"The Score" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stark Richard)

He got pencil and paper and worked out his finances. He had seven thousand in the hotel safe here, maybe another ten thousand in bank accounts and hotel safes scattered across the country. The seven thousand was plenty to live on for a while, but ten thousand was too low for a reserve fund. He couldlet it slide a few more months, on what he had, but it might be safer in the long run to stoke up the reserve fund now, when he had the chance.

He was making excuses for himself, and he knew it. But he needed to be working, he needed to have something to think about, even more than he needed to build up his reserve cash supply.

He could look into the job, anyway. It might not be any good. Just about half the jobs he was invited on looked good to him. The rest had something wrong with the set-up, or the personnel, or one thing and another, and he stuck around only long enough to hear the story. So there was an even money chance that he wouldn’t be taking this job anyway, but at least he’d have something to think about for a couple of days.

He got to his feet and changed from robe and trunks to slacks and sport shirt, and then left the room again. He took one of the front elevators this time, rode down to the lobby, and left the hotel. A call like this one wasn’t made through a hotel switchboard.

He crossed the boulevard and took a side street away from the beach. The hotels on the inland side of the boulevard were a little smaller and a little grayer than the beach-front hotels; behind them stretched a declining expanse of tourist courts and efficiency apartments and motels. After a while there were supermarkets and liquor stores and bars.

Parker went into a bar and got five dollars in change from the bartender, then went to the phone booth in back to make his call. When he closed the booth door, a little fan went on over his head, but it didn’t do much good. He began to sweat right away.

It took a while to get the call through, and then he had to pump quarters and dimes into the box before he could talk. He said, “Charles Willis here.”

“Good to hear you, Chuck.” Sheer had an old man’s voice, with something cheerful in it. “How’s the weather down there?”

“Hot.”

“Still on vacation, eh?”

“I’d go back to work if anything came along.”

“I was talking to a fella in your line the other day. Paulus, you know him?”

“Sure.”

“Him and Wycza and some others, they’re opening a branch office in Jersey City. Maybe they could use another field man.”

“The main operation going to be in Jersey City?”

“No, I don’t know where the head office is. That’s just a branch, to get organized.”

“I might send them a resume. What’s the address?”

“Three nine nine Crescent, four A.”

“Are they open for business yet?”

“You probably ought to call first and check. The number’s 837-2598.”

Parker was writing it all down. “I wouldn’t call long distance,” he said. “I’d just send them a resume. What do they pay, do you know?”

“That I don’t, Chuck, sorry. Ought to be good wages, though, the way Paulus was talking.”

“Is he the sales manager?”

“No, I don’t think so. There’s some sort of regional manager setting things up, the way I get it.”

“I might look into it. Thanks for thinking of me.”

“Any time, Chuck. Send me a bathing beauty.”

Parker left the booth, had a beer to get rid of some change and to cool off a little, and then walked back to the hotel. He phoned down to have his bill made up, made a reservation on a jet flight to Newark, and packed. He left the hotel room, and five hours later he walked into the hotel room in Jersey City. Then he met Edgars and heard the proposition.

Knock over a city. A whole goddam city.

It was so stupid it might even work. But it would have to be planned right. This one would have to be planned right on down to the shoe leather.

If Edgars wouldn’t louse it up some way.

If they had every communications outlet in town figured.

If they could work out a sensible getaway route to a reliable hideout.

If they could get the right men.

If they could think of every possibility.

Right now, it was still just an idea, not a job yet. Maybe it never would be a job. He’d sleep on it.

4

“Fire department,” said Parker. “They got to be in touch with other fire departments around the state.”

Edgars frowned around his cigar. “God damn it,” he said. “I forgot about that.”

They were sitting around the dining-room table again, the five of them. Paulus was taking notes. The screen was up, at the far end of the room. The projector stood slightly up-angled on the table like a naval gun, but they weren’t using it right now, so the spaceship ceiling light was on.

Wycza said, “That’s another man. To sit by the phone in the fire house. And now we got firemen to keep on ice. Firemen, policemen, gate guards, telephone girls, the whole goddam town.”

Parker nodded. “There’s too many angles.”

Paulus looked up from his note-taking. “Why not just take the payroll? In and out fast. We five right here could do it, keep it simple and neat.”

Edgars shook his head. “No good at all,” he said. “Don’t you remember that map?” He put his hands down on the tabletop. “Here’s your payroll, with a cliff in back, a cliff on the right, a cliff on the left, and the whole city spread out in front. You couldn’t get through the city in the first place, and if you did there’s still only one road out.”

“Past that goddam state police barracks,” said Wycza.

Edgars said, “That’s right. Nobody’s ever even tried to steal that payroll, because it just can’t be done.”

Parker said, “It’s no good trying for any one thing in that town. The payroll or a bank. You’ve got to hit the whole town, or nothing.”

“What about the fire department?” asked Paulus. “That’s an eleventh man.”

Grofield said, “Not necessarily. Give them a diversion.”

Wycza looked at him. “A what?”

“A fire.”

They all looked at him. Grofield grinned and shrugged, then turned to Paulus, sitting next to him on the right. Still grinning, he drove his left fist at Paulus’s face. Paulus cried out and threw his hands up. Grofield’s left stopped in mid-air, and his right hand dug painfully into Paulus’s ribs. “Feint,” he said. “Feint and attack. Give the boys of the fire brigade a real rip-snorter to think about, in a quiet corner of town where they’ll see no evil, hear no evil, get wise to no evil.”

Paulus said, “You keep your hands to yourself, buddy.” He’d dropped the pencil he was taking notes with, and stooped over to get it.

Grofield grinned at his back. “Just a graphic illustration of the point, dear heart,” he said. “Essence of theater.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Edgars.

Parker shook his head. “A six-hour fire? They’ll be done before we are.”

Wycza said, “We need an eleventh man, that’s all.”

“We need one, anyway,” Parker told him. “We need one man loose, to trouble shoot any place something unexpected comes up. If we need another one for the fire department, that’s twelve.” He turned to Edgars. “Where’s the firehouse?”

“Across the street from the police station.”

Paulus said, “So we’ve gotto cover them. Twelve men. We’re going right back up to twenty-five again.”

Edgars took the cigar out of his mouth and looked insulted. “Why? Twelve men, what’s so bad about that? Twelve men to take a whole city.”

“Maybe we’re not done yet,” Paulus told him.

“Night people,” said Grofield, “that’s what we’ve got to think about. Who are the night people? Cops, firemen, telephone girls, we’ve got them. What about milkmen?”

Edgars shook his head. “They’re union, they deliver in the daytime.”

“Post office,” said Grofield. “They’ve got to have somebody around for special-delivery letters. Western Union office. Railroad station. Cabdrivers.”

“You don’t have to worry about cabdrivers,” Edgars told him. “I told you there was a curfew. There’s no taxi customers after midnight.”

“What about emergencies?” Grofield asked him. “Ladies having babies, children swallowing pins, men with appendicitis. Ambulances racing back and forth amid the booming safes.”

Parker said, “That’s right. Hospital. You got a hospital in this town?”

“No. The fire department has an ambulance, to take any emergency cases to the hospital in Madison, fourteen miles away on the highway.”

Paulus said, “So the fire department man covers the ambulance, too.”

Parker asked Edgars, “You know the train schedules? Anything going in or out between midnight and six in the morning?”

“No. It’s just a spur line in. There’s one passenger train a day, and two freight trains. The railroad station is closed between eight at night and eight in the morning.”

“Good,” said Paulus. “That takes care of the railroad station.”

“Western Union,” said Grofield. “Post office.”

“The post office closes,” said Edgars. “I’m sure it does. I don’t know what they do about special delivery letters. Maybe they drive them in from Madison.”

“But Western Union?”

“They’ve got an office on Raymond Avenue. I don’t know if it closes nights or not. I should, but I don’t.”

“We have to know,” Parker told him. “You got a contact in that town?”

“No.”

“If everything else closes down,” said Paulus, “the Western Union office probably does, too. They wouldn’t have much business at night.”

“No business at all,” said Edgars. “Most likely any telegrams that come at night are driven in from the Madison office, the same as special-delivery letters. I can’t remember if I’ve ever seen the Western Union office open at night, but I don’t see why it would be.”

“We have to know,” Parker repeated. “If it’s open, it’s got to be covered, and that means another man.”

“The only way to find out,” Edgars told him, “is to go to Copper Canyon and look for yourself.”

“I know.”

“I’ll write it down,” said Paulus.

“More night people,” said Grofield. “Who can think of more night people? You say there’s no all-night diner?”

Edgars shook his head. “No. No business stays open at all, because of the curfew.”

“That’s a very small-town thing, a curfew,” said Grofield. “Big cities talk about it, but small towns do it.”

Wycza said, “What about a newspaper?”

“A weekly,” Edgars told him. “It comes out on Thursday, for the convenience of the shoppers.”

“No reporters on at night?”

“No. Most of the paper is written by the secretaries of women’s organizations.”

They were all silent, then, all trying to think of other people who might be out and around late at night. After a minute, Paulus said, “That’s it, then. We need another man, to cover the fire department. And we have to find out about the Western Union office.”

Wycza said, “What about the getaway?”

“I got the two maps like Parker suggested.” Edgars answered. “There’s no other way to get out of town except the road, but I think I’ve found the hideout.”

“I don’t like that barracks,” Wycza said.

Grofield said, “An idle thought. What about the mine?”

They looked at him. Edgars said, “What about it?”

“Are there no entrances other than at the back of the canyon? No shafts leading out anywhere else? No emergency exits?”

Edgars shook his head. “I don’t think so. All the shafts go straight down in from the canyon. There’s no reason for any other way in.”

“Just a thought.” Grofield smiled. “I visualized us trundling away on ore carts with the loot, like the seven dwarfs.”

“We have to go past the barracks,” Parker said. “There’s no other choice. We space it so we don’t have a convoy go by all at once, and we’ll be all right.” He turned to Edgars. “What about the hideout?”

“Let me get the maps.” He stood up. “More beer?”

They all wanted more beer. He went away and came back with a double handful of beer cans. He set them down on the table, and took two maps out of his hip pocket. He spread them out on the table, covering most of the table’s surface. One was a state roadmap, the other a topographical map.

They were all standing now, leaning over the maps. Edgars pointed to the topographical map, saying, “See, there’s Copper Canyon. That’s a mesa back of it, it gradually levels down again. Out in front, it’s lowland for over a hundred miles. Down in here is one of the coal beds, lignite coal. This is just about the edge of the Badlands here. This whole section here is full of lignite coal. Some of it’s right out on the surface, burning, been burning for years.”

Parker didn’t give a damn about lignite coal, burning or not. He said, “The hideout.”

“I’m getting to it. Like I said, this section here is just about the edge of the Badlands, so it’s away from the tourist areas and it’s away from the mining operations. There was a strip mine working there a few years ago, but they’re gone now; they cleaned out what they could get and left. There’s an eighty-foot-deep ravine there now, where they scraped the topsoil off and took the coal out. There’s nobody there now at all. There’s some kind of sulphur by-product oozes out of the ground, pollutes the water, and stinks the place up, so nobody goes near it. But the mining company built a road into it, and their old sheds should still be there, on the lip of the ravine.”

“What kind of road?” Parker asked him.

“Dirt. But passable. They brought trucks in and out.”

“How do we get to it?”

Edgars switched over to the other map. “See, here’s 22A here, coming out of Copper Canyon. We pick up the highway here and turn left. Then there’s this smaller road, here, goes off to the right. We’d be on the highway maybe three miles. This small road we stay on for five or six miles, and then the mining company road goes off that to the left.”

“This land is all flat here?”

“It’s plains land. Rolling land.”

“When we turn off the small road onto the mining company road, can we be seen from the highway?”

“No, not a chance. That’s wild country in there, and there’s some trees.”

“How many miles in on the mining company road?”

“Maybe seven.”

“And how many miles from Copper Canyon to the highway?”

“Eight.”

Parker ran his finger along the map. “Eight miles to the highway, then three miles to the secondary road, six miles to the mining company road, seven miles in from there. Twenty-four miles.”

“Looks good,” said Paulus.

Grofield said, “How much traffic on that highway early in the morning?”

“Six in the morning?” Edgars shook his head. “None.”

“Good,” said Paulus. “We won’t be seen.”

“No good,” Parker told him. “If anybody does see us, we’ll stick out like a sore thumb. Four cars in a row on an empty highway, all turn off together. All it needs is one trooper to see us.”

Wycza said, “What about a truck? A big-ass tractor trailer. We stash it outside of town and switch to it when the job’s done.”

“Too much loot to be transferred.”

Grofield said, “We bring the tractor trailer into town with us. Instead of loading two cars along the main drag, we load the tractor trailer. Then we have a car at the plant, the way we figured, and another car parked near the town line for a lookout. We leave that one, and just take the tractor trailer and the other car. They space five minutes apart, and it doesn’t look so bad. You see tractor trailers all hours.”

Wycza said, “All right, that’s even better.”

“It would work,” said Edgars. “It would sure work all right.”

Parker stood looking at the two maps and thinking it over. Twelve men. In at midnight, out by six in the morning. Everything covered, if they’d thought of everything, and if Edgars had his facts straight.

It was a job. It would work. The thing looked like idiocy at first, but it would work.

He nodded. “All right,” he said. “Who’s financing?”

Edgars looked blank. “Financing?”

“This is going to cost,” Parker told him. “Walkie-talkies, the truck, the cars. Transportation out there. Food and water stashed at the hideout ahead of time. Guns. It’ll cost dough to get this thing set up.”

Edgars still looked blank, and now a little worried besides. Paulus explained it to him. “Every job has to be financed,” he said. “Whoever puts up the dough gets it back doubled if the job works out.”

“You mean, one of us?”

Parker shook his head. “No. It’s better to get your financing done by somebody outside the operation. Otherwise the man who put the money in tries to run things.”

“This is all new to me,” Edgars told them.

“I’ll go over to New York tomorrow,” Grofield said. “I’ve got a couple contacts over there. How much you figure?”

Parker frowned, thinking it out. “Four thousand,” he said.

Edgars said, “Four thousand! “

“I told you, it’s going to cost. The truck, the cars, the”

“Why not just steal the truck?”

“You want to leave Copper Canyon in a hot truck on every state trooper’s list for a thousand miles around?”

“You mean, you just go to a used-truck dealer and buy a truck?”

“No, not that either. Then you got problems with registration. There’s outlets where you can pick up a mace pretty cheap.”

Edgars couldn’t seem to get the bewildered look off his face. “A mace? What’s a mace?”

“A car with papers that look good and license plates that look good.”

“But they aren’t really?”

“They aren’t really.”

Edgars sat down, shook his head, and drank some beer. “I didn’t know there was this much to it,” he said. “How many people have to know about this deal?”

“Just the ones in on it. Twelve men.”

“But Grofield’s going to go talk to somebody about financing, and you’re going to buy a stolen truck

.”

“The man that finances doesn’t know what the job is. Just that there’s a job, and it needs so much to get set up, and it should be done by such and such a date.”

“How you going to get a man to put money into a deal without knowing what it is?”

“He relies on the men in the deal. If he knows them, knows they do good work, he takes a chance on them.”

“What about where you buy the truck? You don’t tell him anything either?”

“Why should we?”

Edgars shrugged and spread his hands. “All right,” he said. “You people know what you’re doing.”

“We rather hope so,” said Grofield. He turned to Parker. “Come along with me tomorrow, okay? I know one guy in particular, he knows you. If he sees you’re in he’ll cover us with no trouble.”

“All right.”

“Now,” said Paulus. “About personnel.”

They all sat down at the table again, and Edgars cleared away the maps. Parker said, “We need three jug men. You’re one, Paulus. You work one side of Raymond Avenue, and Wycza can carry for you. Grofield, you’d be a good man for the phone company, keep the ladies from getting too scared.”

Grofield smiled thinly. “You know my boyish charm,” he said. “I’ll be happy to keep the ladies company.”

“Edgars, you ought to be lookout at the town line. You know the town, know the circumstances there. You can figure anything that moves quicker than anybody else.”

Edgars said, “I thought I’d be better off taking care of the police station. I know a little something about police procedure there, I could probably fake it better than anybody else if a phone call came in or anything like that.”

Parker shrugged. “Wherever you think you’d do the most good.”

“Police station.”

“All right.” Parker turned to Paulus. “You got a list of the jobs? Wait a minute, the other two juggers first. I’ll see if I can get Handy McKay. He could get in at the payroll as fast as anybody I know.” He looked around the table. “We need another jugger. A vault man. Any ideas?”

Paulus said, “What about Rohatch? He’s a geech, but he’s good at vaults.”

Grofield shook his head and said, “I heard he died. The liver got him.”

Wycza said, “I worked once or twice with a fella named Kemp. Any of you know him?”

“He’s unreliable,” said Paulus primly. “He’s on the needle. He may even be in jail by now for all I know.”

Wycza said, “All right, forget him. How about Wiss? Little guy, but fast.”

“I’ve worked with him,” said Parker. “While I was having that trouble with the Outfit. He’s a good man.”

“I’ll see can I get in touch with him,” said Wycza.

Edgars said, “What about you, Parker? What’s your job going to be?”

It was Wycza who answered. “He ought to be the loose one, the trouble shooter.”

Edgars nodded. “Fine by me.”

“I’m writing all this down,” said Paulus.

Parker said to him, “What other jobs?”

“You want Wiss to work the other side of Raymond Avenue, right? So you need someone to work with him, like Wycza’s working with me.”

“We’ll let him pick his own sideman. Lookout’s next. We want somebody fast, and cool.”

“Salsa,” said Grofield. “That bastard could hunker down in Times Square and disappear. You’d never see him, and he wouldn’t move for a hundred years if he had to. But when it was time to move, zoom.”

“I know Salsa,” said Parker. “He’s a good man.”

“I’ll get word to him.”

Parker turned to Paulus. “What’s left?”

“Just three. Fire department, gate guard, and plant office. Three men in place.”

“I know the guy for the gate guard,” said Wycza. “Pop Phillips. He wears some kind of uniform just about every job he takes.”

“Good old Phillips,” said Grofield. “Pop Phillips, the sweet old rummy.”

“He don’t drink when he’s on a job,” Wycza told him.

“You’re right, he doesn’t. But he’s got bad breath.”

Parker said, “Shut up, Grofield. Okay, Wycza, get Phillips. Now we need two more.”

“The Chambers brothers,” said Paulus.

Grofield shook his head. “Ernie’s in jail.”

“What the hell for?”

“Statutory. You know how those hillbillies like young meat.”

“What about his brother?”

Grofield shrugged. “He’s as good as the next man.”

“I’ll get in touch with him,” said Paulus, and wrote it down.

Parker said, “If Littlefield’s still working, he’d be a good man for the plant office.”

“I worked with him last year,” said Wycza. “He was still going strong then.”

“Get in touch with him, will you?”

“Right.”

Paulus looked up from his notes. “That’s all,” he said. “Except Wiss’s sideman. He can get him himself.”

“Day after tomorrow,” said Parker. “Here again. Nine o’clock.”

Edgars got to his feet and rubbed his hands together.

“This is going to work out,” he said. “It’s going to work out.”

They left the apartment one at a time. This time Parker waited, to be the last out. When he was alone with Edgars he said, “Something I wanted to ask you.”

“What?”

“What about Owen?”

“Owen? What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

“I know that.” Edgars was frowning at him, but then his face lit up with understanding. “Oh. You mean, what’s my attitude?”

“That’s right.”

“I couldn’t care less, Parker. He was just a bum I picked up here in town. He was more stupid than I thought and exceeded his orders. That’s over with.”

Parker nodded. “All right,” he said. “See you day after tomorrow.”

“Right.”

PART TWO

1

Parker pumped change into the phone box and listened to it booming. Then he waited.

He was in a phone booth next to a gas station. June sunlight poured down everywhere. Grofield was in his car, a three-year-old black Rambler sedan, parked just down the block; they were on their way over to New York to see about financing, and Parker wanted to make the call now, early, to give Handy time to get there.

The booming was replaced by a ringing sound, and then by a male voice. Parker said, “Arnie LaPointe, please.” You couldn’t get in touch with Handy direct. Like Parker with Joe Sheer, Handy had a middleman.

The voice said, “Speaking.”

“This is Parker. If you see Handy McKay around, ask him to give me a call.”

“I’m not sure I’ll see him.”

“This is a pay phone, I can’t hang around too long.”

“I just don’t know when I’ll see him.”

“When you do, tell him I saw the monk and he’s still mourning.” That was a reference to the last job they’d worked together, so Handy would know it was him.

“If I see him, I’ll tell him. What’s your number there?”

“This is Jersey City. The number’s OL 3-4599.”

“I don’t promise anything.”

“Sure.”

Parker hung up and waited. He pushed open the booth door to get some air, and lit a cigarette. He could see Grofield sitting in the car, relaxed and easy. Grofield was too playful sometimes, but he knew when to cut that out. The operation was shaping up to have good men in it, and with good men in a deal it was tough for the deal to go sour. Not impossible, but tough.

A gas station attendant in blue overalls came over, wiping his hands on an orange rag. He said, “Anything wrong?”

“They’re calling me back.”

“Okay.” He went away again.

Parker finished his cigarette, flicked it out into the street. He leaned against the side of the booth, folded his arms, and waited some more.

He waited fifteen minutes and then the phone rang. He picked it up and said, “Charles Willis here.”

It was Handy McKay’s voice: “What’s the story?”

“Thought you might like to come visit. I got a new place.”

“Social call?”

“We might work a little.”

“Not for me, remember? I retired.”

“You might like the weather here. And there’s thousands of things to see. Maybe twenty thousand.”

“Don’t tempt me. This time I’m retired for good. I got the diner going, and I’m settling down, and everything’s fine.”

“I was looking for company. Open a can or two with me, you know?”

“Yeah?” There was a pause, and he said, “What about Wiss? He’s good company.”

“He’s already coming.”

“Oh, yeah? What do you want, a crowd?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus, now you got my curiosity up. But it’s still no soap. Wait a second, how about Kerwin?”

“That’s an idea. You just don’t want to travel, huh?”

“Not any more. I’m settled down.”

“All right. I’ll drop in sometime.”

“Do that. I’ll fry you an egg.”

“Sure.”

He hung up and left the phone booth and walked down to Grofield’s car. He slid in and said, “McKay’s out. He’s retired.”

“Again?”

“This time he says it’s for good. He suggested Kerwin.”

“I don’t know him.”

“He’s a good man.”

Grofield shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it. Call him.”

“He lives in Brooklyn. I’ll call him from the city, after we see your man. Who is he, by the way?”

“Ormont. Chester Ormont.”

“Four thousand might be steep for him.”

“We’ll see.”

Grofield started the engine, and they drove away from there. They went through the Holland Tunnel into the city, and took the West Side Highway up to 72nd Street, and then crosstown through the park to the East Side. Grofield parked illegally on East 67th Street, between Fifth and Madison, and they walked down the block to the address. It was a fashionable brown-stone, with a doctor’s shingle in the window. They went up the stoop and inside, into the dimness, and there was a nurse in a white uniform at a desk.

She smiled impersonally and said, “Name, please?”

“Grofield. About my back.”

“You’ve been to see the doctor before?”

“Yes.”

“Have a seat, please, the doctor will be with you in just a minute.”

They went into the waiting-room, a large airy room done in Danish modern. Two stuffed matrons sat in opposite corners of the room, like welterweights between rounds. One was reading Fortuneand the other was reading Business Week. Grofield picked up a copy of Timefrom the central table, and he and Parker sat down to wait.

After about five minutes, the nurse appeared and took one of the women away with her. A little while later a whitehaired old man came in on a cane and took the absent woman’s seat and Fortune. Some time after that the other woman was escorted away by the nurse.

They waited about forty minutes, and then the nurse came to the door and said, “Mister Grofield?”

Grofield said, “Come on.” He and Parker followed the nurse out of the waiting-room, down a cream-colored hall, and into an office. There was no one in the office.

The nurse said, “Doctor Ormont will see you in just a minute.” She went away.

They sat in brown leather chairs and waited. They could hear a murmuring from somewhere else on the first floor. Five minutes went by, and then the door opened and a heavy impatient-looking man with pink scrubbed hands came in.

He smiled sourly at them, said, “How are you, Grofield?” and went around behind his desk.

“Just terrible, Doctor,” said Grofield. “I’ve got this terrible pain in my back.”

“Never mind that,” said the doctor. “This office isn’t bugged.”

Grofield burst out laughing. “Doctor, you’re priceless!”

The doctor didn’t get it, and didn’t want it. He looked at Parker and said, “You remind me of somebody.”

Grofield said, “This is Parker, with a face job. Not just the nose, the whole face. What do you think of that?”

“Parker, eh? Who did the job?”

“A doctor out west,” Parker told him. “You wouldn’t know him.”

“He did a good job.” The doctor switched his attention to Grofield. “You’ve got something on, eh?”

“So we have. We need financing.”

“Obviously. This isn’t a social call.”

“Of course not. It’s this pain in my back, it’s killing me.”

Parker said, “Cut it out, Grofield.”

“Right you are.” Grofield sobered, and said, “We need four G’s.”

“Thousand? Four thousand?”

“Right the first time.”

“That’s a hell of a bite.” The doctor frowned, and stared at papers on his desk as though one of them had written on it the answer to a question that had been bothering him for months. “How long?” he asked.

“Couple of weeks. Maybe a month.”

“Anyone else I know in on it?”

“I don’t think so. Just me and Parker.”

“But there’s others in.”

“Oh, sure.”

The doctor considered again, then looked at Parker. “You’re in it?”

Parker nodded. He knew Ormont wasn’t very bright; the only thing to do was wait till he got everything straightened out inside his head.

Ormont said, “When do you need it by?”

Grofield shrugged. “Now. As soon as possible.”

“Tomorrow afternoon, the earliest. The absolute earliest.”

“All right, fine. I’ll come in and get it.”

Ormont nodded heavily. “Tomorrow afternoon. Two o’clock. I won’t be having office hours then, just ring the bell.”

“Will do.”

They all got to their feet. Ormont said, “Good to see you again, Parker. The face is a very good job.”

Parker nodded again. There wasn’t anything to say; he’d never been any good at small talk.

Ormont said, “Sorry to keep you waiting the way I did. But we’ve got to keep up appearances. My nurse isn’t in on it.”

“That’s all right.”

They went out. When they were back in the car, Grofield started laughing again. “This office isn’t bugged! Parker, if you had a sense of humor you’d bust a gut right now. This office isn’t bugged! I wouldn’t take a million dollars for that man.”

Parker lit a cigarette and waited for Grofield to get over it.

2

Twelve men made the dining-room uncomfortably full. Edgars had set up folding-chairs for the extras and had distributed beer. Then he and Parker and Paulus had taken turns filling the new men in on the operation. Edgars had run his slides, showing them the map, and also the photos of Raymond Avenue and the banks and the two gates to the plant and the police station and everything else. The room had filled with smoke, even with both windows open.

Handy McKay was the only one selected who hadn’t chosen to come in at least to listen. The rest were all there. Wiss and Kerwin, the other two safe and vault experts, both small, narrow men with an intense and concentrated look. Wiss had brought, to work with him, a rangy fortyish man named Elkins, with whom Parker had worked in the past. Chambers was there, a big awkward-looking hillbilly with a brother in jail for statutory rape. And Pop Phillips, an old guy who looked like Hollywood’s idea of a night watchman. And Littlefield, a stocky man in his fifties who looked as though he made his living selling gold-mine stock. And Salsa, in his late thirties, tall and slender, who looked like a gigolo and used to be one.

When the talk and the slide show was finished, and when Edgars had distributed more beer, Paulus asked if there were any questions. Wiss said, “One. What’s the split?”

“Even,” Paulus told him. “Every man a twelfth.”

“That’s not the regular way.”

Parker said, “This isn’t the regular job. It’s more men than usual, and more things to do.”

Wiss shrugged. “It don’t matter to me. What’s a twelfth of two hundred fifty grand?”

“That’s minimum,” said Edgars, “just a minimum.”

Paulus said, “A little over twenty thousand.”

Wiss said, “Twenty thousand’s all right.”

Littlefield, looking like a man at a board meeting, said, “You got financing yet?”

“Picked it up yesterday,” Grofield told him.

“How much?”

“Four G’s.”

“That’s eight thousand off the top. You couldn’t cut it any closer than that?”

Parker said, “You heard the setup. You got any way to shave it?”

Littlefield shook his head. “I guess not. But eight thousand’s a big bite.”

“Less than seven hundred a man,” Paulus told him.

Elkins, the man Wiss had brought with him, said, “How long you figure to stay out at this mine?”

Wycza laughed. “Till it cools,” he said.

“Maybe three, four days,” Parker told him. “We can stash cars there ahead of time, make our split there.”

Chambers, the hillbilly, stretched his long legs out and said, “What’s the chance of aerial surveillance? What if the state boys throw helio-copters out?”

“Helicopters,” said Paulus.

Edgars said, “There’s sheds there, and trees back a ways from the ravine edge. We can all get under cover.”

Chambers nodded and scratched his chin. “The truck, too?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

Chambers looked at him sideways. “Pretty sure? Pretty sure don’t cut it.”

“If we can’t hide it up top,” Edgars told him, “we can always take it down into the ravine. There’s an overhang on the south side, we can stick it in under there.”

“Just don’t like helio-copters.”

There was silence then. Parker looked around. Kerwin and Pop Phillips and Salsa hadn’t asked anything, but all three of them looked as though they were thinking hard. Parker said “Everybody in?”

Pop Phillips shook his head. “I’m not quite sure, Parker,” he said. “It strikes me as being a pretty ostentatious sort of proposition.”

Kerwin said, “How many safes?”

Edgars answered him. “The two bank vaults, the loan company, the three jewelry stores, maybe ten or twelve other stores that’d be worth it.”

“How you want to do it, noisy or slow?”

Parker looked at Edgars. “Any people live along Raymond Avenue?”

“No, it’s all commercial. There’s no homes less than a block away.”

“So you want juice,” said Kerwin. “That’s a hell of a lot of juice to carry around.”

Paulus said, “Why not drill? Blow the vaults, but drill the others.”

Wiss, the other safe man, said, “Drilling’s just as loud, and slower.”

“You got a hell of a lot of safes there,” Kerwin said.

“But three men doing it,” Parker told him. “You hit the payroll, while Paulus and Wiss start on the banks. Then the three of you take the rest of the town.”

Kerwin nodded. “Maybe so. You got to blow the vaults, no choice there. But I don’t like blowing everything, that’s too much juice to carry around.”

Paulus said, “Drilling doesn’t take long. It might even be, a couple of those safes, all you’ll need is a sledge on the combination.”

Wiss said, “I don’t mind drilling. But you want speed on this job.”

Professionals bickering about their specialty; it was taking them away from where they ought to be. Parker said, “You three work it out later. Any way you want to do it is okay.”

Elkins, Wiss’s partner, said, “What about alarms?”

“What about them?” Edgars asked him. “We’ll have the police station sewed up.”

“I meant bells. You don’t want the main street sounding like New Year’s Eve.”

“Oh. There aren’t any bells.”

“None at all?”

“Every business along Raymond Avenue is hooked up to a burglar alarm system at police headquarters. Trip the alarm in one of the banks or a store, and a bell rings in the police station, and a light comes on to show the man on duty where the break is.”

Elkins nodded, and said, “That’s all right, then.”

Salsa spoke up for the first time. He had a trace of accent in his voice. “How soon do you plan to do this?”

“Couple of weeks,” Parker told him. “Depends how long it takes to get set.”

“What do we do in the meanwhile?”

“We’ll get to that. First, is everybody in? Anybody want to drop out? Phillips?”

Pop Phillips shook his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” he said. “This looks all right to the rest of you, eh? I can’t help but feel we’re biting off more than we can chew, but if you’re all convinced it’s feasible, then I imagine that’ll have to be good enough for me.”

“Only if you’re sure,” Parker told him.

“That’s just his way, Parker,” Wycza told him. Phillips had been suggested by Wycza. “If he says he’s in, he’s in. Right, Pop?”

“I rely on your judgment,” Phillips told him. He looked like a rummy night watchman, baggy pants and all, but sounded like a retired schoolteacher. He’d taken two falls in his lifetime and had done a lot of reading in prison.

“I guess we’re all in,” said Paulus.

“All fools in a circle.”

“Shut up, Grofield.”

“You men give me confidence. This is going to be easier than I thought.”

“I only wish Ernie could be here to see this. He hateslittle towns.”

“It’ll be pleasant, I must admit, to be in uniform once again. I sometimes think I missed my calling.”

“More beer?”

They all wanted more beer. When Edgars brought it back and distributed it, Parker got to his feet and said, “We’ve got some setting up to do. Paulus, you and Wiss ought to take a run out to Copper Canyon and look it over. See if there’s any problems we haven’t covered.”

Wiss said, “I don’t like showing my face.”

“We’ll sell insurance,” Paulus told him. “Don’t you worry, I’ve done this before. I’ve got identity cards and brochures and everything. All you do is do a bad job selling insurance, and in between you look around.”

Parker said, “If Wiss don’t want to, he don’t have to. Kerwin?”

Kerwin shrugged. “All right by me.”

“Wycza, you and Salsa go out there and take a look at this mining place. But don’t stay in Copper Canyon.” He turned to Edgars. “What’s some other town nearby, bigger than Copper Canyon?”

“Madison.”

“All right. Stay at Madison. Chambers, you pick us up a truck, right?”

“I surely will.”

“The biggest they make.”

“That’s the one I’ll get, all right.”

“Wiss, get together with Paulus and Kerwin before they leave, work up a list of the supplies you need. Then you and Elkins go get the stuff.”

Elkins nodded. Wiss said, “Who’s handling the cash?”

“Grofield.”

“Treasurer and disburser, at your service.”

“Littlefield, pick yourself up a car. You and Phillips drive on out there to Madison and start moving groceries out to the mine. Enough for twelve men for a week, just in case. We’ll need water, too. Edgars tells me the water there’s polluted.”

Littlefield said, “Is this the car we’ll use in the job?”

“Right. So stay away from Copper Canyon. Arrange with the boys for when any of them wants to bring a car out to stash at the mine, so you can drive them back. The back money pays for your car and the truck and that’s it.”

Salsa said, “What about the lookout’s car? I’m lookout, town line.”

“Get yourself a car in town, when we start the operation.”

Salsa nodded. “That’s good.”

Parker told him, “What you want to do right away is pick us up walkie-talkies. Four of them, for you, me, Wycza and Grofield. Grofield’ll be at the telephone company, and he can get in touch with anybody else by phone. Wycza and Elkins will be coming together at the truck all the time, so they only need one walkie-talkie between them.”

“Four walkie-talkies,” said Salsa. “Very good.”

“Buy them here in the East.”

Salsa nodded.

Edgars said, “What about me? What do you want me to do?”

Parker shook his head. “Just stay loose. You’ll have things to do later.”

“Well, what about you? What are you going to do?”

“Guns.”

Phillips leaned across the table and said, “Let me have some of that notepaper, will you, Paulus? And does anyone have a pencil? Then we’ll make arrangements for rendezvous at the mine, for those of you with cars to leave there.”

Wiss said, “Kerwin, Paulus, let’s go out in the kitchen and talk.”

Littlefield turned to Grofield. “We’ll have to work out expenses,” he said. “The car, and food, and living expenses.”

“No living expenses,” Grofield told him. “We shaved that much out already.”

Littlefield pursed his lips. “If you think it works better that way.”

Grofield grinned at him. “You want me to go get some more? And you pay it back double, so that way you pay your living expenses twice.”

“That’s the way my income tax will read,” Littlefield told him.

“Income tax?” Grofield stared at him. “You pay income tax?”

“On every penny.”

“I bet yourreturn shakes them up.”

“I account for every penny of income,” Littlefield told him, “but I am forced, of course, to invent my sources.”

“Why bother?”

Littlefield leaned closer to him. “You’re a young man, you can still learn. Pay attention to this. You can steal in this country, you can rape and murder, you can bribe public officials, you can pollute the morals of the young, you can burn your place of business down for the insurance money, you can do almost anything you want, and if you act with just a little caution and common sense you’ll never even be indicted. But if you don’t pay your income tax, Grofield, you will go to jail.”

“Oh, sure,” said Grofield. “Sure thing.”

“Parker knows I’m right. You pay tax, don’t you, Parker?”

Parker nodded. Under the Charles Willis name he owned pieces of a few losing businesses here and there and they gave him the background to cover his income on his tax return.

Grofield shook his head. “I don’t get it. You’re putting me on.

“Income tax is Federal,” Parker told him.

“So’s a bank, for Christ’s sake.”

“I don’t mean Federal offense, I mean Federal, whose money it is. A bank is stockholders, but income tax is government money.”

Pop Phillips said, “Those are words of wisdom, Grofield. I only fell twice, and once it was income tax. I got three years, and I’m still paying the back taxes. Why do you think I’m not retired?”

“I’ll put you on to my accountant,” Littlefield said. “He’ll get you straightened out.”

Grofield got to his feet, looking agitated. “That’s a lot of crap. Don’t talk to me about that. Income tax!”

Littlefield shrugged. “You’ll go to jail,” he said.

Parker saw Grofield getting mad, and said, “Back to business. We got a lot to set up tonight.”

3

“Machine guns,” said the blind man. “They’re expensive, machine guns.”

“I know,” said Parker.

“And hard to come by.”

“I know.”

“The government tries to keep tabs on them. It’s tough to find one without a history.”

“I need three. And three rifles. And eight handguns.”

“Rifles, handguns,” said the blind man. “No problem. Machine guns, that’s a problem.”

Parker shook his head in irritation, though the blind man couldn’t see it. He’d come to the blind man because he was the one to talk to if you wanted machine guns. Parker would have preferred to go to Amos Klee, in Syracuse, but Klee was only good on handguns. It was the blind man, called Scofe, who should be able to supply the machine guns.

Parker said, “You don’t have them? You can’t get them?”

“Sit,” said the blind man. “Sit, sit. Let me think.”

Parker sat, and let him think.

They were in the filthy back room of a cluttered hobby shop on Second Avenue in Albany, New York. Scofe owned the hobby shop, and it was run by a sloppy woman with red hair who didn’t trust anybody. The filth and the clutter and Scofe’s blindness and the woman’s surliness combined to keep customers at a minimum. Scofe didn’t need much to support himself anyway and he got most of his income from guns. He was good with his hands, could disassemble and reassemble a rifle faster than most men with eyes, and was even a good shot. He fired at sound targets, a small bell hung up in a breeze or his favorite kind of target a child’s toy of the click-click type.

Scofe scratched his chin. He hadn’t shaved for a few days, and his fingernails made a harsh dry sound against his beard stubble. He said, “Shotgun no good? I got good shotguns, sawed-off or what you want.”

“Machine guns. Three.”

“You know what the Germans call a machine gun? Kugelspritz. Bullet squirter. All noise, no accuracy.”

“Three.”

Scofe shrugged, and made a motion as though washing his hands. “Not my affair. I got a Schmeisser, a burp gun. Old, but in good condition.”

“That’s one.”

Scofe chuckled, his shoulders rising and falling. “Parker,” he said. “Parker, Parker. I hear you got a new face, but your voice don’t change, or your style. You don’t like me, do you, Parker?”

“I don’t give a damn about you.”

“You don’t like the dirty old blind man. He smells bad. Yah, Parker?”

“Maybe I’ll go to Amos Klee.”

“For machine guns? No, Parker. For machine guns, you come to Scofe. You want the burp gun?”

“Let me see it.”

Scofe pointed. “Over there you see a shelf. Long boxes on it, battleship models. Bottom box, second from the left. Bring it here.”

Parker got the box. The ones he had to move were light, but the one he wanted was heavy. He started to open it and Scofe said, “I’ll open it, Parker. Bring it here.”

Parker brought it over to him. Scofe was sitting in a squeaky kitchen chair next to a table, an old scarred worktable with nothing on it. Parker handed him the box and Scofe put it on the table, half-turned to be closer to the table, and took the top off the box. It was full of parts. Scofe’s hands touched the parts, his long fingers moving like worms in a garden. Parker watched him as he put the parts together, feeling in the bottom of the box for screws, using a small metal screwdriver he took from his hip pocket. He put the parts together, and when he was done there was a burp gun on the table. “There,” he said. “You like it?”

Parker picked it up. There was rust on it, a little, not much. It was an old gun, but it looked to be in good shape. The places where it was rusted were where identification marks had been filed away, leaving the metal rough.

“Well?”

“How much?”

“I don’t haggle, Parker, you know I never haggle.”

“How much?”

“One twenty-five.”

Parker put the gun back down on the table. “What else you got?”

Scofe chuckled again. His hands reached out and found the gun and he disassembled it again, putting everything back in the model battleship box. When he was finished, he put the top on the box again and said, “You want to put it back? You’re not interested?”

“Leave it out a while. What else you got?”

“You take the burp, I can let you have two Tommys, a hundred apiece.”

“Where are they?”

“You know me, Parker, they aren’t bad guns. I don’t touch bad guns.”

Parker knew that, but he wanted to see them before making up his mind. He said, “You know me. I always look first.”

“I never look first, Parker. The smelly old blind man never looks at all.” He swiveled around and pointed to a corner. “Road-racer sets there,” he said. “Big square boxes. Fourth and fifth down. They’re all assembled.”

Parker went over. The fourth and fifth boxes were heavier than the first three. Parker felt the sixth box, and it was heavy, too. He carried the fourth and fifth over to the table, opened them, and looked at two Thompson .45 submachine guns, each equipped with a twenty-shot clip. They both looked all right. He put the tops back on the boxes and said, “These are good. I’ll take three of these.”

“Those two are all I got.”

“Then I want a road-racer set. The sixth from the top.”

“You’re a bastard, Parker. You’re a rotten bastard. You’re a filthy rotten son of a bitch. You take advantage of a poor old blind man, you’d spit on your own mother. You’re a cesspool, a walking cesspool, you’re vomit, you’re a cheap two-bit rotten punk.”

“Shut up, Scofe.”

Scofe shut up. He stuck his right hand up to his face and gnawed on a knuckle. He looked like an old squirrel.

Parker said, “One hundred each for three Tommys.”

“Two Tommys. And one twenty-five for the burp.”

“I don’t want the burp.”

“Then one fifty each for the Tommys.”

“Goodbye, Scofe.”

“I don’t haggle, Parker, you know me.”

Parker turned away and started for the front of the store. He opened the door and went through, leaving the door open behind him, and walked down between the display cases. The sullen woman watched him suspiciously.

Parker got halfway to the street door and then Scofe called, “Parker! Hey! Come back here!”

Parker turned around and went back. The woman kept watching him. He went into the back room again and said, “What?”

“Put these boxes away. You can’t leave these boxes out.”

“I’m going to see Amos Klee.”

“You’re a liar.”

“He can get me guns. I wait a few days, that’s all. He’ll scout around for me.”

Scofe twisted his head back and forth. “If I could seeyou!”

“It’s all in my voice, Scofe.”

“I hate you like poison. Like poison.”

“I don’t like to deal with you, Scofe. You smell bad. What’s your price, the three Tommys?”

“Three-fifty. That’s it, that’s the lowest.”

“Deal.”

“Tell my woman to come in here.”

Parker went to the door and motioned to the woman. “Come in here.”

She came in, and Scofe said, “Every transaction cash. This transaction, you pay the cash, then we see what else you want.”

The woman said, “How much?”

“Three-fifty. For three road-racers.”

Parker took an envelope out of his jacket pocket, and counted three hundred and fifty dollars on to the table, while the woman watched.

When he was done, she said, “Okay.”

“You’re all right, Parker,” Scofe raised his head and smiled. He was filthy, and his eyes were covered by a white film, and his teeth were brown. When he smiled, he looked like a parody of something unspeakable. “You’re all right,” he said again. “You don’t mean all those things you say to me.”

Parker went over and got the sixth heavy road-racer box. He put it with the first two, and picked up all three. He said to the woman, “Come out with me and open the car door.”

Scofe said, “What about the other stuff you wanted?”

“Never mind.”

“You’re going to Klee?”

Parker ignored him. He said to the woman, “Come on,” and started for the front of the store.

“You scum! You vomit! You stinking cesspool!”

Parker walked through the store to the street, the woman coming behind him. She opened the rear door of the car, and Parker put the three boxes on the seat. He closed the door and nodded to the woman.

She said, “He’s getting worse.”

Parker hadn’t expected her to talk. He stopped and looked at her and said, “He’s stupid. There’s others in the same business.”

“He don’t get half the business he used to. You, too, you’re going somewhere else now.”

“Tell him, not me.”

“It’s because he’s blind.”

“He ought to be used to it by now.”

Parker went around and got behind the wheel. It was a one-year-old Mercury, painted blue and white, a mace he’d picked up yesterday in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. He’d drive it out to North Dakota, stash it at the mine, and drive away in it after the job. Then he’d get rid of it. The Pennsylvania plates and registration paper looked good enough if he stayed out of Pennsylvania. From the little mileage on it, he thought it had probably been taken right from a dealer. Even with planned obsolescence, it would last as long as he’d need it.

He made a U-turn on Second Avenue and went up the hill and over to the Thruway entrance. The way he’d originally figured, he’d go back to Jersey City and stay over tonight, then pick up Edgars in the morning and head west. But now, having to stop off in Syracuse to see Klee, he’d have to make better time than that, get Edgars to leave tonight. If everything worked out, they could maybe pull it next Thursday night.

He picked up the ticket at the Thruway entrance and headed south. He was impatient, but he stayed just under the speed limit. He didn’t want a trooper looking into the road-racer boxes on the back seat.

4

“This is Jean,” said Edgars. He seemed uncomfortable.

Jean wasn’t uncomfortable at all. She was a hard-looking blonde of about thirty, short, with hard, conical breasts. She was sitting on the sofa in the living-room of Edgars’ apartment, her legs crossed and skirt hiked up to show her tan.

Parker looked at Jean and then at Edgars. He said, “So what?”

Edgars swallowed. “She’s coming along,” he said.

“Since when?”

“Since always. She’s always been with me.”

“Always?” Parker looked at her. She wouldn’t be with anybody always, and especially not Edgars.

“She doesn’t have anything to do with the business arrangement,” Edgars said. “I always had her go out to a movie or something when we had a meeting. And she can wait for us in Madison or somewhere until we’re done.”

Jean smiled lazily, looking at Parker like a nightclub booker at an audition, waiting for the new act to do something interesting. She said, “I’ll get along.”

Parker looked at Edgars and shook his head. “No dice. She can wait for you here.”

“Why? She’ll keep out of the way, I guarantee it.”

“She’ll keep out of the way better in Jersey City.”

“Parker, I give you my word”

“I don’t want your word.”

Jean said, “Who’s the boss around here, anyway, honey?”

“Nobody,” Parker told her. “And that’s just the kind of trouble you bring with you.” He turned to Edgars. “She stays here.”

Edgars was embarrassed and uneasy. He felt like a fool, in front of the woman. He said, “Nobody else will even seeher. I guarantee it. We’ll take her part way and leave her in Madison or somewhere. I’ll never say a word to any of the others; they won’t even know she exists.”

Jean laughed and said, “Just a quiet little mouse, that’s me. Quiet little mouse.”

Parker said, “She’ll show up in the middle of it. At the town, or the hideout.”

Edgars shook his head. “No, she won’t, Parker. I’m not a professional at this kind of thing, like you, but I know better than that. She doesn’t know where the job is, except North Dakota, and she doesn’t know where the hideout is either.”

“Except North Dakota,” said Jean, and laughed again. She looked at Parker, a challenge in her eyes, and said, “You don’t have to worry about me, Parker. I know my business, too.”

“We leave her farther away than Madison,” Parker said. He didn’t like giving in on this thing, but looking at Edgars he saw he would have to. The trouble the woman could cause if they took her along was less than the trouble Edgars could cause, lousing up the operation out of pique and embarrassment, if they didn’t take her along. “We leave her in some town this side of the North Dakota line.”

“Ipick the town,” she said.

Edgars nodded, grateful for the compromise. “All right,” he said. “I understand what you mean, Parker. That’s why I kept her out of sight all the time.”

“Sometimes I feel like a sheep or something,” she said. “Couldn’t you bastards at least lower your voices? You talk about me like I’m not even here, and I’m getting irritated.”

They both ignored her. Parker said to Edgars, “I got to make a stop in Syracuse, so we’ll have to leave tonight.”

“Tonight? I’m not packed or anything.”

“So pack.”

Jean said, “What about me? Half my stuff’s still over to the old place.”

Edgars wanted to hold on to her, but he knew she was a liability. He sounded irritated when he said, “So go over to the old place and getyour stuff.”

“Jesus,” she said. “It’s like the army. Alert! Alert! Alert! Pack your bag in the middle of the night and run your ass off.”

“I told you before about that language.”

“Up yours,” she said.

Parker said, “Argue later. Right now, pack.”

She turned to Parker, saying, “Drive me over to the old place.”

“Take a cab.”

“You’rethe one in the hurry, ugly.”

“You better take her,” Edgars said. “Otherwise, she’ll be gone for hours. I’d take her, but I got to pack. And I don’t have a car.” He said the last with surprise.

Parker was about ready to tell them both to go to hell, but then he thought of Edgars and his private reasons. The bitch might know something about them. He said, “All right, let’s go.”

“Be right back, honey.” She twisted the last word like a knife.

They left the building and got into the Mercury, and Parker said, “Where to?”

“Just straight ahead awhile. I’ll show you where to turn. Don’t worry, ugly, you won’t get lost with me.”

“I know.”

They rode four blocks in silence, and then she told him to turn right. It was after eleven at night, the middle of the week, and not much traffic on the streets. Parker drove along steadily, trying to think of a way to lead in to the questions he wanted to ask. Being no good at small talk was sometimes a disadvantage.

Ahead of him, a traffic light switched to red. He stopped and waited, and no cars came along from right or left to take advantage of the green light.

She said, “What do you know about him?”

Was she going to volunteer it all herself? He said, “Edgars, you mean?”

“Who else? What kind of a bird is he?”

So that took care of that. She knew less about Edgars than Parker did. On the off-chance, he said, “I thought you knew him from always.”

She laughed. “That’s his story. On my side, ‘always’ looks like three weeks.”

“Since he came to town.”

“I guess.”

“You didn’t sound like North Dakota.”

“Compliments yet.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

The light changed again, and he drove on. Two blocks farther on she told him to make a left. Her voice was cold as ice. He got stopped by another traffic light, went two more blocks and she said, “Just ahead on the right.”

There was a fireplug handy. He parked next to it. She said, “You want a ticket?”

“What do you care?”

“Not a thing, ugly. Wait here, I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“I’ll come along.”

“Why?”

“So you’ll be quicker.”

“Mister Edgars has such sweet friends.”

It was a brick apartment building, the entrance flanked by coachlamps bearing twenty-five-watt bulbs. There was a small green elevator, which took them slowly to the third floor.

As they walked down the hall, she rummaged in her purse for a key and said, “If my roomie’s in, try not to be any uglier than you have to.”

She unlocked a door and pushed it open. The apartment was dark. She felt along the wall and found the light switch. It was a ceiling light that came on, showing a large room full of clutter. Newspapers, magazines, paperback books, scattered all over the place. A studio couch was covered by wrinkled sheets and blankets; a pillow was on the floor next to it. There were wicker chairs and end tables and two lamps. A gray carpet was on the floor.

“My roomie’s a mess. Come in, if you’re coming. Shut the door. You want a drink?”

“No. Just pack.”

“I’m going to love travelling with you, ugly. You mind if I take a shower?”

“Yes.”

“Tough. That’s just plain tough.”

“If you want to know how far you can push me,” he told her, “you can find out right now.”

She hesitated, and then she shrugged. “I don’t care. You didn’t want me to come along, you talked about me like I wasn’t there, so I got sore. What do you expect?”

“I didn’t expect you at all.”

“Well, I’m here. I’ll keep out of the way like a good girl, and I won’t make trouble with Edgars or anybody else. All right?”

Parker shrugged. “That’s all I ask.”

“So I’ll take a very quick shower. Quickest ever, I promise. Okay?”

Parker looked at his watch. “We want to be out of here in twenty minutes.”

“Fifteen. Okay?”

She was making an effort, so he ought to make an effort, too. He made an effort, relaxed his face a little, and said, “Okay.”

“There’s booze in the kitchen, if you want a drink. And I won’t call you ugly any more. Okay?”

Now she was overdoing it. “Just get moving,” he said.

“You’re hard to get along with, you know that?”

He didn’t say anything at all to that, so after a minute she went on into the other room. Parker found the kitchen, found a bottle of Philadelphia and a glass and a tray of ice cubes, and made himself a drink. He could hear the shower running.

She was available. Some other time, he’d probably do something about it, but not now. He ran to a pattern that way; right after a job he was raring, he couldn’t get enough. Then it would slacken off, gradually, over months, until he didn’t give a damn at all. When he was working, he was an ascetic, not out of choice but just because that’s the way he was built.

He stood in the kitchen doorway, looking at the messy living-room and pulling at his drink. He heard the shower stop, and then she called, “You get a drink?”

“Yes.”

“Make me one?”

He went back to the kitchen and made her one, just whiskey over ice in a glass. He carried the two glasses across the living-room and into a small airless bedroom with a closed Venetian blind over the one window. She was wearing a white terrycloth robe, and a suitcase was open on the double bed. Her hair was wet, plastered to her head, and her face was scrubbed clean of make-up. That way she looked younger and less hard. Without the shrill good looks that cosmetics gave her, she had a plain and somewhat thin face.

“Just put it on the dresser,” she said. “You want to dry my back?”

“You do it.” He turned away.

“Wait a second.”

“Why?”

She was studying him with confusion. “You a good friend of Edgars, or what?”

“What,” he said.

“You always in such a goddam hurry like this?”

“I am this time.”

“I try to be friendly, and you put me down. What’s the matter with you?”

They were going to be traveling halfway across the country together, and she could always louse up Edgars’s effectiveness in the operation some way if she wanted to, so he made the effort again and said, “Maybe it’ll be different afterwards.”

“Afterwards what? You mean after this big secret mission you and charming Billy got on?”

“That’s right.”

She shrugged. “Okay, I’ll dry my own back. It wouldn’t stay wet till then, anyway.”

Parker went back to the living-room, tipped a wicker chair forward to dump newspapers and magazines out of it onto the floor, and sat down. He looked at his watch; six minutes had gone by.

When she came out, dressed in black skirt and white blouse and tan summer coat, carrying a suitcase in each hand, he looked at his watch again. Exactly fifteen minutes. She said, “Well? Do I get the gold star?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure. Gold-star mother. I had a boy in the service, but he died. Here, you’re the gentleman, carry these things. I’ll be right back.” She put the suitcases down and went into the kitchen. She came back carrying the bottle.

5

“There’s the turnoff,” Edgars said. He pointed.

Parker turned the Mercury off the highway and onto the secondary road. The highway had been concrete, three lanes wide, straight as a bowling alley. The secondary road was blacktop, two lanes wide, and curved a lot. But the road-surface was good, they could still make good time.

In the trunk of the car, along with the three road-racer sets from Scofe, were three rifles and eight pistols from Amos Klee. The rifles were a Higgins Model 45, chambered for .30-30, a Ruger .44 carbine, and a Winchester Standard 70, chambered for .30-06. The pistols were mostly Samp;W, .32 or .38 revolvers. Two boxes on the floor behind the front seat contained ammunition.

Yesterday they’d left the blonde, Jean, in a motel outside Thief River Falls, Minnesota. The name of the city struck Edgars as funny, which is why they picked it. Edgars wrote down the motel phone number, so he could call her from time to time and let her know everything was all right.

One way or another, she’d apparently made up her mind about Parker the first night, back in Jersey City. On the trip out she kept to herself, saying little, sitting on the back seat with her feet on the ammunition boxes, working her way through bottle after bottle. Every time they stopped, Edgars had to go buy her another bottle. “Gold-star mother,” she said to Parker once, and started to cry. But she cried silently and didn’t bother him. She was only about thirty, so the gold-star mother stuff was crap. Probably meant a boy friend killed in the army. Every tramp has an excuse.

But yesterday they’d unloaded her at Thief River Falls. Edgars gave her a bottle and some money, and promised to call every other day. Then he and Parker drove the last stretch to North Dakota. At Madison they picked up the highway that connected with 22A, the road into Copper Canyon. Three miles this side of it they came to the secondary road that headed toward the abandoned strip mine.

Parker glanced at the speedometer. “You said six miles to the dirt road?”

“About that.”

They rode in silence, till Edgars said, “There it is.”

Parker looked again at the speedometer. Six point two. He nodded, and made the turn.

The dirt road was in worse condition than the blacktop road; it hadn’t been kept up since the mining company had moved on. Parker kept it at thirty, and the car jounced badly, but never badly enough to force him to slow down. He checked the rear-view mirror from time to time, but the land here was clay or something and there was practically no dust raised in their wake. That was good.

They ran through a small wood that was choked with underbrush and then they emerged suddenly on a brown flat plain. Just ahead were squat small buildings, some of corrugated metal, some of wood siding. There was a station wagon parked up close to one of the wooden buildings. As Parker drove the Mercury closer a man came into view, walking leisurely toward them. It was Littlefield.

Parker braked to a halt, and Littlefield came around to his side and said, “You made good time. How you like it here?”

“Where do I put the car?”

Littlefield pointed. “That one over there. We ripped some of the wall down on the other side, so we could get cars in.”

Parker nodded, and drove forward again. Seen up close, the buildings were just sheds, each with a single door and one or two windows in each wall. Parker made a circle past the shed Littlefield had pointed out, and swung around to face it. It was one of the corrugated ones, and a couple of pieces of the wall were lying on the ground to one side. Parker drove through the open space and stopped.

There was just a dirt floor inside, and darkness, and dry heat. Parker felt sweat breaking out on his face before he was out of the car. There was a Plymouth already in there; with Parker’s Mercury added the shed was full.

“Christ,” said Edgars. “Hot.”

They went back out to the sunlight and walked around the shed and over to Littlefield, who was standing next to the station wagon, watching them. Littlefield was wearing gray work pants and a flannel shirt and a cowboy hat. He didn’t look like a member of the board of directors any more; out here he looked like a hanging judge.

Littlefield said, “We set this one up for living quarters. You go on in, I’ll stay out here and watch for them.”

“Better get the wagon out of sight.”

“One car don’t make any difference.”

“Get it out of sight anyway.”

Littlefield pursed his lips and went away to get the car out of sight.

Parker and Edgars went into the wooden shed. Inside, it was one large room, and it seemed a little cooler than outside. Folded army cots were stacked in a corner near some cardboard cartons. A folding table and some folding chairs were set up in the middle of the room.

Five men were in the room. Kerwin and Wycza and Salsa and Pop Phillips were sitting around the table, playing poker. Paulus was in the corner, inventorying the contents of the cartons.

Phillips waved a greeting. “Welcome to our happy home,” he said.

Edgars said, “It looks okay, doesn’t it?”

“It’s okay,” Parker told him. But he felt exposed, these little sheds on the flat brown plain.

Phillips said, “It was a deal of work for two old men, I’ll tell you that. Me and Littlefield, we took down some walls to make garages, we transported food, we buried jugs of water under one of the sheds, we swept up, hung some curtains, planted azaeleas outside the windows, and hired a butler.”

“It looks good,” Parker said. He looked at Kerwin. “How’s the town?”

“Easy.”

“Can we do it this week?”

“Sure.”

“No problems?”

“None.”

“Of course,” Pop Phillips said, “Wycza and Salsa, here, they did help a bit. But for two old codgers, Littlefield and me, we did our share.”

“Sure you did,” Wycza told him. Wycza always seemed proud of Phillips, as though he’d invented him.

Paulus, from the corner, said, “I’m not sure we’ve got enough food.”

“We’ve got enough,” Phillips told him. “We’ve got plenty, don’t you worry.”

Littlefield stuck his head in the doorway. “Somebody coming.” He went away again.

Parker went over to a window and watched a green Ford coming closer. It stopped. Littlefield went over to talk to the driver and then pointed. The car moved again. When it went by, Parker saw it was Wiss and Elkins.

Salsa came over. “I got the walkie-talkies. Shall I explain them to you?”

“Sure.”

They went over to where the walkie-talkies were, nesting in four boxes like outsize shoeboxes. Salsa explained they were a matched set, he’d had them fixed for him. Talk into any one and the voice came out of all the other three. You couldn’t talk to just one of the other walkie-talkies, but you couldn’t talk to any walkie-talkies except these three, either. “I told the man we were a group of hunters,” he said. He smiled, and his teeth were white and even. The Latin Lover, with a tan. “I told the truth,” he said. “We are a group of hunters.”

“They look good,” Parker told him. “Good work.”

Wiss and Elkins came in then, and Wiss said to Phillips, “I need a cool place to keep the juice. Littlefield says to talk to you.”

“One second.” Phillips looked at his cards, said, “Fold,” and got to his feet. “I’ll show you. Sit in for me, Elkins.”

Elkins sat down at the table, and Wiss and Phillips left. Salsa, still standing beside Parker, said, “This Thursday?”

“Right.”

“Three days. Good. Three days before, four days after. One week is about all I will be able to take of this place.”

Parker nodded. Their original plan had been to stay in towns around the general area until the night of the raid, but they’d decided instead to gather here today, and stay until after the job was finished. This way there wouldn’t be any strangers in nearby towns for the locals to remember later.

Edgars came over and said, “We’re set, huh? This is like I told you, isn’t it?”

“It’s fine. When Phillips comes back, have him show you some place to stow the ammunition. That shed’s too hot.”

“Will do.”

Littlefield stuck his head in again. “Chambers’s coming.”

Parker followed him outside and watched. Chambers was wrestling the truck across the uneven ground, and the trailer, empty, was jogging back and forth. The cab was a Mack, painted red, and the trailer a metal-color Fruehauf, just about the biggest standard size made. Neither cab nor trailer had any sort of company name or markings visible on them.

Parker stuck his head back in the door and called, “Edgars! Where’s the road down into the ravine?”

Edgars came outside and pointed. “Down past those sheds. You see the dropoff?”

“All right.”

Chambers had pulled the truck to a stop near the shed. Parker went over and climbed up into the cab and shut the door. Chambers was grinning, his face dirty, streaked with sweat. “This is a big old bastard,” he said.

“How was the road, coming in?”

“Not too bad. Couldn’t top thirty-five, but I got no load. When we come back with the ass full of men and gold, she’ll sit just fine on that road. You got a cigarette?”

Parker gave him a cigarette and lit one for himself. Chambers said, “I got it offen Chemy. He says to tell you hello, and his brother run that woman off. That make sense to you?”

“Yeah. Edgars says the road down to the bottom’s over that way. Let’s see if this truck’ll do it.”

“If it don’t, we can sing hymns while we fall.” Chambers started the truck forward again, slowly, and after a minute Parker could see the edge. The brown earth just stopped, and there was midair. Across the way, a good distance off, the earth started again; over there he could see the sheer brown wall going downward.

“Son of a bitch,” said Chambers. “I bet that’s it there.” He pointed out the cab window.

Chambers stopped the truck, and they both got down and walked over to look at the road. Down below, eighty feet down, there was a flat brown expanse with nothing growing on it. Two streams of red water angled and wandered through it. It looked like a sunny part of Hell.

“Look at that,” said Chambers. “Red water. What do you think, maybe it’s wine.”

“There’s the road.”

They both looked at it. It ran down the side of the wall, one lane wide, a dirt road with two broad ruts running down it. It went down at a steep slope, but it was straight all the way, reaching bottom at the far end of the ravine, where the ravine sloped up somewhat. The ruts circled there and came back along the ravine floor.

“I don’t know,” said Chambers. “I don’t like the looks of it.”

“Ore trucks did it.”

“They’re built low to the ground. Low center of gravity. I got me an empty trailer on there.”

“It’s straight. Just take it slow, that’s all.”

“Come on along, Parker. It’s your idea.”

They went back and got into the cab again. Chambers released the brake and eased the truck forward to the edge and slowly down the incline. They could hear the trailer couplings banging.

“She wants to run,” said Chambers. “She wants to fly down this goddam road.”

“You’ll make it,” Parker told him. “No problem.”

“Sure.”

The truck inched down the wall to the bottom, and Chambers swung the wheel to bring it around facing the other way. He stopped it, shifted into neutral, and said, “Give me another cigarette.”

They smoked a minute in silence, Chambers wiping sweat off his face onto his sleeve, and then Parker said, “Looks like they cut into the wall over there. Let’s go over and look.”

“I shoulda got me a biddy panel truck.”

Chambers wrestled the truck forward, and they came to a part where the side of the ravine angled inward sharply from top to bottom, leaving a narrow strip of the bottom in shadow. Chambers backed and filled till he got the truck in close to the side, in the shadow, and then they both got out and looked at it. Parker said, “We want to get some black paint. That metal shines too much.”

“Brown paint. Make it blend right in. Camio-flage.”

“All right, brown.”

“Now we walk up, right?”

“Right.”

“Christ. I’d be better off working.”

“Come on.”

Chambers took a step, stopped, and said, “Rotten eggs. Smell it?”

“That’s your wine rivers. Sulphur.”

“Real homey place.”

They walked back up the road to the top and went into the shed where the others were. Grofield was there now, making everybody present. Parker looked at him and waited for him to say, “All fools in a circle.”

But what he said was, “Come, Watson, come! The game is afoot!”

“This isn’t summer stock.”

“Good old Parker. This Thursday, huh?”

“This Thursday.” He turned to Littlefield. “All the cars stashed?”

“Right. Six of them. Two each in three sheds.”

“We better put the sides back on, in case anybody comes out here. What about the wagon?”

“I put it down in the woods, off the road.”

“Good.”

Parker and Wycza and Salsa and Grofield went out and put the torn-down sections of wall back into place, hiding the cars inside. Two men would be leaving in each car, after the job, each car going off to a different destination. Wiss and Elkins would leave together, and Wycza and Phillips, Paulus and Littlefield, Chambers and Salsa, Grofield and Kerwin. Parker would take Edgars with him, pick up the blonde at Thief River Falls, and drive them as far as Chicago. After that, they were on their own; Chicago was where Parker would dump the Mercury.

After they got the walls back up, and returned to the living-in shed, Parker found Littlefield and said, “One last trip to town for you. We need brown paint, to cover the truck.”

“Right. What if I go in after dark?”

“If you can find a store open.”

“There’s a hardware store I seen open nights in Madison.”

“Good.”

Parker dragged a couple of food cartons over to the table and sat down on them. “Deal me in,” he said. Behind him, Grofield was reciting, playing Falstaff and Hal both, Henry IV, Part I, Act 1, Scene 2.

6

Chambers brought the truck up at eleven-thirty, using the parking lights only. The rest were waiting for him in the darkness at the top. In the last three days, they hadn’t seen a single stranger, afoot or in a car or even in a plane. They might as well have been the last people on earth.

Parker and Salsa and Edgars carried machine guns Parker had discovered, to his surprise, that Edgars already knew how to operate a Tommy and Grofield, Chambers and Littlefield carried rifles. Salsa and Parker both also wore pistols, as did Kerwin and Phillips and Paulus and Wycza and Wiss and Elkins. Parker and Salsa and Wycza and Grofield had walkie-talkies strapped to their backs.

Chambers was to drive the truck, Littlefield the station wagon. Phillips and Edgars and Grofield were to ride in the wagon, the rest in the truck.

Chambers cut the parking lights as soon as he stopped the truck. There was no moon, but the sky was clear and full of stars. There was enough vague light to see by, sufficient for everyone to board.

Six men climbed into the back of the truck and sat along the sides, bracing themselves for the bumpy ride to come. Paulus and Wycza and Kerwin on one side, Wiss and Elkins and Salsa on the other. The safe men’s equipment was to ride in the station wagon, where it would get a less bumpy trip.

Parker went over to the station wagon and said to Littlefield, “Remember, give us five minutes. We’ll run slower than you, you can catch up when we get to town.”

“Right.”

“Don’t catch up before we pass the trooper barracks.”

“I remember, Parker,”

“See you later.”

Parker went back to the truck, took off his walkie-talkie, and climbed up into the cab with Chambers. He put the walkie-talkie on the floor between his legs and said, “All set.”

Chambers put on his parking lights again, and the truck jolted forward.

It was seven miles to the secondary road, and they did it at a crawl, not because of the bumps but because of the bad visibility. Chambers leaned far over the wheel, peering out through the windshield at the dimly seen dirt road. Beside him, Parker lit a cigarette and sat quiet. The last few minutes before a job, he was always quiet, almost in suspended animation. He had no imagination for the few hours ahead, nor worry, nor anticipation, nor anything else. His consciousness worked at the level of recording the jouncing of the truck cab and the feel of the cigarette smoke and the darkness beyond the windshield.

They got to the secondary road and made their turn, and Chambers sighed. He sat back more comfortably, switched on his headlights, and the truck picked up speed. After a minute, Chambers said, “You ever get scared, times like this, Parker?”

Parker roused himself, and said, “No.”

“You’re lucky. I could use me a jolt of store-bought blended right about now.” He laughed, a little shakily. “If them streams would of been wine,” he said, “they’d be dry right now. You know, I can smell sulphur in this cab? This here’s a good road, there’ll be no problem coming back. Be light then, too.”

Chambers talked on, working off nervous energy, and Parker sat silent beside him. They made the six miles to the highway and turned left. Up to now they hadn’t seen any other traffic, but a mile along the highway they saw headlights in front of them. They came on, moving fast, and a foreign sports car raced by, looking to them in the cab of the truck so low and small it could have gone under the truck instead of next to it.

“Maybe I’ll buy me one of them,” said Chambers.

Parker leaned forward a little bit and looked at the rear-view mirror outside the right window. A way back, he could see headlights. “If that’s Littlefield,” he said, “I’ll crack his skull.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout Littlefield. He knows what he’s doing.”

By the time they made the turnoff on to 22A, the headlights had dropped farther back. They rolled along, right on the speed limit, and after they passed the trooper barracks a squat brick building with yellow lights behind the windows, off to their left, surrounded by flat emptiness Parker said, “Slow down a little now. Give Littlefield a chance to catch up.” The headlights of the station wagon were much farther back now, almost invisible.

Ahead of them, on the right, was a sign. They came closer, and the truck lights illuminated it:

WELCOME

to

COPPER CANYON

“Son of a gun,” said Chambers. “Son of a gun.”

PART THREE

1

Officers Felder and Mason were on night-duty in Copper Canyon’s only prowl car. They rode along in companionable silence, looking for but not expecting to see violators of the city curfew. It was just a few minutes after midnight, and here and there lights were still on behind windows, but the sidewalks were empty. The radio hissed like coffee brewing; at the other end, Officer Nieman had nothing to say.

The prowl car was a Ford, two years old, painted light green and white, with Policewritten in large letters on the doors and hood and trunk. The dashboard lights were green, and there was a small red dot of light, like a ruby, on the radio. Officer Mason wanted a cigarette but couldn’t have one, because Officer Felder, who was driving, was allergic to cigarette smoke. Officer Mason said, “What say we take a break? I could use a smoke.”

“Let me swing down around by the west gate. George is on there tonight.”

“Fine by me.”

They were on Blake Street, east of Raymond Avenue. Officer Felder drove over to Raymond Avenue and turned right, and the west gate to the refinery was six blocks dead ahead.

A few cars were parked along Raymond Avenue, as usual. Between Loomis and Orange Streets,” against the right-hand curb, there was a huge tractor trailer parked. It was brown, all over brown. Officer Mason looked at it and thought to himself, Funny color for a truck.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He got one out, then got his lighter out. He was ready.

They were almost to the gate when the hissing radio suddenly spoke. “Officer Felder, Officer Mason. Officer Felder, Officer Mason.”

Officer Mason looked at it in surprise. What the hell kind of way to talk was that? They were on first-name basis, always. What the hell was this all about?

He grinned and said to Officer Felder, “Old Fred’s gettin’ highfalutin.”

“He’s just kidding around.”

Officer Mason picked up the microphone and said, “Yes, sir, Officer Nieman, what can I do for you, sir?”

“Come on in to the station. Something’s come up.”

“What’s come up?”

“Just get in here. Make it fast.”

There was something funny in Officer Nieman’s voice, some sort of agitation. Officer Mason said, “Okay, Fred, here we come.” He hung up the microphone again and said to Officer Felder, “Something’s sure got him upset. You hear his voice?”

“I heard it.” Officer Felder had already made the turn into Caulkins Street, and was driving toward police headquarters.

“That’s a funny thing,” said Officer Mason.

“What is?”

“Kidding around one minute, then all upset the next.”

“Maybe he wasn’t kidding around. Maybe he got all formal and everything because he was upset already. Got rattled or something.”

“Well, let’s see what it is.”

The police station was a modern building. It, and the fire department building across the street, had both been built five years ago, both with the same architect. They were built of tan brick, broad low buildings one storey high, very similar in appearance except for the wide garage-type doors across half of the fire department building façade. Flanking the police station entrance were large modernistic faceted green lights, and across the street the fire department entrance was flanked by similar lights in red.

Officer Felder pulled to the curb in front of the building, in the No Parking zone, one of the few in town. They both got out of the car and went up the cement walk past the well-tended lawn into the building. They entered upon a hallway, and the Command Room as the architect had called it where Fred Nieman would be, was to the left. It was a large room, with desks along one wall, and a counter in front of the area where the radio and booking desk were located.

They went into the Command Room, and Fred Nieman looked at them from over by the radio. He didn’t stand up or say anything or do anything. He offered them a weak and sheepish smile, and just sat there.

A voice behind them said, quietly, “There’s seven guns on you. Either of you make a single solitary move, you’re dead seven times.”

The two officers froze. Both of them thought immediately that it was some sort of gag, and both looked at Officer Nieman to find a clue in his face. But Nieman’s face was pale and frightened and sheepish, slit by a nervous, ashamed smile.

Footsteps sounded on the black composition flooring, coming from behind them, going to right and to left. Two men came around in front of them, both in dark work clothing, both wearing black hoods, slit three times for eyes and mouth. One of the two was carrying a Thompson submachine gun and had what looked like a walkie-talkie strapped to his back. The other one had a walkie-talkie, too, and carried a rifle.

Mason thought, A war attack. Commies! But even while he was thinking it, he knew that wasn’t it. This was something else. It might even be something worse.

Another black-hooded man, this one with a rifle but no walkie-talkie, stood up from where he’d been crouched beside the radio, out of sight from the door, and said, “Okay, Fred boy, git on over there by your pals.”

Officer Nieman got shakily to his feet and went around the end of the counter and came across the floor toward Mason and Felder. His face was pale, and shone with sweat under the fluorescent lights. A look of apology and shame was all over his face. Mason, watching him, thought Fred might even faint.

A hand came from behind Mason and took the revolver out of his holster. Another hand unarmed Felder.

The one with the machine gun said, “Listen close. For the next few hours, you got nothing to do but sit. You just sit, and don’t get cute ideas, and you’ll be all right. You.” He pointed the machine gun at Mason. “What’s your name?”

“Officer Mason.”

“First name.”

“Jim. James.”

“All right, Jim. You, what’s your name? First name.”

“Albert.”

“They call you Al, or Bert?”

“Al.”

“Okay, Jim, Al, turn around, and do it slow.”

They turned around. There were four more of them back there, hooded, in work clothes, one with another Thompson submachine gun, one with another rifle, and two with revolvers. They were just standing there, pointing all that death at Mason and Felder.

The spokesman said, “All right, Jim, Al, you’ve seen enough. Turn around again.”

They turned around. Mason was trying to think, trying to figure out their game. What the hell was all this?

The spokesman was saying, “Who’s got the prowl car key?”

Felder said, “Me. I have.” Mason was gratified to hear a quaver in Felder’s voice; he didn’t want either of his brother officers to be less frightened than he was, and he was terrified.

“Bring it over here, Al. Hand it to me.”

Felder did as he was told.

“Now go back where you were, Al. The two of you, Al, Jim, get your handcuffs out. Reach them behind you. Don’t turn around, Jim, just reach back. Now put your hands together behind you.”

Mason put his hands behind his back, and felt the cold metal of the cuffs close around his wrists. He looked at Nieman’s face and suddenly realized why Nieman had been so formal when he’d called in; he was trying to warn them.

Mason said, softly, “I’m sorry, Fred, I didn’t get it.”

“Didn’t get what?” It was the one who’d been hidden behind the radio, stepping forward.

Mason closed his mouth. Now he’d done it!

The one with the rifle and the walkie-talkie said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. Fred’s seen too many movies. He tried to signal these two by calling them by their last names.”

“Son of a bitch!” The one who’d been hidden behind the radio came closer and raised the rifle and slashed at Fred Nieman’s head with the butt. Nieman ducked away, raising his arms, and the rifle butt thudded into his shoulder, knocking him down.

The spokesman said sharply, “Cut that out! We need him.”

“You hear what he tried to pull?”

“It didn’t work. It never does. Fred, how’s your shoulder?”

Nieman sat on the floor, holding his shoulder, and didn’t speak.

The one who’d hit him said, “You better answer, boy, double quick.”

“It’s all right.”

“Good,” said the spokesman. “All right, Al, Jim, come on over this way. Al, lie down between these two desks here. Face down, that’ll be more comfortable, with your hands behind you that way. Jim, you over here between these two desks.”

It was tough to get down without his hands to help him. He dropped to his knees and was stuck, until hands came along to lower him more or less gently the rest of the way. He felt his ankles being tied, and then a new voice said, “Open your mouth, Jim.”

He opened his mouth. A piece of sponge was stuck into it and then a cloth tied around his head, covering his mouth, to keep the sponge in.

He couldn’t see anyone now. All he could see was desk legs and chair legs and the wall. But his ear was pressed against the floor, and he could loudly hear them walking around.

A new voice said, “All right, Fred, get back to the radio. You just sit there, and if a call comes in from anywhere, you handle it like it was a normal night. And don’t try anything else cute. I’ll know if you do.”

It was a familiar voice to Mason, the first familiar voice to come out from one of those black hoods. It was an arrogant voice, and an angry voice, and a familiar voice. Who? Who the hell was it?

All at once he knew, and his terror doubled. He heard the footsteps receding and then the familiar voice saying, “Now we’re alone, boys. Just you three and me. And this Tommy gun.

Edgars! It was Edgars!

2

Chambers felt all right now, all the nervousness gone, all the jumpiness out of his system. All he’d needed was to get started, get intothis thing. From the second he’d clubbed that smart-ass cop, every bit of jitters just washed right on out of him.

They’d left Edgars in there with the cops, and the other six went outside to stand on the lawn. Parker came over and said, “You got that out of your system now?”

“I guess I do. I feel a lot better.”

“Don’t do it any more.”

“Not if I don’t have to.”

“You don’t have to club anybody. Watch them if they behave, kill them if they cause trouble. Nothing in between.”

“All right by me.”

“Good. Everybody set?”

Everybody said they were set. Chambers felt a small irritation, at being chewed out by Parker right there where everybody could hear, but he shrugged it off. Minor irritations couldn’t bother him now. He felt good.

Parker had propped the Tommy against the outer wall of the police station, and had unlimbered the walkie-talkie. Chambers looked across the street at the fire department building, waiting, and behind him Parker said, “Salsa. You set up?” His voice had an echo, tinny and small, coming out of the walkie-talkie on Grofield’s back.

Then it was Salsa’s voice, coming over both of them: “Set. I’m in a car on Raymond Avenue, facing out, right side as you are going out of town, one block in from that welcome sign.”

“Anybody come in since us?”

“Not in or out.”

“All right. Wycza?”

“Here.”

“We got police headquarters. Going after the firehouse now. If you see the prowl car, don’t worry. I’ll be driving it.”

Wycza laughed, and said, “Want us to start now?”

“Wait till we’ve got the firehouse and the telephone company. I’ll let you know.”

“Right.”

Chambers had been fidgeting back and forth, standing in the darkness on the police station lawn. Now he said, “Come on, Parker, let’s roll it. We don’t got all night.”

“Don’t be so nervous.”

“Then let’s just roll, what do you say?”

“All right.”

The six of them walked over the lawn and the sidewalk and crossed the street, Chambers in the lead, the rifle held at a loose approximation of port arms. His face was sweating, making the hood stick to his flesh, but he didn’t really mind that. Just so they were moving.

Too bad Ernie wasn’t here.

Four big garage doors, painted red, across the front of the building in a row. To the right of them was the regular entrance, flanked by red lights. Like a cat house; Chambers grinned under the hood, feeling his skin stretch.

Chambers and Parker were in the lead when they went in. A hall went ahead and then turned right. After the turn, it ran straight and long, but only the nearest fluorescent light was lit, leaving the rest of the hall in darkness. The first door at the right was open, spilling more light into the hall.

Two men in dark blue uniforms had been sitting on opposite sides of a desk, playing cards. They stared, dropped their cards, and jumped clumsily to their feet. One of them kicked his chair over, getting up.

It was a room very similar to the Command Room in police headquarters, but a little smaller, with fewer desks, fewer pieces of electronic equipment, and less open floor space. Lined around the walls were framed photographs of groups of men standing in front of fire engines, some horse-drawn.

Chambers moved to the left of the door and sensed Parker moving to the right. This was the part he liked, moving fast and moving sure, moving like the pieces of a clock. Let somebody else make the plans; all Chambers wanted was to know his own part in it.

Parker was saying, “You don’t have to raise your hands, you aren’t armed. You, what’s your name?”

“Dee Deegan.”

“First name.”

“George.”

“And you?”

“Johanson, William Johanson.”

“They call you Bill or Will?”

“Uh, Bill.”

“All right, Bill, George, just pay attention.”

While Parker gave them the spiel, using their first names a lot, telling them how nothing would happen to them if they didn’t try nothing stupid, Chambers moved around and pulled a chair out from a desk with his foot and sat down. He kept the rifle level, hoping one of these bastards would make a run for it or something; he’d do just like Parker said, he’d gun him down in a second. But he knew neither of them would try anything; both paunchy geeks in their fifties, scared so bad they had to change their drawers.

Chambers wasn’t so sure about Parker. He was supposed to be sharp and cool and efficient and all that, but Chambers wasn’t so sure. What was all this crap about the first names? Who cared what kind of first names these stupes had? It was a waste of time.

When Parker was done, Grofield and Phillips came up and hogtied the one named Johanson William Johanson, tieing wrists and ankles and gagging him. Then Parker said to the other one, “How many men on tonight?”

“Fuh four.”

“Including you two?”

“Oh, no. I’m sorry. S-s-six.”

“All right, George, just relax. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Where are the other four?”

“Down the hall. They’re asleep, mister.”

“We’ll wake them easy. Which room?”

“Last two on the left.”

“Thanks, George.” Parker turned his head and spoke to Chambers. “We’ll let you know when it’s clear.”

“Sure thing.”

Parker and the others went out to tie and gag the other four sleeping beauties, and Chambers said, sarcastically, “Okay, now, George, just sit right down there. Right there where you were.”

George sat down.

“What kind of card game was that, George?”

“Gin.”

“Gin. Is that right? You got any of that other kind of gin here, George? You know the kind I mean?”

“No, we don’t. I’m sorry, we don’t have anything like that.”

“That’s a real pity, George.” Chambers grabbed the bottom of his hood, just under his chin, and flapped it, to get some air inside. “This is a real nice firehouse you got here, George,” he said.

“What are you people going to do?”

“Oh, now, don’t go asking questions. Remember what happened to that curious cat.”

Chambers stretched, and then set the rifle down on the desktop beside him, where it was handy. He said, “You know what you’re supposed to do, you get any kind of call, right?”

“Yes. I know.”

“Good boy, George. I sure do wish you had some of that other kind of gin.”

“I’m sorry. How how long is this going to be? I mean, before you let us go.”

“Curiosity, George.”

“But what if there’s a fire?”

“Why, we’ll just toast marshmallows, George.” Chambers laughed, and stuck a hand up under his hood to wipe the sweat from his face.

Parker stuck his head in and said, “Clear. We’re moving on now.”

“Have a good time, y’all.”

“We’ll keep you posted. By phone.”

Parker went out again.

This was the dull part. From now on, just sitting and waiting, this was going to be the dull part. If Ernie was here, they could Indian wrestle or something. He should of asked to be put on the truck detail, instead of Wycza. Let Wycza sit here all night.

He looked at George, speculatively, trying to find a sign in George’s face to indicate he might maybe try something pretty soon, make life interesting somehow. But there was no sense even hoping; George just wasn’t the heroic type, that’s all there was to it.

He stretched again. He wished he could take the hood off, but he couldn’t. He’d taken one fall, and his picture was on file. A dumb fall. Him and Ernie, seventeen years of age for him and nineteen for Ernie, they were just razzing this clown with the tape recorder, down having old rumpots sing folk songs into it, and someway or other it all got out of hand, and when they were done they hadn’t just beat the tape recorder in with lumber chunks like they’d intended, they’d beat the clown in, too. Then they had no more sense but to go right straight on home, and get picked up by the sheriff the next morning. Nobody much believed their story about stopping the clown from trying to rape some little girl that run away and likely too mortified to come forward and testify, but they stuck to the story anyway and got smaller sentences than they might of otherwise. Eight years apiece, for manslaughter. Out in less than three years.

There was a time, once, when three years in a state pen couldn’t hurt anybody, but that time’s long gone. Go look for a job, and the paperwork starts. When was you in the army? Why not? Where were you instead? What were you in the pen for? We’ll call you if there’s an opening.

Not all jobs were like that. Nobody cares what you did a while back if all they want you for is to operate a shovel or work in a harvest gang. Heavy work for low wages, all you can use.

There’s more than one way to make a living. And if you want more of a living than you can get with a shovel, and if nobody’ll give you a sniff at any sort of a job better than that, there’s stillways to make a living.

Chambers stretched and scratched himself, and watched old George. That damn fool Ernie. Why take off after a sixteen-year-old chippy anyway? Who cares how willing she was?

Chambers sighed, and shifted position, and felt the sweat dribbling down. Too bad Ernie wasn’t here.

3

Grofield heard background music. Always, everywhere he went. Sometimes lush and full, with a lot of strings. Sometimes rapidfire, with xylophones and brass, that busy-Manhattan-street-with-yellow-taxicabs music. Sometimes strident, harsh, dramatic. But always music, in the air around his head like a halo.

Right now, next to Parker in the front seat of the prowl car, the music he was hearing was low, slow, like a heavy pulse beat; a bass drum, and a bass fiddle, and maybe a few other instruments, all low-pitched, pounding out a slow relentless beat, gradually building up.

Parker was driving, and wearing a hat he’d taken off one of the cops. The walkie-talkie was on the seat between them, and the Tommy between their knees, barrel down against the floor, stock jutting up onto the seat. Grofield’s rifle was in his arms, butt in his lap and barrel pointing up past his right ear. His walkie-talkie was on the floor between his legs.

Behind them, in the other car, were Phillips and Littlefield and Kerwin. The two cars drove over Caulkins Street to Raymond Avenue, and turned left. A block and a half up they saw the truck, but nobody in or near it. Grofield heard the music build up in tempo as they went by, rolling slow and silent, Parker’s face all jutting angles in the green dashlights. Grofield turned his head to look at the truck, anonymous-looking truck, imagining the angle of the follow shot, the camera, having trailed up to now, now speeding, going past on the other side, keeping the truck always centered beyond the prowl car, and intercutting to the faces inside, Parker and himself.

He felt he ought to say something, but nothing came to mind. Nothing that wasn’t banal, too damn typical of this scene. None of the really great playwrights had ever written this scene; the fifth-raters who had written it would all, to a man, put in his mouth at this point the line, “Well, this is it, boss.”

He remained silent.

Three more blocks and they turned left on Blake Street. The telephone company building was one block over, on the corner. Parker stopped the car, and the background music stopped, too, leaving a dramatic silence. Parker got out of the car, carrying the Tommy but leaving the walkie-talkie, and Grofield got out on his side, strapped his walkie-talkie on, and picked up his rifle. The station wagon had stopped behind them, and the other three had gotten out. They’d all had their hoods off while riding, and now they put them back on.

The telephone company building was three stories high, made of the yellow brick that seemed to be standard around here for nonresidental buildings. The walk up to the door was flanked by flowers. There was a dim light beyond the entrance door, and lights behind four of the windows on the second floor left.

They went in without talking. The walkie-talkie on Grofield’s back made a tiny jangling sound as he moved, barely loud enough for even him to hear it. That would be amplified on the soundtrack, serve instead of background music. He tried to walk so as to give the jangling a proper slow rhythm.

Inside, a globe hanging from the ceiling was lit, showing a hall, and a wide flight of metal stairs leading up. They went up, sliding their feet on to each step with small shushing sounds, to avoid any clatter, and at the top they saw a door with light behind the frosted glass.

They pushed open the door and went in, Parker first, Grofield after him, and the others behind. Parker said, “Stop, ladies. If anybody screams, I shoot.”

Three women. One at a desk, writing with a ballpoint pen. The other two on chairs before a long switchboard filling the right-hand wall, looking like a flat black computer. All three stared. Two opened their mouths, but none of them screamed.

Parker said, “All stand up. Move to the center of the room.”

The woman at the desk found part of her voice and said, “What are you men doing here?”

“Do as the gentleman tells you, dear,” said Grofield, “Don’t interfere with the schedule.”

He watched the three women move uncertainly to the center of the room. The two operators looked terrified, period. The woman who’d been at the desk looked both terrified and indignant. But there wouldn’t be any screaming, and there wouldn’t be any running or anything like that. They’d behave.

Parker lowered the Tommy and pointed at the woman from the desk. “What’s your name?”

“Mrs Sawyer.”

“What’s your first name, Mrs Sawyer?”

“Edith.”

“Introduce me to the other ladies, Edith.”

“I don’t know what you have in”

“Just tell me their names, Edith.”

One of the operators blurted, “I’m Linda Peters.”

“Thank you, Linda. What’s your friend’s name?”

The friend spoke for herself. “Mary Deegan.”

“Mary Deegan. Tell me, Mary, you related to George Deegan, over at the firehouse?”

“He’s my uncle.”

“Well, he’s in good hands, Mary. Just like you.”

Grofield liked to watch Parker work. See him before a job, or after, you’d think he was just a silent heavy, quick-tempered and mean, about as subtle as a gorilla. But on a job, dealing with any people that might be in the way, he was all psychology.

Terrify them first. Terrify them in such a way that they’ll freeze. Not so they’ll make noise, or run, or jump you, or anything like that, just so they’ll freeze. Then talk to them, calm and gentle. Get their first names, and use the first names. When a man uses your first name, calmly and without sarcasm, he’s accepting your individuality, your worthiness to live. The use of your first name implies that this man really doesn’t want to harm you.

The fright to freeze them, and then the reassurance to keep them frozen. And it worked almost every time.

Parker was explaining it to them now, telling them all they had to know. He was telling them he was sorry two of them would have to be tied and gagged, but it wouldn’t be for long. They were watching him, the three of them, hanging on his words.

That was another part of the psychology. Bunch them together right away, in a little group. It reassures them, to be in a group, and it cuts down the possibility of individual initiative. Each member of the group waits for some other member of the group to lead the way.

Parker even arranged the tieing and gagging differently. Phillips and Littlefield brought over two of the chairs, took the casters off them so they wouldn’t roll, and had Mrs Edith Sawyer and Linda Peters sit down in them. Their ankles were tied to the center chair leg, their wrists were tied behind their backs, and the sponge-and-cloth gags were applied. Then Parker and the others left, and Grofield was on his own.

The operator still loose was Mary Deegan. Grofield said to her, “Mary, do you suppose there’s a telephone book around here anywhere?”

“Well, yes. Of course.” Her fright was fading, and she was now becoming bewildered.

“Good. Mary, I want you to get that book, and sit down at Edith’s desk there, and copy down some phone numbers for me. Will you do that like a good girl?”

“The book’s in the desk drawer.”

“Well, then, get it.”

She went over and sat behind the desk, and looked at him doubtfully. “It’s all right for me to open the drawer?”

“Mary, you don’t have a gun in that drawer. And if you do, you have more sense than to show it to me. Go ahead and open the drawer.”

She opened the drawer, and put the phone book on the desk.

“Good girl. Now, give me the phone number for police headquarters. Got it? Now the firehouse.”

She looked up. “Do you really have my uncle prisoner, too?”

“Tut, tut! Prisoner me no prisoner, nor uncle me no uncle.” Though she couldn’t see it under the hood, he smiled, then said, “A paraphrase of Shakespeare. Your uncle is in good hands. Write down the number, and maybe later you can talk to him.”

She wrote down the number.

“Let’s see. One more. The night phone at the refinery.”

She wrote that one, too.

“Good girl. Just leave the paper there, and rise and go to yon computer, if you would. Resume your seat there.” He sat down at the desk, put the rifle down on its top, and pointed to the phone in front of him. “Can I work this? Or do you have to do something there?”

“You can work it.”

“Fine.” He picked up the receiver, and dialed police headquarters.

It was answered after one ring: “Police headquarters, Officer Nieman.” The officer’s voice sounded a little thin and strained.

“Hello, Fred, let me talk to E. The man with the machine gun.” He felt the women’s eyes on his face as he said the last words, and even though he wore a hood he forced himself not to smile.

Edgars came on the line, sounding wary. “Yeah?”

“G here at the phone company. Everything’s fine. You can reach me at 7-3060. Got that?”

“Got it. Everything’s under control here, too. You’re the first call.”

“May I be the only.”

“Right.”

Grofield broke the connection and called the firehouse. The shaky voice this time said only, “Hello?”

“Hello, George. I want to talk to C.”

“Who?”

“The man with the rifle.”

“Oh. Oh!”

Chambers came on, saying, “How’s it going, man?”

“Fine. Everything under control. Let me give you the number here, in case you have to reach me.”

“Hold on. George, give me a pencil. And a sheet of paper. Okay, go ahead.”

Grofield gave him the number, and then hung up and got to his feet. He took the walkie-talkie off, set it on the desk, next to the rifle, and hunched his shoulders to get the stiffness out of them. He looked over at Mary Deegan and said, “Mary, you got direct distance dialing here?”

“Not yet.”

“If anybody wants to call out of town, they’ve got to go through you, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He picked up the rifle and walked across the room to her. “If anybody calls you, I want to listen in. How do we work that?”

“You could sit there, I guess. Put that headset on, and plug that jack in there.”

“Fine. Now we’re set, aren’t we?”

“I suppose so.”

Grofield leaned back in the chair, feeling the unfamiliar closeness of the headset against his ears. The music had a high richness to it now, and he was bringing it back from over Germany, the co-pilot dead in the seat beside him. They’d said daylight low-level precision bombing was impossible, but he’d helped to prove them wrong. Radio silence, radio silence. The earphones were silent on his head.

Six years, eleven jobs. Every one of them had had the moments of high drama, complete with music and camera angles and dramatic lighting effects but they’d all had stretches like this, too, of waiting, silence, and boredom.

Twenty thousand. Maybe more. Too late to get into summer stock now, but there was always winter stock in Florida or Texas or somewhere. This time, why not spend the money the smart way? Produce. Get into the money end of the damn racket for once.

But you couldn’t produce stock and act in it both. He’d already tried it, in Maine, three summers ago. But he liked to act and he hated paperwork, and the summer had been a disaster. So he’d do the same as always, act for peanuts in winter stock, throw away the dough on a convertible and a good apartment and good times, and by the end of the season he’d be broke again, looking around for another job. Number twelve.

All except number one had been fine. Competent professional jobs, because he was working with the right people. The first one had been a mess. Begun as a gag, actually gone through with only because nobody wanted to be the first to quit, and successful by pure luck.

In Pennsylvania it was. A repertory company, twelve of them on a shares basis, and the company not even earning enough to maintain itself. Four of the guys had started talking about stealing, as a gag: “If business keeps up this lousy, we’ll have to knock over a gas station or two.” Then the gag got specific; a supermarket in a suburban area forty miles away.

When it stopped being a gag and started being reality Grofield couldn’t say for sure. But it became reality, as they worked out plan after plan for weeks, and then they went ahead and did it, wearing masks, carrying prop guns loaded with blanks, in an old beat-up Chevrolet with mud smeared on the license plates. They got forty-three hundred dollars, and they never were caught.

That was number one, and afterward Grofield swore it would never happen again; you couldn’t bank on dumb luck forever. But he was still in general contact with a guy he’d known in the army, and one time he mentioned the supermarket score to him the only one he’d told about it, up till then and the guy laughed and offered him a spot driving in a jewelry store heist. It was just driving the car, and he was broke again, summer stock being over and nothing having turned up in the city. So he did it.

And he was still doing it. He was probably the only actor in the United States who could really afford to work at Equity minimum.

Over on the desk, the walkie-talkie spoke, in a tin imitation of Parker’s voice, saying, “Radio station taken care of. Nobody was there.”

Wycza’s voice said, “Shall we start?”

“Wait till we get the west gate.”

“It’s almost twelve-thirty.”

“I know.”

Mary Deegan said, suddenly, “You’re going to steal the payroll, aren’t you?”

“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies. I tell you what, let’s play Twenty Questions. You know how to play Twenty Questions?”

“Wha what?”

“Twenty Questions. Do you know how to play it?”

She nodded, doubtfully.

“Good.” He looked around, saw the walkie-talkie. “I’m thinking of something mineral.”

All at once she started to cry. She ducked her head and whispered, “I’m, I’m sorry. It’s my nerves.”

“That’s all right, Mary. It’s just stage fright, don’t worry about it.”

4

Kerwin didn’t take any part in wrecking the radio station equipment. For himself, he didn’t even think it was necessary, but Parker and the others did, so let them do it.

He stood in the doorway, watching the street. The prowl car was parked there, at the curb, with the station wagon behind it. There was absolute silence from the street, but from inside there were the crashes of metallic breakage.

Kerwin liked metal. He liked machinery, liked to watch it work, liked to fiddle with it and learn about it and understand it. At home, he was a ham radio operator, and a do-it-yourselfer. He owned two prewar cars, and they both ran like watches. In one corner of his basement there was a model train layout, full of drawbridges and complex signal systems; he ran the model railroad with his neighbor, and two pipes under the driveway between their houses carried track which linked their systems.

He liked machinery and he hated to see it destroyed. When it came to safes, he liked to use drill and screwdriver and wrench and his own hands; men who relied on nitro were just bums and amateurs, not professional safemen at all. And when it came to the kind of wreckage Parker and Littlefield and Phillips were doing in the radio station now, Kerwin wanted no part of it. He didn’t approve.

The sounds stopped. A few seconds later, they came out, all wearing their hoods, and Parker said, “Clear?”

Kerwin nodded. “Clear.”

They went out and got into the two cars, Parker and Phillips in the prowl car, Kerwin and Littlefield in the wagon. They drove back up Whittier to Raymond, turned left, and drove down to the end, to the west gate of the plant.

This part had no effect on Kerwin at all. People were just fuses; they had to be deactivated before you could get to work. He and Littlefield waited while the prowl car nosed forward to the gate, and the guard came out of his booth, waving in a friendly way. Then the guard stopped, and raised his hands, and Kerwin saw Phillips get out of the car, walk around it, disarm the guard, and walk him back into his shack.

Littlefield cleared his throat, and said, “Think they need us?”

“If they do, they’ll motion to us.”

“I guess so.”

Parker had gotten out of the car now, too, and had gone into the shack. After a couple of minutes, Phillips came out wearing the guard’s uniform. He attached a metal sign to the already-closed gate, and got into the car just as Parker also came out of the shack.

Littlefield cleared his throat again. “It’s certainly running smooth,” he said.

Kerwin glanced at him and saw how tightly he was holding to the steering wheel. “Nothing to be nervous about,” he said.

“That’s right.” Littlefield coughed, and cleared his throat.

The prowl car had backed away from the gate, and swung to the right. Littlefield put the wagon in gear, and followed the prowl car down Copper Street toward the other gate. Closed luncheonettes and bars and barber shops and tailors were on their right, and the fence on their left. Beyond the fence were the dark bulks of the plant buildings, and beyond them, in total darkness, the sheer wall of the canyon.

Again, the station wagon hung back while the prowl car drove up to the gate. The same actions were repeated, and then Parker waved to them to come forward. Phillips had opened the gate, and was standing there looking natural and easy in the guard uniform. He gave them a mock salute as the wagon passed him, following Parker along the blacktop company street between the buildings.

By the time Littlefield stopped in front of the main building, Kerwin had his bag of tools ready in his lap. They got out of the car, joined Parker, and the three of them went into the building.

As far as Kerwin was concerned, defusing people was Parker’s job. Kerwin’s job was simply to stand there and add numerical strength. He entered the office with Parker and Littlefield, and belatedly drew the revolver from his shoulder holster. Guns were about the only machines he wasn’t interested in; he held this one absent-mindedly, waiting without listening while Parker talked to the frightened man a while, and then Parker and Littlefield tied and gagged him. Once they were done, he put the revolver away again the safety hadn’t been off yet tonight and said, “Where is it?”

“Through here.”

Littlefield was sitting at the desk now, clearing his throat and watching the telephone. Kerwin followed Parker through a doorway, across an office, down a hall, and through another office. He waited while Parker forced a locked door, then went into the room and looked at the safe.

It was dark green, with yellow designs. Approximate exterior dimensions, four feet high, two and a half feet wide, three feet deep. Simple combination lock. Parker had turned on the office lights, because the windows here faced the rear of the building. Kerwin walked over and set his bag on a desk and patted the top of the safe.

Parker said, “You all set?”

“Mmm? Yes, of course.”

5

Paulus sat on the floor in the back of the truck, and fidgeted. It was pitch black in the truck, nothing to see, nothing to do. Paulus liked to be able to observe what was going on, to see symmetry in the motion around him, and to see whether or not things were going right. Sitting here in the truck, in darkness, while actions important to him were going on outside, was torture.

From time to time, Wycza’s walkie-talkie spoke out in Parker’s voice, saying where they were, what they’d done. That they’d ruined the equipment in the radio station. A little later, that they’d captured the guard on the west gate. Just the bare facts, unadorned.

It wasn’t enough. Paulus wanted to be able to see. He wanted to look at the radio station equipment and knowit was no longer workable. He wanted to see the guard, find out his name, watch his reactions, gauge the possible danger he might be during the course of the night. He wanted to know precisely the situation at the telephone company, the firehouse, the police station. He wanted to see exactly where Salsa was stationed near the town line. He wanted to have a clipboard, and a list, and a pencil with which to check off completed items satisfactorily handled. He wanted to see symmetry and balance and precision.

A match flared; Wycza lighting a stub of cigar. In the small light, Paulus again saw the plank floor and metal sides of the truck, saw Wycza and Wiss and Elkins sitting, like himself, on the floor, saw his own sturdy suitcase full of tools and the weatherbeaten black bag like a doctor’s bag in which Wiss kept his equipment. He looked at his watch, but he wasn’t fast enough; Wycza blew out the match.

He shook his head in annoyance. It was important to know the time, know whether or not they were keeping to the schedule. He reached for his own matches.

But a clinging self-consciousness wouldn’t let him light a match just to see his watch; he didn’t want the others to know he felt that strongly about knowing the time. So he got out his cigarettes, too, though he didn’t particular want a cigarette. He struck the match, lit the cigarette, and kept the match aflame till he’d read his watch.

Twelve thirty-five.

Not too bad. He’d be in at the bank vault well before one. He shook the match out, and sat holding the cigarette, not smoking it.

The walkie-talkie spoke again: “Got the east gate. Going into the main office now. You can get started, W.”

They had to use the initials because of Grofield. He was at the telephone company, with one of the walkie-talkies, and the women there could hear everything it said. It was Paulus who’d suggested the initials.

Wycza was saying, “Okay. You gonna prowl now?”

“After we get the main office.”

“Check.”

Paulus clambered to his feet, felt around in the dark, and picked up his suitcase. He moved toward the rear of the truck, and before he got there Elkins pushed the door open and jumped down to the street. Elkins reached up and took the black bag from Wiss, and Wiss clambered down more carefully. Paulus waited for Wycza, and as Wycza passed said, “You go first, I’ll hand you my suitcase.”

“Sure.”

Being the last out, Paulus was careful to close the truck doors again. He took the suitcase back from Wycza and stepped up on the sidewalk. Wiss and Elkins had already started across the street.

Directly ahead of Paulus was the Merchant’s Bank building, with the offices of Nationwide Finance amp; Loan Corporation on the second floor. The building was modernistic, made mostly of glass and chrome. Even the doors were mainly glass.

Paulus set his suitcase down near the doors and waited for Wycza to let him in. Wycza got his revolver from its shoulder holster, and used the butt to break the door glass. There were quieter, more scientific ways to do it, but they weren’t worried about noise here, and the scientific ways were all slower. Wycza reached through, unlocked the doors from the inside, and pushed them open.

Paulus followed him inside. Wycza had put his revolver away now and taken out a flashlight. The narrow beam showed wood-paneled counters with marble tops, and cream composition flooring, and a free form copper bas relief sprawled out on one wall. The vault door was in plain sight on the rear wall, huge and round and complex, looking like an escape hatch on a spaceship or the entrance to a torpedo tube in a submarine.

After the front door, there were no more obstacles to the vault, no doors to unlock or gates to jimmy. They lifted a flap at the end of the counter, walked through the loan department, took a left around a railing, and there was the vault door in front of them. Desks and railings and countertops hid them almost completely from the street.

While Wycza held the flashlight, Paulus studied the vault door. He nodded in recognition of the type, walked back and forth to consider it from various angles, and rubbed the knuckles of his hands together as he thought it out. Drill four holes, load, blast. He pursed his lips, and nodded. Now he was absorbed, completely absorbed.

Wycza said, “Any problems?”

“I don’t think so. Shine the light here a minute.”

He knelt and opened the suitcase, got the drill, selected a bit, changed his mind and selected another. He looked around and said, “Find me an outlet.”

“Over here.”

“Am I going to need the extension?”

“No.” Wycza laughed. “Handy, huh? The architect had you in mind.”

“Good of him.” Paulus carried the drill over to the vault, went down on one knee. “Hold the light steady, now.”

The drill began to whine.

6

He’d missed the curfew.

His name was Eddie Wheeler, he was nineteen years old, he worked at Brooks’ Pharmacy, and he was now in the Campbell house, having been engaged in premarital intercourse with Betty Campbell, whose parents were visiting relatives all this week in Bismarck.

He’d fallen asleep, entwined in Betty’s arms.

“It’s one o’clock,” he whispered. There wasn’t any need to whisper he and Betty were the only ones in the house but he whispered anyway. For the same lack of reason, they hadn’t turned on any lights, but depended on the illumination coming faintly through the window from a streetlight outside.

“What are you going to do?” Betty was half-sitting, half-lying on the bed, holding a sheet up to her throat.

Eddie felt around on the floor for his other shoe. “What can I do? I’ve got to get home.”

“Stay here tonight.”

“And what do I tell my folks? Where do I say I spent all night?”

“But what if the police catch you?”

“What can they do to me?” He found the other shoe, put it on, tied the laces. “They’ll just give me a warning, that’s all.”

“It’s my fault, Eddie, I shouldn’t have gone to sleep.”

“We bothwent to sleep.” He got to his feet. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Wait, I’ll walk you downstairs.”

“No, stay there, go back to sleep.”

“I’ve got to lock the door anyway.”

He was concentrating so hard on getting away, slipping across town to his own house without being caught by the police, that he barely paid attention to her when she got out of bed, slim and pale and naked as a nymph, and quickly shrugged into a bathrobe. Almost six months they’d been sleeping together now, and she still got into a robe any time she got out of bed, still covered herself with a sheet before and after, still made him turn his back while she undressed and got into bed. It was silly, but there it was. And it was a small price to pay.

Six months, and this was the first time anything had distracted him from staring at any rare glimpse of her she offered. The goddam curfew.

They went down the carpeted stair together, she barefoot, and over to the front door. His heart was pounding, he felt like a desperado. He opened the door a little and peeked out, and saw no cars moving, no people at all.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he whispered.

“Kiss me good night, Eddie.”

“Oh. I forgot.”

She was soft and warm from bed, and he forgot his nervousness for a few seconds, caught up in the sense of her. But the breeze from the slightly open door was cool on the back of his neck, reminding him, and he was the first to break the kiss. He told her again he’d call her tomorrow. Her robe had parted, and her breasts were pale and full and soft, but he turned away and sidled out on to the porch. They whispered good night to each other, and she closed the door. He heard the snick of the lock.

Nothing moving. Orange Street was dark and silent. A block and a half away, Raymond Avenue was a bit brighter, but just as silent. It was after one o’clock in the morning.

Which would they patrol most, Raymond Avenue or the side streets? Raymond Avenue was so brightly lit, a curfew-breaker might tend to keep away from it; wouldn’t the police think of that? They’d patrol the side streets most, wouldn’t they? And just cross Raymond Avenue from time to time, going from one side of town to the other?

All right. So he’d go straight to Raymond Avenue, and down Raymond to Blake Street, and then over Blake Street the two blocks to his house. On Orange and Blake, he could duck into a driveway if he saw headlights. On Raymond, he could hide in a store doorway.

Reluctantly, he left the protection of the porch, went down to the sidewalk, and turned right. He walked along quickly, his shoulders hunched, his hands in his pants pockets. He kept looking back over his shoulder, but he didn’t see any headlights.

Raymond Avenue. He turned left. He went half a block, and out of the corner of his eye he saw something wrong.

Broken glass.

The bank door was broken.

He stopped in his tracks, forgetting everything else, and stared at the broken glass of the bank door. Parked here was a big brown tractor trailer, but nobody in or near it. But in the bank