them off. “I wouldn't listen to
her even if she tried to tell me, and I'd throw her out the first time she got
in a talkative mood. I'm just trying to help her, that's it, that's all.”She
stared hard at the pilot, obviously on the verge of turning him down, then
seemed to catch a glimpse of the shyness behind his tough-man front, knew that
he hadn't anything in mind but helping her. She said, “Well, I guess that'd be
all right. I need to go to ground for a while and think.”“It still doesn't
answer my question,” Harris said im-patiently. “What will you do when you
leave here?”The woman turned, her face tight, anger boiling up.Before she
could say anything Norton said, “Well, Mr. Harris, that's a long way off,
don't you think? She'll need time to consider that. You can't expect an answer
this instant.”Pete looked at the pilot and knew there would be no arguing with
him. He shrugged and said, “The hell with it. I'm going to use my split to buy
into a little business, and I'm retiring. What do I care what she does?” He
turned and walked out of the office.It was 5:29 p.m. on Thursday.
At 9:04 that same evening, his arm in a sling, carrying a small, cheap
suitcase and slightly whoozy from pain killers, Tucker entered his tenth-floor
Park Avenue apart-ment. He was dressed in a new black suit which didn't
exactly fit him, in a new shirt, new tie, new shoes. Despite his wounds he was
feeling well.He went directly to the closet, opened it, stepped in-side,
opened the small wall safe. He tossed his Tucker credentials inside and took
out his real papers, pocketed those. He opened the cheap suitcase and lifted
out a large number of money bricks, depositing them one at a time in the safe.
When that was done, he closed the safe, spun the dial, shut the suitcase and
shelved that.In the hallway he stopped and looked at his Edo shield, touched
the beaten copper, the flared silver rim, the hand-carved ivory inlays, and
the coolness of the materials, their worn edges, calmed him.In the bedroom he
found Elise sitting up watching television, dressed in her favorite old
quilted robe, ravish-ing. She said, “How'd it go with the bells?”“I got the
seller a price he was satisfied with and the buyer a price he could accept.
But it wasn't easy. How'd your pickle commercial go with Plunket?”“Marvelous,”
she said. “I seemed to have this fantastic talent for it.” Then, as he
shrugged out of his suit jacket, she said, “What's that? What happened to your
arm?”He had already gone over, to himself, the story he would have to tell
her. He said, “I was shot.” When she started up from the bed, he motioned her
back and said, “Don't make me feel like an invalid, because it's only a flesh
wound.”“But how, why?” she asked.He said, “It was nothing more serious than an
average all-American mugging, when I was on my way to my hotel.”“A mugging? In
Denver?”“What's so strange about a mugging in Denver?” he asked. “We're living
in dangerous times, honey. The world's full of dangerous
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