THE NAME OF THE GAME IS DEATH

By Dan J. Marlowe

On the day they sentenced Oily Barnes to fifteen years, I quit the human race. I never went back to my job and I've never done a legitimate day's work since.I bought a gun in a hockshop and was surprised to learn how easy it is to knock off gas stations. The money piled up and I bought a second-hand car and drove the 180 miles back across the state. Back to Winick, the guy who railroaded Oily Barnes.

I rang his doorbell one night and shot him in the face four times. He went backward in a kind of shambling trot. "That's for Oily," I told him. But he didn't hear me. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Winick was the first.

He wasn't the last.

I

From the back seat of the Olds I could see the kid's cotton gloves flash white on the steering wheel as he swung the car from Van Buren onto Central Avenue. The strong, late-September, Phoenix sunshine blazed off the bank's white stone front till it hurt the eyes. The damn building looked as big as the purple buttes on the rim of the desert.

Beside me Bunny chewed gum rhythmically, his hands relaxed in his lap. Up front the kid's face was like chalk, but he teamed the Olds perfectly into a tight-fitting space in front of the bank.

Nobody said a word. I climbed out on the sidewalk, and Bunny got out opposite and walked around the rear of the car to join me. His dark glasses and bright yellow hair glinted in the sunlight. The thick, livid scar across his throat was nearly hidden by his week-old beard. Across the street a big clock said five minutes to three. Under it on another dial a long thermometer needle rested on ninety-four. A shirtsleeved man stood idly beneath the clock.

We crossed the sidewalk and passed through the bank's outer glass doors. I'm five-ten, but Bunny towered six inches over me. I could see the rolled-up canvas sack under his arm. In the bank's foyer, the air-conditioning bit hard at the sweat on my face and arms. Bunny led the way into the main floor lobby. He went left. I went right. There were two guards on the main floor.

I found my guard showing an old man how to fill out a deposit slip. I moved in, and when I saw Bunny's arm go up across the lobby I slammed the red-creased neck of the guard in front of me with a solid chunk of Smith & Wesson. He went down without a sound. The old man continued writing. I heard a choked gurgle from Bunny's guard. That was all.

I switched to my Colt Woodsman while I took my first good look around. If we hadn't eliminated the two guards, we were nowhere. There were a dozen to fifteen customers, scattered. I fired the Woodsman three times, taking out glass high in the tellers' cages. Shattering glass is an impressive sound. In the echoing lobby the little Woodsman and the smashing glass sounded like a turret of sixteen-inchers in a china closet.

"All right," I said, loud and clear. "Everybody stand still and nobody gets hurt."

Nobody moved.

Nobody breathed.

Bunny vaulted the low gate up in front. I jammed the Woodsman back in my pants and balanced the Smith & Wesson in my palm. If somebody fast-pitched us, I might need the three heavier-caliber bullets I'd saved by directing traffic with the Colt.

Two big-assed women huddled together inside the railing with Bunny. They stood against the door leading into the tellers' cages, empty trays in their hands. Right where they should have been at two minutes to three.

Bunny motioned with his gun for them to open the cage door. They stared at him, cow-eyed. He whipped the flat of his automatic up against the jawline of the nearer woman. She fell sideways, mewling. Someone inside opened the door. Bunny stepped inside quickly and herded everyone to the rear. He began yanking out cash drawers. Bundles of hundreds and twenties went into his sack. Everything else he tossed on the floor.

The only sounds I could hear were the whimpering of the woman on the floor and the clatter and bang as Bunny emptied and dumped cash drawers. On my left something moved. I turned, and the movement stopped. Dead ahead on the balcony I caught the rapid blur of a gray uniform. I belted the guard over backward with my first shot. Bunny never even turned his head.

Two minutes, I'd figured, after we took out the first guards. Two-and-a-half, tops. All over town now bells would be ringing, but in another sixty seconds we'd be gone. I did a slow turn, my eyes skimming the balcony and the main floor. Nothing moved.

Bunny burst out the cage door, hugging the sack to his big chest. He jumped the railing, landing on his toes. I fell in six feet behind him, and we went out through the foyer at a fast walk. Bunny had just reached out to open the right-hand outer glass door when there was a sharp crack-crack-crack behind us. The best part of the door blew out onto the sidewalk. Heat rolled inside in an arid wave through the splintered glass.

Bunny unhunched his neck and started again for the Olds. Out on the sidewalk I whirled and took down the remaining half of the door, one high and one low. It made a hell of a noise. Anyone hurrying through the foyer should have had second thoughts with a yard of glass in his hair.

When I turned again, I caught a flash across the street— the shirtsleeved man under the clock running into a store. I headed for the car, but I nearly yelled out loud when I saw the kid had panicked. We'd gone all the way to St. Louis for a driver, and he'd panicked. Instead of staying under the wheel and drawing no attention to the car, he'd jumped out and run around and opened the doors on our side. His face looked like wet cottage cheese.

Bunny went onto the front seat in a sliding skid. The kid took one look at my face and started to run back around the front of the Olds. Across the street something went ker-blam!! The kid whinnied like a horse with the colic. He ran in a circle for three seconds and then fell down in front of the Olds, his white cotton gloves in the gutter and his legs on the sidewalk. The left side of his head was gone.

Bunny dropped the sack and scrambled for the wheel. I was halfway into the back seat when I heard the car stall out as he tried to give gas too fast. I backed out again and faced the bank, trying to have eyes in the back of my head for the unseen shotgunner across the street. West of the Mississippi everyone thinks he's Wyatt Earp. I listened to Bunny mash down the starter. The motor caught finally, and I breathed again, but a fat guard galloped out the bank's front entrance, his gun high over his head. He threw down on me in a hurry.

I swear both his feet were off the ground when he fired. The odds must have been sixty-thousand-to-one against, but he caught me in the left upper arm. It smashed me back against the car. I steadied myself with a hand on the roof and put two—a yard apart—through his belt buckle. They could hear him scream across town if they had their windows open.

I stumbled into the back seat again and Bunny took it out of there. The Olds bumped hard twice as it went over the kid. Across the street I could see the shirtsleeved man pumping frantically at his jammed shotgun. I raised the Smith & Wesson, then lowered it. I might need every bullet, so I couldn't afford any luxuries. I got the car doors closed within half a block.

"Handkerchiefs!" I yelled at Bunny as we flew up Central and on the red spun east on Roosevelt. "Ditch those glasses," I continued. "Slow down. Stay in traffic." Bunny tossed two handkerchiefs over his shoulder without looking back. He grabbed a blue beret from the seat beside him and crammed it down on his yellow hair. With the glasses off and his hair hidden, he looked like a different person.

I wadded up Bunny's handkerchiefs with my own and tried to staunch the double-ended leak in my left arm just below the short sleeve of my shirt. I didn't accomplish much. All the stuff about a bullet's initial impact being shock with no pain is a crock of crocodiles. I felt it going in, and I felt it coming out, like a red-hot sawtooth file.

I reloaded (he Smith & Wesson. I tried to ignore the warm molasses running down my arm, except to keep it from dripping on my pants. I watched the traffic lights. The kid had had the lights timed all the way to Yavapai

Terrace, but we didn't have the kid. I wanted to get south of Van Buren again so bad I could taste it.

The cops had to figure us for a main highway. East to Tucson and Nogales if anyone had seen the right turn on Roosevelt. North to Prescott or Wickenburg if they hadn't. Even west to Yuma and the coast. There'd be roadblocks up now on every main artery out of town. We weren't going out of town. Not yet.

We'd passed Seventh Street while I was fooling with the useless handkerchiefs, Twelfth while I was reloading. The first red light caught us at Sixteenth. We sat in tense silence, cars hemming us in completely. My guts shriveled down to pebble size, but so far we hadn't even heard a siren.

The light changed, and we sailed up to Twentieth and turned south. We were back across Van Buren before I had time to begin holding my breath. Past Adams and Washington, over the tracks to East Hcnshaw, then back toward town at the light. Up to Twelfth again in the double-back, a quick left, then a right. The black Ford sat ahead of us on Yavapai Terrace, shimmering in the sun, I'd parked where kids wouldn't bother it, under a eucalyptus tree close to a Chinese grocery. Bunny pulled in behind the Ford. We weren't more than two miles from the bank.

"Get something out of your bag for this arm," I told Bunny. He was out of the Olds before I'd finished talking. He came back from the Ford with my lightweight suit jacket and a shirt. "Shred it and fold it and tie it around this thing," I said, holding out my arm. "Tight."

Heat and dust and nausea filled my throat as he complied. I choked it down, whacked the larger pieces of crusted blood from my lower arm, and slung the jacket loosely over my shoulder to hide the crude bandage.

Bunny went back to the Ford. I followed after glancing up and down the dusty street. I watched the two-handed carry Bunny made with the sack as he transferred it, and for the first time I wondered about the size of the score. A fifty-pound sack holding twenty-five-percent hundreds and the rest twenties can let a man walk away with a quarter-million.

If he walks away.

The Olds we'd leave here. Bunny started the Ford, pulled ahead to get clear, then backed out onto Twelfth. He headed south slowly. The street names were Indian— Papago, Pima, Cocopa, Mohave, Apache—but the area was Mexican. The bushy shade trees were stunted and gnarled. The houses were close together, small, sun-blistered, and shacky. The front yards were overgrown tangles of brush. Bunny nosed the Ford into Durango Street, then parked across the street from a dark blue Dodge in the middle of the block.

I drew a deep breath as he set the brake. "Okay," I said. "New script, Bunny. Listen close. I'm grounded. We're not going to the cabin in the canyon." With the kid gone and me with a torn-up arm, we had to throw away the book. I rummaged in the sack at my feet. The first three money packets I picked up were hundreds. Fifteen thousand casually in my hand. I dropped two of them, found two strapped packets of twenties, and shoved the three of them into a jacket pocket.

"We split up here, big man," I went on. "You take the Dodge Get into a cheap motel, and don't forget to wash that yellow dye out of your hair. Day after tomorrow after dark pull out and head east. Stay off Highways 80 and 66. Go back on 70. Roswell, Plain view ... that way."

1 tried to think of everything. "Take the sack. Head south at Memphis for Florida. The gulf coast. Pick a small town. When you make it, mail me a thousand a week in hundreds, not new bills. To—" I groped for an alias clean with the law "—Earl Drake, General Delivery, Main Post Office, Phoenix, Arizona. Got it? Okay, take off. I'll join you the minute I can travel."

Bunny got out of the Ford. He walked around it and opened the door on my side. His big, hard-looking face was solemn. We shook hands, and he picked up the sack. He crossed the drowsy dirt street to the Dodge, his shoes making little puffs in the inch-thick dust. There was a layer of it on the Dodge from passing cars.

Bunny opened the back deck, rolled in the sack, and slammed down the lid. He looked over at me and waved before he got in and drove off. Just before he reached the corner I remembered that all my clothes were in the Dodge. I reached for the horn, then pulled my hand back. I had more immediate problems than clothes.

I sat there for a moment with a kind of all-gone feeling. All the adrenalin-charged-up excitement had drained away. My arm hurt like an aching tooth, and my stomach felt queasy. My mind still chugged along busily, but the rest of me felt almost numb.

Letting Bunny take the sack hadn't been in the blueprint, but it was the best place for it now. I had some scrambling to do, and the first rule of the game is don't get caught with it on you. If the cops have to sweet-talk you to try to find out where it is, twenty-to-life has a way of coming out seven-to-ten, with an early parole. Although plank-walking the guards on this frolic could have made everything else academic if they'd done the big somersault. The one on the sidewalk—

Clean away, except for the hole in my arm. And except lot the silly-bastard kid. I wouldn't be sitting here improvising on an ironclad plan if he'd just stayed with the car. Yeah, and if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

I roused myself, with an effort. I had a lot to do. First I Inn I a doctor to find. A doctor would be trouble, but I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. I slid over under the wheel and started the Ford.

Night then I had a real bad moment. Bunny's strength in setting the hand brake was almost too much for my weakened left arm. I cursed fiercely at the salt perspiration linking my eyes before I succeeded in freeing the brake. The shirt bandage on my arm was sopping.

When I turned the first corner, the sun through the windshield nearly scared my eyeballs. The first two fronted signs I slowed down for were a realtor's and a plumber's. The third one drew down the money. The sign said Santiago E. Sanfilippo, M.D. I drove by slowly. A garage connected with the house. There was no car in the garage, and none in front of the house.

No time for anything fancy. I drove up the driveway and into the garage. I draped the jacket over my shoulder again and walked along the enclosed passageway that led to the house. I could see an office inside through a glass panel in the door. I had to knock twice before a man in white ducks and a white jacket opened the door. He had a stethoscope sticking out of one pocket.

Dr. Sanfilippo was a tall, thin, young-looking job. He was coffee-colored, black-eyed, and good-looking, with a misplaced-eyebrow type of mustache. From the look he gave me I wasn't what he'd been expecting to see. "Yes?" he demanded impatiently when I outwaited him. I couldn't see or hear anyone in the office behind him. "This is a private entrance," he went on. He looked over my shoulder at the Ford. "Is that your car? What do you mean by driving it into my garage?"

"I'm a patient, Doc," I told him.

" Then go around to the patients' entrance," he snapped. "And get that automobile out of here before you do."

"Let's arbitrate it," I suggested. I showed him the Smith

Wesson about ten inches from his belly. His eyes popped, and he backed away from the door until he ran into a desk behind him. I moved inside and closed the door. "You alone, Doc?"

"I'm alone," he admitted. He looked unhappy about it "I keep no drills on the premises," he added.

"Inside, Doe." I motioned with the gun and steered him from the cluttered office into a small examining room. It had whitewashed walls and a basin in one corner. Both room and washbasin looked fairly clean. There was a phone in the office but none in the examining room.

I In n was only one door, and I was between it and the doctor. A framed diploma hung on the near wall, and I stepped up and read it. It looked legitimate, so I sat down

on a white stool beside the elevated sheeted table. I wanted no self-appointed abortionist whittling on my arm.

Dr. Sanfilippo had been watching me warily. I removed (lie jacket from my shoulder, and his mustachioed upper lip tightened when he saw the shredded, sodden shirt around my arm. "Madre de Dios!" he breathed. His black eyes flicked from a battered radio on a green cabinet back to my arm. "You know I'll have to report this," he said huskily.

"Sure you will," I soothed him. "But you're a doctor. First you'll dress it." I held out the arm. "Like right now."

He didn't move. His smooth, trim-looking features still expressed shock. "The guard—" he began, and stopped. I le swallowed. His face was suddenly damp.

"The arm, Doc," I reminded him. So one of the guards had died. Without knowing it, Santiago E. Sanfilippo, M.D., had just passed over an invisible line.

He finally got himself in motion and washed his hands in the basin. He dried them, then unwrapped the arm and examined it, front and back. "Large caliber," he said professionally.

"Large," I agreed.

He turned to the green cabinet. "Half an ampoule—"

"No anesthetic," I cut him off.

He shrugged. It was my funeral, and for him it couldn't happen fast enough. He was getting his confidence back. He felt immeasurably superior to the sweaty, gun-holding type sitting in his office with a ragged, bloody hole in his arm. Next he'd be planning my capture. I had a feeling this boy was going to make it easy for me.

He laid out a tray of sharp things on the table, and I spread a towel in my lap. He bathed, swabbed, probed, disinfected, and finally bandaged. He was rougher than he needed to be, probably hoping I'd pass out. "Don't move until I put a sling on it," he said brusquely when he-finished.

"No sling," I said. I took the dry end of the towel and wiped my perspiring face. I reached into my jacket pocket on the table and took out the wrapped package of fifty one-hundred dollar bills. I broke the seal and put it in my pocket, counted out fifteen bills on the examination table, and pushed them toward him. "Nice job, Doc," I said.

His expression changed tout de suite. His tongue ran over his lips nervously, his black eyes never leaving the money. He reached out almost tentatively and picked it up, then riffled it and stuffed it into a wallet he returned to his pocket at once.

I stood up and kicked the stool I'd been sitting on in his direction. "Sit, Doc. Real still." I looked in the small mirror at the basin where he'd washed up. The mirror reflected a suntanned hard face with short black hair. I laid the gun on the edge of the basin, ran the water, and found a clean towel.

Stooped over, I could watch the doc's feet. If he could get to me before I got to the gun, he was a better man than I thought. One-handed I washed the oil and lampblack from my hair and the suntan makeup from my face and neck. When I emerged from behind the towel, Sanfilippo stared at hair and skin a nationality lighter.

I looked him over. Thin as he was, I still couldn't carry him from the office. "Walk out to the car ahead of me," I told him. "I'm going to tie you and leave you in the garage."

He didn't like it. I could see him thinking furiously, and I could have predicted the instant he brightened. Would I have paid him if I were going to kill him? Certainly not. The stupid bastard never stopped to realize if I'd been going to leave him around to do any broadcasting, he'd never have seen me out of the war paint. I followed him from the examination room after picking up something with a bone handle and six inches of steel from his surgical tray. I stuck it in my belt.

During the walk along the passageway I got out the Woodsman and put it under my armpit where I could get to it in a hurry. At the car Sanfilippo turned and looked at me expectantly. I kept a careful ten feet away from him. " Think something's wrong—" I mumbled, weaving on my feet. Then I did a long, slow pinwheel to the garage floor, careful to stay off my bad side. From beneath nearly closed eyelids I could see Sanfilippo's startled look as he stared down at me.

My hand was close enough to the Woodsman to stop his clock if he came after me, or if he tried to run out of the garage. I didn't expect him to do either. I'd tabbed this guy as a wisenheimer, and I was willing to let him prove himself.

He took a final look at me, then spun around to the Ford. He flung open the rear door, and I could hear him pawing through the back seat. He left that in a hurry and tried the front. He ripped off something in Spanish and darted around to the rear. I'd paid him in hundreds, so he was sure the swag was in the car.

He wasn't bad, the doc. I couldn't see what he used— nil I could see were his legs under the Ford—but he popped the back deck lid in no time. I heard the whaaaaang of broken metal as he snapped the locks on my tool chests in the trunk. When he found nothing he sounded off again and came around the car on the trot. He dived into the back seat again, only his legs outside.

I eased myself to my feet and got over there. Sanfilippo had a knife out, and he was slashing away at the seat cushion. He was right down to the springs in a couple of places. I pulled the flat-bladed surgical tool from my belt. Sanfilippo whacked away at the cushion, cursing like a sailor, and then all of a sudden my presence got through to him. He started to turn, and I gave him four-and-a-half inches between the second and third ribs, blade flat to the ground for easier passage between the bones.

Sanfilippo was looking over his shoulder at me, and his black eyes didn't believe it. I pulled it out and gave it to him again, then grabbed his belt and steered him down away from the car. He sank like a deflated balloon, slowly at first and then with a rush.

His own knife was still in his hand. I left the surgical steel in him after wiping the handle. I reached down again and yanked his wallet from his hip pocket, stripped it, wiped it, and threw it down beside the body. It would be open and shut to any investigator: killed while pursuing a thief from his office. And for a bonus, no bullets in him to be matched up with the ones they took out of the bank guards.

I backed the Ford out of there and drove up to Nineteenth and Van Buren to a big motel, The Tropics. I registered as Earl Drake, the jacket again over my bandaged arm. "I'll try your Western hospitality till my office gets me a new sample line," I told the middle-aged desk clerk. "They busted into my car in Nogales last night and cleaned me—clothes, samples, camera, the works. I'll pay you for a week."

The clerk clucked sympathetically as he handed me my change. "Excellent shops within a block or two, sir. Sorry to hear of your misfortune. I hope you enjoy your stay with us."

I took the number 24 key he gave me and drove the car down in front of that unit. I went inside and locked the door, washed my face, eased down carefully into an inclined chair with a footrest, and closed my eyes.

I had a lot of unwinding to do.

The last conscious thought I had before I drifted off was that tin people at the bank were going to have one hell of a glass bill.

I lived in that chair for a week, aside from short trips to the on premises restaurant, I didn't dare get into the big double bed without a sling on the arm. The first incautious movement would have broken the wound open again. With a sling on, I might as well wear a sign: "Here I Am." I stayed in the chair.

I didn't sleep too much after the first day, but I dozed all the time. The first morning I caught a bright-looking busboy in the motel restaurant, gave him a list of sizes, and sent him out for clothes. I specified long-sleeved sport shirts. He came back with stuff that would have turned a bird of paradise pale with envy. I started to refuse it until I thought that it might be a good thing to have people looking at the clothes instead of at me.

The papers that first morning had a ball. The headlines were glaring. TWO GUARDS SLAIN IN BOLD DAYLIGHT BANK ROBBERY. KILLERS ESCAPE WITH BANK'S $178,000. ONE BANDIT, TWO GUARDS DEAD IN DOWNTOWN BANK SHOOT 'EM UP.

I looked at that figure of $178,000 a couple of times. It rested easily on the eye. Even allowing for the bank officers adding in their personal loan accounts, which isn't unknown, it was still a nice touch.

The papers speculated that one of the escapees might have been wounded. The descriptions were varied. One eyewitness insisted there'd been five bank robbers. The consensus, though, settled for a husky Swede and a little Mexican. Like I said, I'm five-ten. I weigh one-seventy, but I've noticed before that a big man doesn't always look big himself. He just makes anyone with him look small.

FBI IN CHARGE, the subheadings blared. The dear old FBI. I hadn't talked to them in a long time. They'd trace the kid's prints to St. Louis, and between here and there they'd tear everything up, down, and sideways. A hell of a lot of good it would do them. When he left St. Louis, the kid didn't know where he was going, and either Bunny or I had stayed with him all the time to make sure lie didn't do any talking about his newfound partners. It should make for less heat on the west coast of Florida.

I found a short paragraph on an inside page of the paper. Area Physician Stabbed In Garage, the small-type headline said. The story continued. "The body of Santiago E. Sanfilippo, M.D., 31, of. . . ."

I read the item three times before I put the paper aside. The police would be out rounding up all known arm-blasters and pill-poppers. It plugged the last hole in the blueprint the kid had kicked by not staying with the car.

I wasn't afraid of Bunny's getting picked up. He had the best naturally protective coloration I'd ever seen. It was^ one of the reasons I'd picked him, along with his nerve and his confidence in me. I've been in this business a

while. Two guys with guts and a to-hell-with-you-Jack disregard for consequences have about three chances in ten of pulling off a big, well-planned smash-and-grab. If one of them can shoot like me and the other one is Bunny, the odds are a damn sight better.

The first week at the Tropics I had a fever nearly all the time. The arm needed treatment which I couldn't get. I swallowed aspirin by the gross. When the arm wasn't throbbing, it was itching. The second week my fever was gone, but my legs felt like spaghetti. I'd wake from a nap dripping with sweat, needing to change from the skin out.

It was lonely in that damn motel room. When I'm on the road, I usually have a dog with me. Animals I like. People I learned a long time ago to do without.

For the first five days the newspaper headlines listed us as having been sighted in half the towns between Guantanamo, Cuba, and Nome, Alaska. We dropped back onto the ninth page after that, and then right out of the news.

The third week I began to take an interest in the restaurant's menu instead of just shoveling something down. The arm was going to be scarred but otherwise it seemed all right. A couple of times when it had been bad I'd debated slipping down into Nogales, Mexico, and trying for a doctor but I decided I couldn't risk it. If the authorities weren't watching anywhere else in the world; they'd watch that Mexican border.

I drove to the main post office the middle of the third week. I had a wallet full of crap identifying Earl Drake. There were two envelopes at the general delivery window, and I signed for them. Hack in the car I slit the first one and unwrapped ten hundred-dollar bills neatly sealed in oilskin paper, The second was a duplicate. There was no message in either, T he return address said Dick Pierce, General Delivery, Hudson, Florida. Bunny had made it big.

Five days Inter there was another envelope.

Seven days later there wasn't.

The mail clerk handed me a telegram addressed to Earl Drake. I got away from his window fast and opened it. It said IN TROUBLE STAY PUT DO NOTHING WILL CALL YOU. DICK.

I stared blankly at the recruiting posters on the walls. Bunny was in trouble, all right, but not the kind I was supposed to think. The telegram was a clinker. When we'd Inst teamed up, I'd arranged with Bunny that a telegram from either of us was to be signed "Abie."

I tut that was just the least thing wrong with the telegram. If he lived to be a hundred-and-four, Bunny would never call me about anything. The knife slash that gave him the livid throat scar had also reached his vocal cords. Bunny was a mute.

Bunny hadn't sent the telegram.

Only someone who had intercepted a thousand-dollar envelope meant for Earl Drake could have sent the telegram. I looked at it again. It had originated in Hudson, Florida.

I drove back to The Tropics and found Hudson in an atlas. It was a crossroads town south of Perry on U.S. 19, en route to Tampa.

I checked out of the motel.

The soreness was gone from the shoulder. It was still stiff, but it would have to do. Three-fifty, four hundred miles a day without killing myself, I figured. Five days.

Knowing Bunny, I was sure there was only one way he could have been dealt out of the game.

I had business in Hudson, Florida.

II

The only time I was ever in the pen, the boss headshrinker gave me up as a bad job.

"You're amoral," the prison psychiatrist told me. "You have no respect for authority. Your values lire not civilized values."

That was after he'd Hipped his psychiatric lid at his inability to pierce my defense mechanism, as he called it. I had him taped from the first sixty seconds. He didn't care what I was; he just wanted to know how I got that way. It was none of his damn business, so I gave him a hard way to go.

Oh, I could have told him things. About the kitten, for Instance. I was maybe eleven or twelve. Fifth or sixth guide. I saw this kitten in the window of a pet shop. A blue Persian, although right then I couldn't have told it from a spotted Manx. I ran my finger across the glass and watched her little pink nose and big bronze eyes follow it, and I knew she was for me.

I went home to make my case. I wasn't from any underprivileged family. The kitten's price might have jolted my folks a little, but I wasn't in the habit of asking for much. I was the youngest in the family, with a bushel of sisters and mints, so getting me the kitten became a family project. I they'd been trying for some time to get me to play more with the neighborhood kids. I'd given up trying to explain that other kids gave me a pain, king-sized.

I named the kitten Fatima. First syllable accented, ail short vowel sounds. It seemed to suit her coppery eyes and smoky coloring. I played with her by the hour. I even taught her tricks. No one teaches a kitten anything it doesn't want to learn, but Fatima humored me. We had a grand time together.

I still got a load of guff frequently from the family about not participating more with my age group. I paid no attention. I had Fatima, and she was all the company I needed. In some moods she was a natural-born clown, but in others she had an aloof dignity. I'd never have believed that anything so tiny could be so fearless. Fatima would have tackled a lion if one had got in her way.

Some women's organization in town gave a pet show. YWCA, Junior League, Women's Club, American Legion Auxiliary, BPOE Does—I don't remember which, but I remember women were running it. I bought a little red leash for Fatima out of my paper-route money, and I entered her in the show.

Fatima and her red leash knocked their eyes out. She was a real ham. She sat up in the center of the outdoor ring and went through her whole bag of tricks, better than she did them for me in private. She went through the kitten and cat classes like a streak, and we were brought back for best in show. In the ring for the final judging there was Fatima, a big boxer dog. a black rabbit, a hamster, a goat, and a bowl of topical fish shaded from the sunlight.

The boxer belonged to a kid who went to the same school I did, a fat tub of lard a grade or so ahead of me. I knew him by sight. If I ever knew his name, I've forgotten it. When I saw the boxer, I steered Fatima to the other side of the ling, She just plain didn't like dogs. The fat kid saw what I was doing, and he followed me in a smart-alecky way.

Fatima swelled her throat ruff and hissed a Persian's surprisingly loud hiss at the boxer. The fat kid laughed. I asked 111111 to move his dog away. Deliberately he gave him more leash The boxer leaned down for a closer look, and quicker than I can say it, Fatima raked his nose. The boxer snarled, then snapped. Just once.

Fatima lay on the grass, one tiny little dot of blood on her ruff. Her neck had been broken. The big dog nosed at the inanimate bit of blue gray fur, then looked up at me as though half-ashamed. I didn't blame the boxer. He'd done the natural thing for any dog.

I picked up Fatima's body and turned blindly away. All I wanted was to get out of there. The fat kid—who'd first looked scared and then defiant—grabbed my arm and spun me around. "Look!" he crowed. "Lookit him! Cryin' like a baby!"

I beat the shit out of him.

The women got me off him finally. I was scuffed up, and so were a couple of them. There was a hell of a lot of gabble-gabble I walked out on. I took Fatima home and buried her in the backyard.

That was Saturday. Sunday I hung around the house most of the day. Monday afternoon I waited in the schoolyard for the fat kid, and I beat the shit out of him all over again.

That night his father came over to my house, and there was a big pow-wow. My family was surprised to learn about Fatima's having been killed. They hadn't missed her. Finally they settled everything to their satisfaction. The fat kid's father would get me another kitten, and I would apologize to the fat kid.

I told them no. I was polite, but I told them no. I told them I didn't want anything from anyone. My father took me upstairs for a little talk. I listened and said nothing. When he saw he was getting nowhere, we went back downstairs. The pow-wow broke up with all the adults making baffled sounds at each other.

The next afternoon I had to chase the fat kid from school clear to within a couple blocks from his house before I caught him. It didn't help him a bit when I did.

There was a lot of telephoning that night. My father was mad. He took me upstairs again and gave me a licking. He said we were going over to the fat kid's house, and I was going to apologize. I was still crying from the licking, but I told him I wouldn't do it. He made a lot of sputtering noises before he left the bedroom. We didn't go

anywhere.

Later that night our minister came to the house. He talked to me for a long time—all about the unexplainable things that happen in life and the necessity for understanding. I listened to him. I was polite. I wasn't going to give them a chance to call me surly or bad-mannered. When he was tired of talking, the minister went away. I don't think even he thought he'd accomplished much.

The fat kid wasn't in school the next day. I was disappointed. When I got home, there was something for me. The fat kid's father had left a carrying case with a blue Persian kitten. I didn't say anything to my mother or my sisters. I took the case out into the backyard, and when they stopped watching me I walked crosslots to the pet shop and gave the case and kitten back. I told the pet shop man to give the fat kid's father his money back. The pet shop man looked funny, but he took the kitten, and he didn't say anything.

My father blew his stack when he got home that night. I didn't answer him back when he started in on me. All I wanted was to be let alone, and no one would let mc alone. My father said I was damn well going to do what I was told, and if the new kitten wasn't back in the house the next night the consequences would be mine. I knew it wasn't going to be there.

So when I got a licking the next night it was partly for having caught the fat kid again on his way home from school, and partly for not having gone back to the pet shop for the kitten.

The next day in school I was called down to the principal's office. He talked a long time, too. The gist of it was that one more go-round with the fat kid and I'd be expelled from school. I asked him politely what the situation had to do with school. I can still see his face tightening up. muscle by muscle. The principal said sharply I was persevering in an attitude I would regret to the last day I lived, but he never did answer my question.

The fat kid wasn't in school that day, but I got a licking anyway that night for not having brought the kitten home. I got another the next night, and another the next. They were almost ritualistic by then, without a word being said on cither side. I overheard my mother arguing with my father about his handling of me, and him shouting at her. I was sorry to hear it. I didn't want sympathy. I didn't want anything. I was stronger than they were, and I knew it. I had undivided purpose. I didn't feel like a martyr. I felt like someone doing what he had to do.

At school I was having trouble finding the fat kid. He was leaving by different doors, at different times. It was three days later before I caught him. The next morning I was back in the principal's office. He wasn't there, but his secretary told me I was expelled. She looked kind of funny all the time she was telling me. I just kind of hung around nil day and went home at the usual time.

My mother and sisters were all waiting for me. At first I thought it was about being expelled, but they hadn't heard. They'd bought me a new Persian kitten. I thanked them. I wasn't mad at them about anything. I wasn't mad at my father about anything. I fed the new kitten because it was a poor dumb animal that needed my help, but I didn't play with it.

My father came home early, in a tearing rage. The principal had called him. When he saw the new kitten and learned where it had come from, he clouded up and thundered my mother and sisters about going behind his back. They turned on him en masse, and it astonished him. He didn't change his mind, exactly, but for the first time in better than a week I got to bed that night without a licking. I had to admit I was glad. My right shoulder had

been hurting a little worse each of the last three days. I made a bed for the new kitten and went to bed early myself.

By noon the next day I had caught up again on lickings. Before breakfast I slipped out of the house and waited for the fat kid on his way to school. He screamed like a girl just at the sight of me. I was in the house at ten o'clock when my father came home from work and marched me

upstairs. He really laid it into me. About an hour afterward I was sick to my stomach.

I didn't go downstairs for lunch. My stomach still felt bad, and my shoulder was really giving me a hard time. I tried staying in bed, but that made the shoulder worse. Around two o'clock my mother came into my room. She looked at my eyes, put her hand on my forehead, and called the doctor. I had a broken collarbone, and the doctor strapped me up like a mummy. He asked me about the marks on my body. I didn't answer him. It was none of his business. Afterward I heard him talking to my mother out in the hall, and my mother was crying.

I took it easy the rest of the afternoon. I wondered how I could keep after the fat kid with an arm strapped down, but I knew I'd find a way. I was sitting downstairs leafing through an encyclopedia when my oldest sister came flying into the house. She ran into the kitchen without seeing me, and I heard her breathlessly telling my mother about a big moving van in front of the fat kid's house.

His family was moving away.

I don't know why I was so sure they were moving out of town. Maybe because I knew they knew I'd find him if They lived anywhere in the same town. I felt a deep sense of peace.

And just like that, it ended.

The shoulder healed in live weeks.

In eight they let me back into school.

Around the house the subject was never mentioned.

In a year I think everyone had honestly forgotten.

Except me.

I made El Paso the first night.

Highway 20 through Mesa, Safford, and Duncan in Arizona brought me to Lordsburg, New Mexico. Between Safford and Duncan the desert is for real. The stark, multi-colored rock and sand of buttes and coulees grimly overshadow the sparse greenery of saguaro cactus, mesquite, and palos verde.

Highways 70* and 80 join up at Lordsburg and run together through Deming to Las Cruees. I turned south there on 80 to El Paso. The temperature when I left Phoenix had been eighty-five. Rolling past the railroad-marshaling yards in El Paso, there was a flurry of snow in the headlights. Altitude makes a difference. The odometer on the Ford said 409 miles when I pulled into a motel on the east side of town.

I'd pushed it a bit to make El Paso. I had a reason. I had to get my arm attended to before the bandage became a part of the tissue. I knew where I could get it cared for, no questions asked, across the International Bridge in Juarez.

The motel office had signs at the front desk advertising fabulous guided tours of the fabulous city of Ciudad Juarez in fabulous Old Mexico. I had them call the agency, and in thirty minutes a potbellied little Mex showed up to guide me. He was about thirty-five, with the eyes of a well-fed weasel. Six dollars changed hands, and we took off in his car.

He was a cheerful talker. Compulsive, almost. He had been baptized Jaime Carlos Torreon Garcia, he told me, but his friends called him Jimmy. He worked for Pan Am in El Paso, but lived in Juarez. He guided nights and weekends. Would I care to see the most excellent Mexican filigreed silver, handworked? I regretted that on Mexican filigreed handworked silver I was loaded. Jimmy was too old a hand at the game even to look disappointed at my turndown.

It was a twenty-minute ride from the motel to the bridge. On the way across it, Jimmy had a sparkling remark for everyone at the check-in stations—English for the US customs men, Spanish for the Mexican soldiers. No one bothered to look at me. With the number of trips Jimmy made over that bridge, he was better known than the president of the country. Either country.

The fabulous city of Ciudad Juarez was—as always— dirty, dusty, and squalid. Except when it rained, and then it was muddy beyond belief. Mexican authorities show a reluctance to put drains in their streets. God sends the rain and the mud, and God will take it away.

My mentor headed unerringly for a bar. "My friend," he told me, with an encompassing wave of his hand at the swarthy, shock-headed proprietor. "He has the finest cantina in the old town."

I looked around at the empty booths and flyspecked walls. "He's not a relative?" I asked Jimmy.

"A cousin," he admitted blandly. Since I so obviously knew the rules of the road, he sat down and ordered Canadian Club for us both without consulting my taste in the matter.

"Have a couple," I told him. "Take your time. I'm going to walk around to the Street of Girls."

He slid from his stool immediately. "I must go with you," he protested. "Or they will cheat you, amigo."

"I'm the bashful type, Jaime Carlos," I said. "I'll go it alone. I'll pay your commission just like you'd get it from the house." He eyed me doubtfully but returned to his Canadian Club.

Out on the street I side-doored it a couple of times to make sure lie wasn't following me. I couldn't see any sign of him, although probably half the Mexican population shared his silhouette. I hadn't been in Juarez in years, but I knew where I wanted to go. I turned up the third street on the left. The side street's macadam ended ten yards from the intersection, and the sidewalk vanished. I stepped down eight inches onto an earthen footpath.

I found the old woman's place with no trouble. I recognized the partly rusted-away iron fence around the scruffy, postage-stamp-sized front yard. The last time I was here, Ed Morris had been with me. Ed had been pushing up daisies for quite a while now. He'd never learned to keep his mouth shut in a strange bar.

I In old woman looked me over through a hole in the door panel when I knocked. I don't know what she thought she saw, but she opened the door. There was no conversation. She tested the bill I gave her under three different lights while I removed my shirt. Her fat hand then made a swooping movement somewhere inside her clothes, and the bill disappeared.

She hummed a tuneless monotone while she worked on the arm. I'd been afraid she might have to steam the old bandage free or use ether, but she cut it carefully in several places and worked it loose. She knew her business. It wasn't a painless operation, but considering the length of time the wound had gone unattended it went a damn sight easier than I expected.

I looked at the wound while she prepared a new bandage. A beauty contest queen might have hollered foul, but it was healing. The new bandage was smaller and less bulky, and so easier to hide. The woman never spoke while she applied it. The last time I'd been there she'd looked three years older than the Archangel Michael, and she'd found no Fountain of Youth in the meantime.

Outside again I headed back to the main street. I turned automatically for a look behind me as I stepped back up on the sidewalk. A dim street light away I saw a figure of Jimmy's general dimensions. I stepped into a doorway and gave the half-seen figure a chance to catch up, but nobody passed. It bothered me. I used my handkerchief to wipe the red dust of the earthen path from my shoes, then walked back to the cantina.

Jaime Cargos Torreon Garcia wasn't there.

His cousin, the bushy-haired proprietor, looked surprised to see me again so quickly. "No sport?" he inquired.

"No sportsman," I answered. "Too old, I guess."

"It comes to all of us," he philosophized, but he crossed himself against the approach of the evil day.

Jimmy bustled in die front door. He, too, seemed surprised to see me. His well-managed expressions of sympathy for my supposed lack of success would have gone down better if I hadn't seen the thick coating of red dust on his shoes.

I tossed a bill down on the bar and hustled him out of there before he could speak. Whatever he knew, it was going to stay with him. Let the cousin believe my sudden exit to be the frustrated petulance of a sexual loser. Cousin Jimmy had acquired dangerous knowledge. Dangerous for him.

We got into his car while he kept shooting nervous little glances at me. If he had information, I was sure he didn't know what to do with it. He needed to put his head together with someone and plan a financial coup based on his knowledge of the gringo's movements. Jaime Carlos Torreon Garcia had the proper piratical instincts but a serious deficiency in his operating procedure. And he wasn't going to live long enough to improve it.

"I think I've had enough sightseeing," I said, turning toward him. I drew the Woodsman, and his eyes popped like a frog's on a hot rock. "Drive up to the checkout zone. Tell them 'no purchases' in Spanish. Nothing more. Let's hear you say it.

"No compra," he said huskily.

"That's all you'll say," I warned. "Let's go."

He had trouble getting that much out at the bridge, let alone anything else. We went through in a breeze. I repeated my warning before we reached the US inspection station. Two minutes later we were back in El Paso, and I felt better. Trouble in Mexico I didn't want. Authorities there have a nasty habit of tossing a gringo into a flea-infested calaboose and conveniently losing the key. Sometimes a man can buy his way out, but sometimes he can't.

That left Jimmy.

"Drive up one of these side streets," I told him.

I le got the whole picture immediately on a big screen. Me nearly let the wheel go completely. "S-Senor, don't do lines thing," he stammered. "I beg of you, don't do—"

"Left, Jimmy. Now." The car lurched as he yanked convulsively at the wheel. The street lights were conveniently spaced. I estimated we were a half-mile from the motel, comfortable walking distance. "Pull over," I ordered. "Between the lights." He did so, babbling unintelligibly in a half-English, half-Spanish, high-pitched wail, "Dump your pockets out on the seat," I demanded. "Be quick."

It was dark, but I could see. About the third item he showered on the seat was a pocketknife of the type known along the border as "Nacional." Heavy bladed and in a solid casing, it's a lethal weapon. Jimmy was still turning out his pockets when I picked up the knife and opened it.

I don't know if he heard the snick of the opening blade or saw the movement of my arm, but he screamed hoarsely and went for the door handle. I grabbed his collar and jerked him back. He collapsed on the seat beside me, his high, keening voice yammering. I hit him in the belly to shut him up.

In the sudden silence I took his sweaty neck in my hand and found the carotid artery with my thumb. I opened the door on my side. A carotid can be messy. I didn't want to get splashed. I braced my heels against the floorboard and reached for him with the blade.

Then I hesitated.

In the quiet I seemed able to think—for the first time since I'd seen red dust clinging to this man's shoes. I'd been so upset at my own stupidity in letting the fool follow me that I hadn't thought the situation through.

Alive, he'd talk.

Later, if not sooner.

That I knew.

But dead, his body would talk, perhaps even more to the point. His cousin expected him back with a tale of where Jimmy had followed the turista and what profit might be wrung from it. If he didn't come back, the cousin would eventually call the police. They'd have little trouble tracing Jimmy to the agency. I had had the motel call the agency. And the motel would furnish the police with a description of me.

And of the Ford.

It would make me too easy to find.

Dead, the man was an anchor around my neck.

Alive? Better, although not much better.

I clicked the knife blade shut. "Sit up and listen to me," I said.

He gave a kind of shuddering sigh. "Por Dios, S-Senor, I implore—"

"Shut up. Drive back to the motel."

It took him a full minute to get the car started. His coordination was gone. He drove like a sleepwalker, his face like yellow wax in the light from the street lamps, his eyes sneaking looks at me. The car bounced high as he turned too fast into the motel driveway. For a second I thought we might take out a unit before he hit the brake and we skidded to a stop.

I got out of the car, then motioned at him. "Take off, man. Get lost."

He stared at me suspiciously from behind the wheel. Was it a trick? It didn't take him long to decide if it was, that he still liked it better than where he'd been. He tramped on the accelerator, and his car hit the street doing forty-five, tires squealing in the night.

I watched him go.

Jimmy had been right up to the gates, and he knew it. Given his type, la-should head straight for his bed and stay there with the covers over his head for three days.

But I couldn't count on it.

Five minutes after his tail-lights winked out of the motel driveway. I was headed east again in the Ford.

III

In a way it was odd about that fat kid's family leaving town that time. Six years later it was my family who were going to leave.

The way it happened was like getting struck by lightning.

I was eighteen, in my senior year in high school. It was late in the spring, and after a succession of chill, rainy days we'd finally caught a hot one. I had my sweater over my arm when I came out the school's back entrance and cut through the parking lot on my way home. I saw four policemen standing in the middle of the lot, and I wondered what they were doing there.

I knew one of them, Harry Coombs, and I nodded as I passed the group. He said something to the others, and the biggest one, who had been standing with his back to me, turned around to look. "You," he said to me. "Come over here."

I went over to them. I knew who the big one was without really knowing him. His name was Edwards, and he was a sergeant. He was a beefy type with thinning red hair. I didn't like him. No good reason. His voice was too loud. He took up too much of the sidewalk when he swaggered by. Things like that.

He looked me up and down when I stood in front of him. "What d'you know about hubcaps missing from the faculty cars three times a week?" he demanded. He looked hot and uncomfortable, still in his winter uniform.

"I don't know anything about it," I answered him. And I didn't, except what I'd been hearing in school assemblies for the last month.

The lower lip in his red face swelled pugnaciously. "Harry says you spend enough time in this parking lot to tell us what's going on," he continued aggressively.

"I said I see him going through here on his way home from school most days!" Coombs cut in.

Edwards paid him no attention. "Well?" he said to me.

"You think whoever's doing it waits for me to come by so I can see them?" I was mad. "Or maybe you think I'm doing it?"

"I'll ask the questions," he snapped, scowling. "What's your name?" I told him. I was liking him less and less every second. "Now you know you must've seen what's been goin' on out here." He said it almost coaxingly. "Who are you covering up for?"

I looked at Harry Coombs to see if Edwards was kidding. Coombs looked away uncomfortably. "Look, you can't mean it," I said finally. "I don't—"

"Answer the question!" he roared.

I started to walk away. Edwards grabbed me by the arm. I've always hated having people put their hands on me. I jerked my arm out of his hand. He probably outweighed me three to one, but I caught him on the wrong foot. He staggered sideways two or three paces. His red face looked bloated.

My sweater had fallen from my arm, and I stooped to pick it up. Edwards kicked me, hard. I went over and down, flat, skinning my palms on the parking lot cinders.

I scrambled up and went after him, the hate of the world in my heart. Harry Coombs clamped me in a smothering bear hug before I could reach Edwards. Coombs kept muttering in my ear, but I was struggling so hard I couldn't hear what he was saying. I kept yelling at Coombs to lei me pi, my head twisted over my shoulder. I never even saw Edwards when he stepped up and slapped me heavily In the lace.

"Goddammit, Sarge!" Coombs said angrily. His grip on me relaxed, then tightened again when I lunged forward.

"Shut up, you!" Edwards barked at him. "This is a wise guy. We'll take him down to the station and talk to him."

"Then take him down yourself," Coombs said. He released me. "I'm on duty on the beat here."

"You're on duty where I tell you you're on duty, Coombs," Edwards warned. "Get him in the patrol car, an' get in yourself." The sergeant clumped heavily back to the other two officers who had been standing by silently.

It was only by an effort of will that I kept my hand away from my smarting face. Don't fight it, I told myself. I walked toward the cruiser parked in a corner of the lot. Harry Coombs tramped along beside me, muttering under his breath.

The five of us rode downtown. I never said a word. Inside the police station a cop who had previously taken no part took my arm and led me to a door opening on two steel cells with cement floors. He motioned me inside.

Even a couple of years later I'd have known they were just trying to scare me. Nobody goes into a cell without a charge against him. A session in an interrogation room would have been the correct thing. But I didn't know. I took it seriously.

I looked around inside the cell. There was a steel cot without even a blanket. Nothing else. The policeman didn't close the cell door, but he closed the outside door. I got a good look at his face before he went out.

I sat down on the cot and tried to get myself organized. I knew they'd be coming in. I didn't feel worried, just mad. Edwards' tactics infuriated me, and I knew I would get that big sonofabitch some day if it was the last thing I ever did. And if I could do it today, so much the better.

I stood up quickly when the outside door opened. It was Harry Coombs. He closed the door and stood with his back to it. "Listen, kid," he said hurriedly. "I got through to him finally that you're no juvenile delinquent. He don't think so much of himself right now, but when he comes in here he's got to make a little noise to justify himself. Get smart. Agree with him. Do what he says, y'hear?" I looked at him. "Ahhhhhh, you're as thick-headed as he is," Coombs growled. He opened the door and walked out.

I took off my shoes and put them on the steel cot beside me, then stretched out on my back. I stared up at the ceiling that was covered by misty-looking cracks. Do what Edwards told me? Not a chance. Not a bloody fucking chance. If he was on a hook because of me, he'd stay there (ill his liver and lungs rotted for all the help I'd give him.

I sat up when the outer door opened again. Three of them filed into the cell, Edwards in the lead. I didn't know the names of the other two, but by now I knew their faces. Harry Coombs wasn't with them. I sat there and watched them enter.

"Let's hear the answers to a few questions now," Edwards began. His voice was rough. He looked the same, his red face as shiny as ever, but even disregarding what Coombs had said he didn't sound the same. His voice said he was uneasy. "I want a statement from you about what you were doing in that parking lot," he blustered. "A signed, witnessed statement."

I didn't say anything, and his face grew dark. He walked toward me, slowly. I sat still on the cot. "I said I want a signed statement from you!" Edwards bellowed.

I -.at there. Any statement I gave him he could probably twist around for his own purposes. He'd get no statement from me. When I said nothing, Edwards made a movement with his left hand. Just a gesture. Testing my nerve. I ■..it there "God, how I love you Hoy Scout tough guys!" he said between his teeth. He loomed up over me as I continued to sit on the cot. He jabbed me in the ribs with a stiffened thumb "Stand up when I talk to you!"

I didn't move I le slapped me. My head hit the wall behind m< One of the men with him made some kind of sound, whether assent or protest I couldn't tell. I couldn't see tin in All I could see was Edwards' bulk, his red face, and Ins let looking little pig eyes. My own were squeezed tight trying to keep the tears behind them. My face stung like fury. "Stand up, damn you!" Edwards barked. He stiffened the thumb again and advanced it slowly toward my rib cage, waiting for me to flinch. I set my teeth and sat still. Edwards jabbed me in the ribs. He jabbed me again. And again. Each time it felt like a red-hot poker.

When I saw he meant to keep it up, I reached behind me and picked up one of my shoes by the toe. When Sergeant Edwards' arm moved again, I came up from the cot, fast. I smashed him right across the bridge of his nose with the heel of my shoe. I mean I hit him with every ounce I had in me. He went reeling backward, blood spurting like a geyser from his smashed nose. Only the men behind him kept him from going down.

He rebounded from them and leaned into me, clubbing at me with both fists. His weight bulled me backward, then down. On my way to the floor he hit me three or four more good shots. I hit him in the belly with both hands on my way up. Edwards knocked me down again.

There was a lot of noise and confusion. People yelling. People hurting me. I couldn't see very well. I went down and got up twice more. I think it was twice. My vision got worse. If I could have seen Edwards clearly, I'd have butted him squarely in the middle of his ugly face with the top of my skull.

But I couldn't see or reach him.

And after awhile I couldn't get up any more.

It seemed like a long time later I heard my father's voice. I wondered how he'd gotten there. His voice was loud and angry. "—Bet someone's going to pay for this!" he was saying. "And I don't care if it's you, John!"

I opened my eyes cautiously. I could see from the left one. I was in an iron bed, covered with a white sheet, and my father and John Mullen, the chief of police, were nose to nose at its foot.

"Take it easy, Henry," the chief said. He lived just up the street from us. I'd taken his youngest daughter to a school dance. "I'll get to the bottom of it."

"You're damn right you will!" my father said hotly. "And I want the boy moved to a hospital right now!"

"Doc Everhard says it isn't necessary, Henry."

"Don't try to tell me what's not necessary, John! I said right now! Don't think you can keep my boy from getting the treatment he needs just because you've got a stinking situation you'd like to cover—"

"I said I'd get to the bottom of it!" Flint-edge steel ridged Chief Mullen's tone. His voice had risen like my father's. "The boy could have been at fault, too."

"Fault? Fault? Good God, John, have you gone out of your mind? If he burned down an orphans' home, should he look like this at the hands of your men? I know this Edwards. A thug in a uniform. A disgrace—"

Chief Mullen had seen my opened eye. He walked quickly around the end of the bed. "What happened, son?" he asked quietly. My father pushed in beside him, and they both stood looking down at me.

I had to make three starts before my voice would work. "I—fell down," I said finally in a breathy rasp.

"Fell down!" my father echoed incredulously. "Fell?" He stared at me, then whirled on the chief. "What kind of intimidation is this, John? I warn you, I'm going—"

"Take it easy, Henry." There was a warning note in the official voice. The chief's shrewd-looking eyes were studying me. "Don't forget we walked in here together. Don't let me hear you say 'intimidation' again." He was still looking at me thoughtfully. "We'll talk to him later."

"We'll talk to him right now, damn it!"

Hut Chief Mullen finally got my father out of there.

I never told them any more than that, then or later. I never heard what Edwards told them, I didn't care. I think my father thought at first the beating had affected my mind. Right from the beginning, though, the chief came closet lo the Until Day after day he came to the house with path in questions. After awhile I stopped answering them at all. And eventually he stopped coming.

I was out of school for three weeks until my face healed up I still had three broken fingers on my left hand, and from shoulders to knees I was spotted like a leopard. I didn't remember anything about the fingers. Someone must have stepped on them during the melee.

Nobody at school—or anywhere else—knew what happened. I didn't say anything, and the police didn't say anything. I found out without too much trouble that the two men in the cell with Edwards that day had been Glenn Smith and Walter Cummin's.

I took to skipping classes at school, then whole days. I spent more time out of the house at night than I ever had. The first three marking periods I'd been on the honor roll, but when the school office called me in about my sliding grades, they said I might not graduate if I didn't straighten up. I didn't give a damn. I didn't think they could flunk me so quickly after the marks I'd carried, but I didn't care if they did. I was busy.

Glenn Smith was easy. He was a heavy drinker. Watching him, I found out he spent a lot of time in the Parokeet Tavern. He had a habit of parking his car on the street behind it, then walking up a narrow alley to the Parokeet's back door. Sometimes he was still in uniform.

He came back down the alley late one night, staggering a little. I took him from behind, and I lumped him good. I kicked in a few of his ribs, finally, and left him crawling on the ground like a wingless beetle. He never even got a look at me. I left the dimly lit alley, and I felt good all the way home.

The next morning Chief Mullen came to school and got me out of my history class. We went outside and sat in his car, where he talked for a long time. He didn't accuse me of anything directly. I knew he couldn't, because Glenn Smith hadn't seen me when he could recognize anyone.

The chief went on about the idiocy of people who attempted to take the law into their own hands. He talked like a damn fool. I'd. taken the law into my own hands, and I didn't feel like an idiot. I liked the feeling. When the chief saw the expression on my face, he stopped talking and opened his car door. I went back into the classroom.

Walter Cummin's took longer. Better than a month later I discovered his twice-a-week visits to a married woman's home a mile out of town. When I had his visits clocked reliably, I caught him coming out of her back door one night. I smothered him in wet potato sacking, and I got him down.

After they found him, an ambulance brought him into town.

Chief Mullen was at our house before breakfast the next morning. He was really warm under the collar. He asked me point-blank what I knew about Cummin's. My father saved me the trouble of lying. He jumped in and wanted to know if the chief was accusing me of anything. Either make a charge you can support, my father told Chief Mullen, or get out of my house. The chief hesitated, then left, red in the face. I almost laughed. My father didn't ask me anything afterward. He didn't seem comfortable with me.

Two down and one to go.

I smiled at Sergeant Edwards every time I passed him on the street. Every time I smiled, he scowled. He knew. I wanted him to know. His scowls were intended to let me know he wasn't letting his nerves get jumped up by any crackpot kid. lie watched himself, though. He watched himself so well I couldn't get anywhere near him with the right leverage. v

School finished and I graduated, barely. My college entrance credits were all shot. I'd have to pass exams to get in. I didn't take the exams. I hung around all summer, into the fall. My father, exasperated, twice demanded that I get a job if I had no intention of continuing my education. I paid no attention. I had a job. A job I had to do before I could look for another one.

Harry Coombs cornered me late one Saturday night when I was coming out of a cafe on his beat. He herded me to one side. "I suppose I'm lucky they sent me away before they went into the cell with you that day?" he inquired. prodding me in the chest with his nightstick.

I gunned at him without answering. "They're going to sit you down in a square-looking chair one of these days, kid," he told me. "They'll turn on the juice, and there'll be a sizzling noise while they burn your ass up, but you won't hear it. Think it over." He walked away from me.

Harry Coombs and his predictions didn't bother me either.

By October I knew more about Sergeant Edwards than his wife did, but he never gave me an opening. I began to get restless. I didn't know what I was going to do after I got through with him, but I wanted to get it over with and find out.

Then early in November we had an unexpected sleet and ice-storm. Edwards mounted his porch steps that night, careful of the slippery footing, his chin shrunken into his coat collar. He never saw the piece of iron pipe I got him with before he reached his front door. When I finished with the pipe, I rolled him back down his porch steps and went home. Edwards was lucky. Someone found him before he froze to death.

I didn't find that out until morning. At least the clock said it was morning, but it was still dark outside. A police cruiser came by for my father and me. They hardly gave us time to dress. My father kept asking them what had happened. They wouldn't say anything, and my father kept sneaking looks at me from the corner of his eye.

At the station Chief Mullen really gave me a going-over. He tried to scare answers out of me. He should have known better by that time. I sat there for twenty solid minutes and smiled at him. It was no effort to smile; I really felt like smiling. My father horned in finally and asked Mullen what basis he had for his unfounded accusations.

That really flipped the chief. He went into orbit. He shook a finger under my father's startled nose. You've got a wild animal running loose in this town, Mullen told my father. So you've got a choice. Cage him, or leave town. Leave town, Mullen repeated with emphasis. It would be better all around.

I nearly laughed until I saw the stricken look on my father's face. I couldn't understand it. The chief couldn't do anything. Nobody could do anything. I didn't give a damn what they thought they knew about me. They couldn't prove anything, so they couldn't do anything.

On the way home my father said tiredly he hoped some day I'd realize it was necessary to live with people. I didn't understand him. He said a lot of other things that made me feel sorry for him, because he just couldn't stand up to a situation.

I couldn't believe it when the "For Sale" sign went up on our front lawn. I was completely disgusted. My father was letting them bluff him right out of the game. They couldn't make him do a thing he didn't agree to do. I simply couldn't understand it, but my father was a weakling.

Still, I couldn't let his spinelessness affect my mother and sisters. I left home that same night. I knew I could manage, and obviously my father couldn't.

I left, and I never went back.

I had to switch cars.

The minute my potbellied Mexican guide's tongue came unlatched, the police would get a description of the Ford and me from the motel. It didn't matter a damn that they wouldn't know why they were looking for me. It was up to me to change the appearance of what they'd be looking for.

Highway 80 east out of HI Paso is a long, straight, dark stretch of road. Nobody palled me, and not many headlights came at me. Ground fog, began to drift in from the fields on either side of the highway. It began to close in over the road. I wanted to make time, and if this kept up I couldn't do it.

Must of the gas stations I passed were closed. When I came upon a lighted one, I slowed down, tempted. I finally hit the gas again and went on by. Grabbing the attendant's car or one he was fixing wouldn't solve anything. Unless I buried him in his greasepit he'd pass on the word that would tie me to the new car. The presence of the abandoned Ford would put another collar around my neck.

I needed a setup that would let me run the Ford over a cliff, or the equivalent. Even more I needed to get off Highway 80. The john in a girl's dorm doesn't get much more action than that damn highway, even with the addition of the newer Interstates.

I went over it in my mind. Van Horn is a hundred-twenty-odd miles east of El Paso. A dozen miles the other side of Van Horn Highway 80 continues east, but Highway 90 heads south. It seemed a better choice. I couldn't count on Jimmy's keeping the covers over his head forever. The police could even be out looking for the pistol-packing turista already.

I made the turnoff in an hour and thirty-five minutes, fog and all. I had to fight my eyes closing down, and I hit the shoulder a couple of times, dozing off, but at twenty minutes to midnight I turned onto 90 and headed south.

It was a narrower road, less traveled. I began to watch for a motel. I'd tucked a lot of miles under my belt that day. When I found a motel with a car parked close to the road, I'd drive a mile beyond, walk back, jump the switch on the car in the motel yard, and take off. There'd be nothing to tie the abandoned Ford to the stolen car if I hid the Ford off the highway.

I couldn't have gone more than twenty miles on 90—everything as black as the inside of a closet—when a pair of headlights appeared suddenly in my rear-view mirror. Then a red flasher started bouncing off the Ford. The cruiser must have come up behind me with his lights off, because I hadn't seen a thing. I took a quick look at the speedometer. Sixty-five. No sweat there. I heard no siren, but the car behind me pulled out alongside, then burst ahead and cut in.

I had to smash the brakes and cut the wheel hard to avoid scraping fenders as the cruiser herded me to the side of the road. I could see it was an unmarked car, though I hadn't known the Rangers used unmarked cars. Live and learn.

I was ready when he leaned in the window I'd rolled down. I handed him my driver's license made out to Earl

Drake. Paper-clipped to it was a twenty-dollar bill. I could see a trooper hat silhouetted against the dark, but I couldn't see the face beneath it. I could sense rather than see him looking around the Ford's interior before he walked to the rear and put a flash on the license plate.

He returned and handed me my license. The twenty-dollar bill was gone. "Drive up the highway a quarter-mile," he said in a voice that sounded as if he regularly had steel filings for breakfast. "Turn right at the first opening. A hundred-fifty feet in, there's a white fence. Turn left and stop. I'll be right behind you." He walked back to his car. I hadn't gotten to say a word.

I could feel a slow burn taking over. If this sonofabitch thought he was going to take my twenty and then haul me up before a justice of the peace, he was damn well going to find out differently. When I buy someone, I expect him to stay bought.

He pulled ahead to let me out of the cramped edge-of-the-highway situation, and I eased back out on the road. I rolled along slowly, watching for the turnoff he'd indicated. Even at that I almost missed it. It was hardly more than a dirt dropoff. Halfway into my turn I thought I'd made a mistake, but the headlights behind me turned in, too. I came up to the white fence and turned left. Twenty-five yards farther on I faced a deadend, an impenetrable, junglelike brush tangle looming in the headlights.

I was gelling hotter by the minute. I was losing valuable time. I had missed a turn somehow despite his directions, and I'd wound up in this jackpot. I started to back out, but a red glow filled my rear view mirror. I turned my head to see the cruiser was backing into the clearing, sealing me in. Even as I looked he cut his lights.

All of a sudden I had a feeling.

I switched off my lights and motor, fumbled a flashlight from the glove compartment, and went out the door on the passenger's side Something wasn't kosher. The unmarked car, the absence of a siren, the dead end deserted spot to which I'll been directed . . .

I put the Hash on him when I heard brush crackling

under his feet. He stopped dead in the beam of light. He was holding a gun, a blued-steel job. His campaign hat looked like a Ranger's hat, especially in the dark. His clothes didn't even look like a uniform except for the color. The bastard was no more a cop than I was.

He brought his gun up and snapped off a shot at me just as I let go at him with the Woodsman. He turned as if to run. I put one into his ankle that brought him down with a crash. He landed all sprawled out, his gun flying off into the bushes. I got over to him fast in case he had another.

When I got the flash full on him, I saw it wouldn't have made any difference if he'd had a machine-gun. He'd been moving on reflex. The hard core of light shone down on a round, dark hole between his eyes, just to the right of center. The little old Woodsman might not have the stopping power of a .38, but it gets there just the same.

It was quiet in the clearing after the sound of the gunshots. I walked over and put the flash on the bandit's car—a Ford, too, but apparently in better shape than mine. I got his car keys from his pocket, got under the wheel, and started it up. The engine vrom-vroomed with power. Something extra under the hood.

It looked like I'd won myself an automobile.

I switched on both cars' dimmers and opened the trunks. I loaded his gear in mine and mine in his, took both cars' license plates off, and chopped them up with a hammer and chisel. With a screwdriver I finally loosened the red flasher on the roof of the bandit's car. I removed the bulb and knocked down the edges of the socket; then I slapped black friction tape, which blended with the color of the car, over the hole.

I rummaged around through saws and climbing irons in my toolchest till I found a set of Florida plates that I put on the new Ford. I always carry a number of different identifications until it becomes dangerous to do so.

I cleaned out my wallet and started from scratch. Someone in Hudson, Florida would be looking for Earl Drake, so Earl Drake had to disappear. When I put the wallet on my hip again, I was Chester Arnold of Hollywood, Florida. I had business cards identifying Chet Arnold as a tree surgeon. When it's necessary, I am a tree surgeon. A good one.

I went back for my unknown benefactor when I had everything ready. I dragged him to the new Ford and stuffed him into its trunk on top of my toolchests. It was a tight squeeze, but I finally got the back deck lid closed.

Then I took off.

Every five miles, I threw a chopped-up piece of license plate out the window. It helped me to stay awake. Then it started to rain. It doesn't rain too often in west Texas, but when it docs, it doesn't fool around. I hunched down over the wheel, watching the highway through the streaming windshield as I pitched license plate fragments.

Forty miles further, I ran into a torn-up section of road under repair. In those parts they're so sure it won't rain, they don't bother with the nicety of preserving one lane of macadam. They tear up the road from shoulder to shoulder, roll it, and drive on the dirt till they get the blacktop back on. A wrong guess means a driving rodeo through four to six inches of Texas gumbo.

It was raining so damn hard that in less than a mile the entire graveled roadbed was solidly under water. The new Ford slipped and slithered along. Even at five miles an hour, a couple of times I wasn't sure I was able to keep on going. It was like driving across a ten-mile lake. To be sure I was still in the channel, I had to watch the highway department right-of way slakes glistening in the headlights.

I finally emerged on blacktop again, and for the next ten miles I listened to Texas mud slurp from the undercarriage at every little jounce. From what I saw, I could have won a few bets from people who thought they knew the car's original color. I concentrated on driving and staying awake.

When the odometer said I was two hundred miles from El Paso, I started looking for a deep culvert. I pulled over on the shoulder when I found a likely-looking one. As I walked around to the back of the Ford, I never saw a night so black—and raining as though someone had turned on a petcock and gone off on vacation. I was soaked in less than a minute.

I got the trunk open, then hauled out my passenger. When I rolled him down the high bank, he went in with a satisfying splash. After I got back under the wheel, I started slogging up the highway again. No one would connect my benefactor to me or to much of anything else when they found him. Ditto the Ford I'd left behind in the brushy clearing.

I'd passed Marfa and Alpine a long way back, clusters of lights in the dripping darkness. I was between Marathon and Haymond when I dumped the body. Twice on the long stretch between Sanderson and Del Rio I nearly went to sleep. By that time I was driving myself as hard as I was driving the car.

Dawn was breaking in a dirty gray sky outside Bracketville when I got a leg cramp so bad it pulled my foot right off the accelerator. I stopped the car and got out and limped around it a couple of times, but I couldn't shake off the cramp. I drove through town with my left foot on the gas pedal and hobbled into a motel on the outskirts. I woke up the owner, shut up his grumbling about the ungodliness of the hour, took the key he gave me, and headed for the room he pointed out.

I was 450 miles from El Paso, and it had been a long, long day.

I shed clothing all the way from the door of the room to the bed, and I was asleep before I was halfway down to the pillow.

IV

A year after I left home I worked the midnight-to-eight shift in a gas station near the edge of a northern Ohio town. It was colder than a whore's heart in December, but it kept me eating. From two to seven in the morning I wouldn't average half a dozen cars. I'd sit inside with my feet cocked up on the heater and wait for daylight.

Or listen to Oily Barnes.

He was an odd one. I couldn't figure why a good-looking guy with a college degree should spend his time hanging around a gas station till all hours in the morning, talking to a kid like me. At first I thought he was a queer, naturally. Then I decided he wasn't, but I still couldn't make him out.

He was slender, with a pale, narrow face dominated by a high forehead, straw-colored hair, and steel-rimmed spectacles. He was about thirty. His small, well-shaped hands usually fluttered nervously while he talked. He had a beautiful speaking voice.

Two or three nights a week he'd hang around the station till five in the morning. I never understood how he could keep his eyes open on his bookkeeping job. I noticed one thing about him: he talked a lot about the places he'd been and the things he'd seen, but never about the people. He talked travel, books, painting, opera, ballet; talked with a passionate intensity. I tried to tell him he was way over my head with what he had to say. Then I saw it didn't matter, and I shut up and listened. Oily brought me books I didn't read, and he tried to hide his disappointment when I didn't.

And then one morning the police came and took him away. It was about three-thirty, and he'd been talking about books as usual, when the cruiser pulled up outside. Olly's good-looking face crumbled like aspirin in water when he saw the big man in plainclothes walking toward the station entrance. I thought for a second he was going to run, but if he considered it he didn't have time.

The big man stood in the open doorway, cold air pouring in all around him. "Let's take a ride, Oliver," he said. He had a broad, flat face with high cheekbones and no more expression than an iron skillet.

"No," Oily whispered. "No!" The second time it was a scream. Then he started to run, all right, toward the garage area, but the big man cut him off and scooped him up by the shirt front, like I'd snatch a fly from a table. He half-carried, half-dragged Oily outside without saying another word. The door slammed behind them.

I went outside to the cruiser. It was none of my business, but I went out, anyhow. A uniformed man was driving. I rapped on the rolled-up front window. I could see Oily and the big man in the back seat. Oily was crying. The uniformed man lowered the window and looked out at me. "What's it all about?" I asked him.

lie sat with his head cocked as if he were listening for something from the back seat. Nobody said anything, and after a minute he rolled the window back up and wheeled the cruiser around the pumps and out onto the highway.

I watched the tail-lights diminishing up the road. It was a bitterly cold night, without stars or lights of any kind except at the station. It wasn't any of my business, and I couldn't walk off and leave the place. I went back inside, out of the cold. Olly's overcoat was still draped on a chair where he'd dropped it when he came in.

I called the police four times between then and seven o'clock. No one I talked to had ever heard of Oliver Barnes. I described the big man who had taken Oily away.

They knew him, all right. His name was Lieutenant Winick. No one had seen him, either.

A little after four it started to snow. Between calls to the police I was kept busy clearing the station's driveways. My dawn there was six inches on the ground, and it was blowing hard. After seven I was too busy to call any more. When my relief came on at eight I had to stay over an hour to help with the rush of cars.

There were no buses running by the time I was able to get away. I put Olly's coat over my arm and walked the mile-and-a-half into town. Drifts were already a couple of feet high in some places, and the wind was spraying line-drive sheets of snow. Cold as it was I was sweating by the time I reached the police station. That kind of weather made heavy going.

I didn't really know what I was doing there. I guess I'd always known Oily wasn't exactly a hundred cents on the dollar. Still, a deal like that—what if it had been me? Wouldn't I have wanted someone to find out the score?

I might as well have talked to a totem pole as the sergeant at the desk. He asked a hell of a lot more questions than he answered. Who I was. Where I lived. Where I worked. What my interest was. He finally made a pretense of checking the blotter and said that no Oliver Barnes had been booked for anything. For him that ended it.

I hung around anyway. Nobody actually tried to run me out, but they didn't make it easy for me to stay. I tried my questions on two or three newcomers, with the same results. The heat in the waiting room kept putting me to sleep every time I sat down. At eleven o'clock I gave up. J left Olly's overcoat with the desk sergeant in case he came in looking for it, I said—and went home to bed.

It was still snowing when I woke at four. I dressed and walked back to the police station after a quick meal. The same sergeant spoke before I could when he saw me come in. "Lieutenant Winick wants to sec you, kid," he said, pointing to a door. "Second door on the left inside."

Winick looked up from the paperwork on his desk when

I knocked and entered his office. The room smelled of cigar ash and stale coffee. Winick's high-cheekboned features were just as expressionless as they'd been before. He leaned far back in his chair, folded his arms, and looked me over. "Stanton said you wanted to see me," he said at last.

As though he'd just got the word. "Where's Oily?" I asked.

"In a cell. Where he belongs."

"Why? What for?"

Winick's slitted eyes were unwinking. "Your friend has a bad habit. He coaxes little girls behind buildings and takes their pants down." His harsh voice deepened as his eyes bored into mine. "Little girls. Seven, eight, nine. He's done it before, you know. So it wasn't hard to know where to look, even without the kid's description of him, when her mother brought her in."

The roof of my mouth felt dry. "How good—what kind of a description?"

"Oliver Barnes' description." Winick's voice blared at me suddenly. "He served a reformatory term and a prison sentence for the same thing. You're not very choosy of your company. How long have you been in town?"

"Six mouths. When what lime did it happen?"

The big shoulders rose and fell in an elaborate shrug. "Five, six o'clock yesterday. The kid wasn't sure."

I felt a quick stir of excitement. "Five or six o'clock in the evening?"

"Five or six o'clock in the evening," Winick conceded with exaggerated patience.

"Then it couldn't have been Oily!" I said triumphantly.

Winick smiled, "lie confessed."

"Confessed?" I felt staggered. "Look, you said it happened between five and six yesterday?"

He was watching me narrowly. "That's what I said."

"Then it couldn't have been Oily," I repeated. "He brought Mime books over to my room at four in the afternoon and he stayed until I went out to eat at seven. It couldn't have been Oily, you hear me?"

Winick stood up behind his desk. "You're mixed up on the days. It happens to you nightworkers. Besides, he confessed."

"The hell I'm mixed up on the days! How could he confess to something he didn't do? You must have—"

"Careful of the territory you're taking in, kid," Winick's hard voice cut me off. "Where do you fit into this? What kind of friend is Barnes to you?"

"Why don't you ask me what kind of friend I am to Barnes? The way I see it, I'm the friend he needs. I want to talk to him."

"Sorry." Winick shook his head. "He's havin' a fit of remorse."

I could feel myself shaking. "Listen, I tell you I'll testify Oily couldn't possibly have—"

"You're goin' off half-cocked, kid." Winick's voice could have cut wood. "Did you hear me say Barnes had confessed? In stinking detail?"

"You made him confess! He was afraid the minute he saw you. Because he did it before doesn't mean he did it this time. You must have forced—"

"Listen to me." Winick's voice was quiet again. "He did it. He confessed. Can you get that through your thick skull?"

"There must be somebody else for me to talk to around here besides you," I said desperately. "You're not even listening. Oily couldn't have—"

"You're not listenin' to me." Gimlet eyes drilled into mine. "Barnes is a menace to society. He's proved it. He should never have been out on the street. This time I'm tuckin' him away for a good long stretch."

"But he didn't do it! Not this time!"

"He did it." Winick's heavy voice was Hat with authority. His eyes appeared almost closed. "Should I ask Barnes if you were with him?"

My hands clenched. "Is that supposed to make me run out of here? I know what I know, by God. I don't care what he did before. This he didn't do, and I'll talk till I get someone to listen."

Winick's voice became slow and draggy, emphasizing each word. "You sound to me like someone fixin' to get his balls caught in the machinery, kid." He leaned down over his desk, resting his weight on his big-knuckled hands. "I know what Barnes is. The people in this town know what he is. When you talk to me, you're talkin' to all of them."

I went out of there in a tearing rage.

I didn't believe Winick, but I found out he was right. Everyone I tried to get to listen to me gave me a blank stare. Nobody would believe it couldn't have been Oily.

Then I found out the hard way that some of them were never going to believe it. The next day I lost both my job and my room. Winick had been to see my boss and my landlady. All of a sudden I was on the street with twenty-three dollars between me and the icy gutter.

I stuck around another day, still trying to get someone to listen. I was half out of my mind, crazy-mad at the town and the people in it. And at Winick. Especially at Winick. That night I slept till four A.M. in the railroad station with my head on my bag. Winick's cops found me then and threw me out into the snow. I must have ground a quarter-inch oil my teeth, stumbling around the slippery, frozen streets, lugging my bag. I was half numb by the time the first one-arm coffee joint opened.

In the cold gray light of morning I gave up. I walked out to the edge of town and stopped a highway bus and told the driver to take me eleven dollars' worth away from there. I purposely hadn't bought a ticket at the bus station because I figured if Winick wanted to keep a string on me he'd have checked there.

I wound up across the state, a hundred-eighty miles away. I got a job as a stockboy in a chain grocery. Three times a week I bought a northern Ohio newspaper and read every word of it, looking for news of Oily.

It was three months before I found it.

The black headline said Oily had been sentenced to fifteen years.

That day I quit the human race. I never went back to my job. The only legitimate work I've done since has always been with an illegitimate purpose in mind. If that was the way it was, I'd play it as it lay.

I bought a gun in a hockshop. I didn't even have a car. The local paper nipped hard at police heels about the series of gas station holdups by a quick-moving pedestrian who always disappeared into the darkness.

I was surprised at how easy it was. I had only two close calls. Once I was scared off before I'd committed myself, and another time I had to stop an attendant from chasing me by shooting over his head.

I was no high liver, and the money piled up. I had a purpose for it. I bought a secondhand car and learned how to drive it. Ten weeks after Oily started his sentence I drove the hundred-eighty miles back across the state.

Back to Winick.

I rang his doorbell at ten o'clock at night. He opened the door himself. Not that it made any difference; I was all ready to go right into the house after him.

I shot him in the face, four times. He went backward in a kind of shambling trot. "That's for Oily, you bastard," I told him, but I don't think he heard me. I think he was dead before his big shoulders hit the floor.

Winick was the first.

I woke at sundown in the Bracketville motel, humped myself across the street to a combination grocery-restaurant, and loaded up on bacon, eggs, and black coffee. I recrossed the highway and went right back into the sack. I woke the next morning at five-thirty, feeling better physically than I had in weeks.

I had breakfast at the same restaurant and was ready to leave. I climbed into the new Ford, listened appreciatively to the engine sound when I started it up, and tried to back out of my parking place. The car rocked back and forth, but it wouldn't budge. I sat there blankly for a moment before it dawned on me what had happened. All that Texas gumbo I'd driven through had frozen the brakes, including the emergency, when dried.

I went back across the road again. I rousted out a barefoot kid at the restaurant and brought him back to the car. He crawled underneath it and clawed out a couple of pecks of rich-looking mud. He had trouble freeing the emergency, but he finally managed it. I gave the kid two dollars, and he turned cartwheels all the way back to the restaurant.

It was a beautiful morning when I hit the highway. Everything was fresh and clear after the storm. The road was dry and there was no traffic that early in the day. I laid into the accelerator the first straight stretch to see what the engine in the Ford could actually do. I chickened out at 116, and it felt like I had an inch of gas pedal left. The thing was a fireball. It held the road well, too.

I drove on through Uvalde, San Antonio, Seguin, and Luling. I had lunch in Weimar. In the afternoon I plowed on through Houston, Beaumont, and Orange. I spent the night in Lake Charles, Louisiana. The odometer said 469 miles for the day.

I'd pushed it a little because I wanted to make Mobile the following night. I could get guns and other things I needed in Mobile from Manny Sebastian. I had to ditch the artillery I was carrying. One gun traced to two bank guards in Phoenix, the other to a body floating in a rain-swollen ditch. If Manny hadn't lost his contacts, I could get a Florida license and registration from him to match what I was driving.

1 was out on the highway again by six-thirty the next morning. Ten miles east of Lake Charles I turned north on Route I ON at a little place called Iowa. I stayed with the new route for twenty miles to Kinder, then headed east again on 190, the New Orleans bypass.

I sailed through Eunice, Opelousas, Baton Rouge, and Hammond in Louisiana, then crossed into Mississippi at Slidell. A few miles farther on 190 hooked back into 90 again, and I rolled along the Old Spanish Trail through Liny St. Louis, Pass Christian, Gulfport, Biloxi, and Pascagoula. Along that sunlit stretch I was seldom out of sight of white sand and blue Gulf. When I pulled into a motel in Mobile about five o'clock, the odometer said 343 miles.

I washed up, had dinner, and drove downtown to the Golden Peacock, Manny Sebastian's joint. After midnight the place swung like a steeple bell, but at this time of night it was quiet. Manny had a finger in a lot of pies. He hadn't seen me in quite a while, but he recognized me as soon as I walked in. He came over and shook hands. He'd put on weight since I'd last seen him, and his jowls and extra chins transformed the face I remembered as jovially ugly Into something sinister.

"The back room?" he asked with a cocked eyebrow.

I nodded. He walked behind the bar and engaged in small talk with a couple of the half-dozen customers. After live minutes he selected a key from a huge ring on his belt and opened an unmarked door at the end of the bar alongside one marked "Office."

I gave it a couple of minutes before I went to the door and tapped. Manny let me in and closed and barred the door. He had a bottle and glasses already out on a small table—the room's only furnishing except an old-fashioned Iron safe in one corner.

"Long time, man," Manny said expansively. "How's old hit-the-squirrel-in-the-eye-at-a-hundred-yards?" He poured and handed me a drink. "What's your problem?"

"Not the same as yours, I hope. You talk too much, Manny." I took a swallow from my glass. "How are you fixed on Florida registrations?"

He nodded. "What're you driving?"

"A Ford all over mud on your parking lot." I handed him one of my Chet Arnold business cards. "Have your boy match that up and run off a license while he's at it."

Manny went to the door and unbarred it. He called someone over to whom he spoke in a low tone, then closed the door again. "Ready in an hour. Like what else?"

"Hardware. Preferably a Smith & Wesson .38 police special and a Colt .22 Woodsman."

He nodded again. "I'll have to send for the Woodsman but I've got a .38 right here." He was already whirling the dial on the old safe. He produced the Smith & Wesson with a flourish. "Never been fired except by me an' never in anger."

"Okay. What's the damage?"

He squinted up at the ceiling. "Oh, say six hundred. Paperwork comes high these days."

I paid him. Paperwork wasn't the only thing that came high, but I had to have those guns.

"Grab a seat at the bar," Manny said. "It's on the house. It'll give you the office when I get your stuff together. How're things in general?" Shrewd eyes in the larded-over features studied me.

"Quiet, Manny."

He chuckled. "A hundred seventy-odd thousand quiet?"

I forced my face into a smile. "I read about that. A nice touch. It sounded like Toby Coates. Or Jim Griglun."

"Toby's in Joliet," Manny said smoothly. "And Jim lost his nerve after the time in Des Moines."

"Sometimes a man gets it back."

Manny shook his head. "Not if he didn't have too much to begin." He grinned at me companionably. "That Phoenix job had your pawprints all over it. "You ought to miss a shot once in a while."

Out of the mouths of fools.

I made a mental note.

"Sorry to disappoint you," I said lightly. "I've been in hibernation." But I felt a growing sense of irritation. This kind of earache I didn't need.

I le seemed to sense my mood. "Who should know better?" lie said, cryptically enough, then opened the door. "Order up. It's on the house, remember."

I sat at the bar and ordered a highball I didn't want. Through a window at the right I could see the parking lot. A slim redhead with a limp was walking around the Ford. He raised the hood as I watched, then opened the front door, leaned inside, and wrote something down. The engine number, I figured. The redhead went back to the hood and looked inside for two or three minutes before closing it.

I nursed my drink for half an hour, then had another. I was two-thirds of the way down to the bottom of it when Manny slid onto the next stool and laid a package in my lap. "Eddie says that's a real fireball you've got on the lot," he said softly. "I got a wheelman would give his front teeth for it. You want to trade? I'll give you something to boot."

"Not right now, Manny. I'll keep you in mind, though."

I waited until he left and then went out to the car. I unwrapped the package, put the new license and registration in my wallet, and switched loads from the old guns to the new. I tried them for balance, and they felt all right. I'd check them out for sighting accuracy as soon as I had a chance.

I drove out of the lot. T doubled and twisted over a circuitous route back to my motel, more from force of habit than from any real belief that someone might be following me. Still, the conversation with Manny bothered me. Manny was a gossip. Never to the wrong people, so far as I knew, but a gossip is a gossip. This business of driving around the country so soon after a job bothered me, too. Usually I had a nice, quiet place to hole up in between jobs. This time I wasn't calling the tune, though.

I slept solidly that night.

The next morning was my fifth day since leaving Phoenix. I made another early start and left Highway 90 about thirty miles beyond Seminole, at Milton. On 90-A I hustled along through Galliver, Crestview, DcFuniak Springs, Marianna, Chatahoochee, Talahassee, and Monticello. I was on the homestretch now.

At Capps I turned south on US 19. I picked out two swift-running rivers fifty miles apart, and I threw the old Smith & Wesson into the first one and the old Woodsman into the second.

I saw a sign at the side of the highway late that afternoon. It said Town Limits, Hudson, Florida. I drove

through the main square and found a motel called the Lazy Susan on the south side of town. I'd covered 362 miles since morning. I registered, showered, ate at the motel, went into the lobby and worked my way through a month-old copy of Time, then went to bed early. I wanted to start fresh in the morning.

I had breakfast in town at a place called the Log Cabin. The building looked like stucco over logs. It was early, but the place was busy. The breakfasters were blue-collar, a factory crowd. There wasn't much conversation, even from the good-looking young waitress who wore an engagement ring but no wedding band.

I walked around the square afterward. I'd estimated the town at six or eight thousand the day before. That morning I upped it a little. The store windows looked clean, and the displayed merchandise looked fresh. There were no empty stores near the main intersection. The merchants must at least be making the rent money.

I walked past the bank with its protective iron grille drawn. It was an old building, bristling in its external impression of maximum security. Like the kind of two-dollar watch that used to be called a bulldog.

I bought a local paper at the drugstore, carried it to the little park in the square, and sat down on a bench in the early morning sunlight. The park faced the shabby-looking town hall and the post office. I looked at the post office a couple of times. To be diverted, registered mail almost had to be tampered with by post office personnel. Although of course Bunny's packaged money meant for me might not have been registered when it was intercepted.

The newspaper was a weekly. I read every line of it, including the classified ads. It's a habit of mine. Tips are where you find them. For years, I've had a subscription under one of my names to Banking, the Journal of the American Hanking Association. There's a column in it called " The Country Banker," and two of the best tips I'd ever had came right out of that column. Banking used to publish pictures of newly remodeled bank interiors, but

they've mostly cut that out. It must have occurred to

someone that they were being too helpful.

I trail the classified section carefully. If there was a tree surgeon in Hudson, Florida, he wasn't using the local paper to attract customers. I folded up the paper and walked back to where I'd parked the Ford.

Main Street in Hudson ran east-west from the traffic light in the square, not north-south on 19. I drove east on Main. When the stores thinned out, I slowed down. The first homes were small, with tiny yards or none at all. No work for a tree surgeon there.

A mile beyond the built-up section of town the area south of Main Street became a swamp. I recalled seeing it listed on a map as Thirty Mile Swamp. From its looks it was no kitchen-garden swamp, either, but a fibrous jungle of cypress and mangrove in brackish-looking water, the trees drearily festooned with Spanish moss. A hand-painted sign beside a shack said "Airboat for Hire."

I turned around and started back. Near the edge of town again I turned north and began crisscrossing side streets. Gradually I worked into higher ground and an unproved residential section. I turned finally into a block-long street with only three houses on it. Big houses. Estates. I slowed down again. This was what I needed: property that required upkeep and people with the money to pay for it. I made notes on the edge of my newspaper while I drove around.

I headed back to the town square when I'd accumulated half-a-dozen addresses. I parked in front of the local five-and-dime. Above it a sign fisted a real estate office. I climbed a flight of stairs with my paper under my arm. A young fellow hopped up from behind a desk as I entered. He had on a short-sleeved white shirt with a black tie. Below the executive level the short-sleeved white shirt is almost a uniform in this latitude. Nobody wears a jacket, and after lunch the ties come off. Nobody is ever in a hurry.

"Yes, sir?" the real estate man said briskly. He had a nice smile. "Jed Raymond, sir. May I be of help?"

"Chet Arnold," I said, and handed him one of my business cards. "I just came in to pick your brains." I looked at the notes on my paper. "There's a big white Georgian house at Sand Rock Road and Jezebel Drive." I glanced at Jed Raymond. "Odd name for a street, that."

"Old man Landscombe named it, Mr. Arnold. They do say he had his reasons." Jed Raymond looked up from a quick inspection of my card. "You want the tree work there?" He shook his head doubtfully. "Mr. Landscombe died six months ago, and there's an unholy dustup about his will. Three sets of presumptive heirs suing each other. The estate'll probably be in probate for years." Young Mr. Raymond had a soft drawl and a mournfully humorous smile. His bright, heart-shaped face was under a ginger-colored, conservative haircut. Any woman over thirty would have taken him to raise, glad of the chance.

"Who's the estate administrator?" I asked. "He shouldn't want the property run down."

"I believe it's Judge Carberry." He pronounced it "Cah'bry." "If he's not he'll know who is. You could have somethin' there."

I wrote the name down. "How about a fieldstone rancher up on University Place and Golden Hill Lane?"

"Belongs to Mr. Craig at the bank. His daddy used to be in the lumber business. So'd Roger Craig, until he had a heart attack a while back. He came into the bank then. I guess his family owned most of it, anyway."

I decided to skip the remainder of my list for the time being. A judge and a banker. Better still, a banker who had been in the lumber business. If I could crack either one, I was in business in Hudson, Florida. "You know your real estate," I told Jed Raymond. "Anything in the regulations says I can't buy your lunch one of these days?"

"II there is I'll get it amended," he grinned. He tucked my business card into his shirt pocket. "I'll keep this, if you don't mind. I might hear of something for you."

" Thanks. I'm at the Lazy Susan now. If I change, I'll let you know. D'you happen to have a detailed map of the area?"

He reached in a counter drawer and handed me a thickly folded-over packet. "This one's even got the projected streets in the new development east of town." He waved me off when I put my hand into my pocket. "Hope you do y'self some good locally, Mr. Arnold."

"Chet," I said.

"Jed," he returned with another smile.

I went back down the stairs to the street. I always carry two toolkits with me, a large one to work from and a small one for show. I got the small one out of the trunk of the Ford after tucking two double-bitted axes into the loops on either side of the chest.

When a man formerly in the lumber business saw such a kit, I shouldn't have too much trouble getting into his office to talk to him.

V

I walked back up the street to the bank which was now open.

I was twenty-three when I killed my second man.

Funny thing: it was in Ohio, too.

Massillon.

Five of us had taken the bank on the northeast corner of the main intersection, but one of the boys got trigger-happy inside. During the getaway Nig Rosen and Duke Naylor were burned down in the street before we even reached the getaway car. A mile out of town I scratched a deputy in a cruised trying to cut us off. Two days later the rest of us were flushed from a farmhouse. Clem Powers was killed. Barney Pope and I were bagged.

Barney was an old lag. He knew he'd have long white whiskers before he made it outside again, if he ever made It. Go for yourself, kid, he said to me as we stood in the farmyard with our hands in the air. I'll back your play.

I'd left my gun inside beside Clem's body. That scored the deputy to Clem. I told the mob scene that surrounded us that I was a hitchhiker who'd been sleeping in the barn when the bankrobbers took over, and I stuck to it. True to his word, Barney backed me up. The police didn't believe It, but the jury came close. Identification putting me inside the bank was fuzzy. The guilty verdict was lukewarm.

Even the judge was leaning. I had no rap sheet. They'd checked my prints from Hell to Hoboken, and they couldn't come up with even a speeding charge. Two things licked me with the judge, finally. I wasn't using my family name, of course, and the probation officer couldn't get a line on me. The judge refused to believe I'd sprung fullblown from the earth at age twenty-three without previous documentation of some kind. Also—and fatally—I could produce no visible means of support.

The judge cleared his throat and said three-to-five. I think he'd been considering probation. Barney Pope drew twenty-to-life. We weren't tried for the deputy. There was a double-barreled question of jurisdiction and identification. The local DA didn't want to give up his headlines by letting us face the murder charge. They wrote off the deputy to Clem.

I hadn't graduated overnight to a five-man bank detail. I'd come up the ladder—filling stations, theater box offices, liquor stores—the whole bit. I worked alone until I met Nig Rosen. Nig talked me into the Massillon job. I guess I was flattered. I was by far the youngest of the five.

We worked four months on the job. I kept my mouth shut and listened. Parts of it I didn't like, instinctively it seemed. Afterward I knew I was right. Complicated action with a bunch of hot sparks was no good. Even before we were hit I'd decided what I wanted in the future was a deal I could control myself.

I had plenty of time in the gow to figure how it was going to be the next time. Doc Essegian was my cellmate from the middle of my second year ©n. Everyone called him The Doctor, maybe because he was such a wise old owl. He was certainly no medical doctor.

The first three months Doc never even said good morning to me. Then I had a little trouble with one of the screws. When I came back from solitary, Doc laughed at me. "Don't let it burn a hole in your gut, kid," he advised me. "You're a better hater than me, even, and that's saying something."

After that he kind of took me over. "Life is the big machine, kid," he'd growl at me in his after-lights-out rasp. "It chews you up and it spits you out. Don't ever forget it."

He had the most completely acid outlook on life I'd ever encountered. He really knew the score. He was consumptive to his toenails, but over the years he'd given them so much trouble inside they wouldn't certify him to the federal prison hospital in Springfield, Missouri. Each day he systematically coughed up a little more of his lungs while grinning and thumbing his nose. Don't bother telling me it's impossible for our pure-minded prison authorities to function in such a cold-blooded manner. I was there.

I'd have applied for parole when I was eligible if it hadn't been for Doc. Go ahead, if you can't tough it out, he told me. But remember this: the minute you do it you're the yo-yo on the end of the string. The least little thing you do they don't like, they'll twitch the string and back you come. Do the bit, he urged me. Go out clean. Spit in their eye. Get a decent job, something you can't do with a parole officer checking on you every time you turn around.

You're young, Doc said. Develop something you can work at once in a while and show as a means of a support when a prosecutor wants to put you over the jumps. Put in time on the job every so often. Keep a name clean to work under, because when a judge hears no visible means of support, you're gone.

I'd been that route, so I knew he was right. I had an even better reason for listening to him, though. Barney Pope had hidden the swag from the bank job before we'd been funneled to the farmhouse, and it had never been recovered. I knew where it was, and Barney knew where it was. Nobody else. The cops had never found it, at least not publicly. A cop working alone could have tapped the till. A man never knows about that until he gets back for a look.

I knew they'd never found it officially because every three months I had a visit from the FBI. They came in pairs, always. Sharp boys, smooth dressers, with faces like, polished steel. I used to wonder if they came in pairs to eliminate the chance of my splitting with a single man after making a deal.

Each time they came we'd go over the same old tired routine about the whereabouts of the boodle. I always insisted I was an innocent hitchhiker caught up in the middle of a police-bank robber gunfight. They knew better, but they couldn't crack me.

I found out Doc was right the first time they came back after I was eligible for parole. They turned me upside down about why I hadn't applied. I told them I liked it where I was. That moved me up a few notches on their list.

Anyway, I did the bit. The day I walked out of that stinking hole I didn't have to say, "Mister" to any man. And I'd made up my mind: I wasn't going back. Regardless of what it took, I wasn't ever going back.

The day I left an FBI tail picked me up at the front gate. I rode with it until he got to thinking it was a breeze. The second day I triple-doored him in a hotel lobby and lost him. I thought that was that, but give the devil his due. They located me at my first two jobs. I wasn't on parole, but I lost the jobs. I had to figure they didn't want me working so I'd be driven back to the swag.

I finally shook them by traveling up into the Pacific Northwest and hooking on in a lumber camp. I never saw street lights for a year and a half. The work damn near killed me at first, but I got to enjoy it. And I practiced with a handgun almost every day. When I came out of there, I could handle a crosscut saw and a double-bitted ax with the best of them, and with a gun I could do things people pay to see.

I drifted into tree work later on. It seemed a natural for part-time work. It helped in getting a closeup look at places I was interested in, like banks. When I worked, I worked hard. I had no trouble catching on with a tree crew anytime I wanted a job.

I waited three years before I went back for the Massilon loot I didn't need the money—I'd had two good popovers bat k to hack but it seemed about time. The farmhouse was pair and the farm cut up into a subdivision. I had to buy a lot to do it, but I got the swag. The deed to the lot is still in a safety deposit box in the Riverman's Trust Company in ('Cincinnati.

Long before that I'd arranged with a shyster lawyer to send Barney Pope fifty a month, supposedly from an inheritance. Fifty a month is all a man is allowed to spend in a federal pen. Once I learned via the grapevine that the lawyer had missed sending it three months in a row. I made a flying trip cross-country to see him, and he never missed again.

In jail I used to read nights before lights-out. It was at Doc's insistence at first. Learn something, you stupid lunkhead, Doc would say to me. He had two gods, the dictionary and the encyclopedia. I read aloud to him from both because he had incipient cataracts. He could have had them operated on, but I think he was afraid to let them work on him while he had any light left.

An encyclopedia article would start him talking. He'd been everywhere and seen everything, twice. There was no degree from the school I attended, but I'd have had to be a complete jerk not to learn.

Doc had been a bank man himself. A blaster of the old dynamite and nitro school, when they still carried the nitro in flasks. He wasn't afraid to admit the world had passed him by. Forget the gangs, he told me. Forget the big, involved jobs that get hung up on the first weak link. Two good men is all it takes, he insisted. When you move, smash them. Never let up on the pressure. Never take a backward step once you're committed.

I listened, and I learned. While I was up in the lumber camp getting the smell of the FBI blown off me, I worked it all out down to the last few decimal places. I divorced myself for all time from the vault-blowing jobs and the armored-truck jobs. That was the hard way. A fast, clean operation: that's what I wanted. Hit-and-run. Smash-and-grab. Give them a look for a hundred-fifty seconds, average, with the disadvantage of surprise.

When I left the West Coast I drove to Atlantic City and looked up Bosco Sheerin. Bosco liked the sound of what I had to say. I was younger than he was, but he was a happy-go-lucky type, and he made no objection to my calling the plays. We had a run that was peaches-and cream until one night in Philadelphia the husband of Bosco's blonde girl friend came home early. Bosco wound up on a morgue slab with foreign matter in his gizzard, and I needed a new partner.

I picked up someone whenever I needed a man. I'm no big liver. I had a shack in Colorado at timberline on the road up to Pike's Peak. In June it would snow half the mornings, and in August there were still drifts in the backyard. I had another place near the Vermont-New Hampshire border on the Connecticut River. If I was there in August, I'd drive over to Saratoga and make the race meeting. Usually I spent part of every winter in New Orleans.

I went a year without turning a trick after Ed Morris was killed in a drunken argument in a bucket of blood in Santa Fe. I didn't need money. Then one night I met Bunny in a tavern in Newark. I watched him for a month, and I liked what I saw. He could handle himself, and he had the big advantage that he could pass as a deaf mute. He even knew the finger language. He'd been small-time before I picked him up, but he did as he was told. He had complete confidence in me after our first job. Bunny—

It was a damn shame.

I couldn't escape the feeling that I-was going to need another new partner.

I entered the Iatched-back doors of the Suncoast Trust Company and approached a gray-haired woman near the railing which enclosed the executive desks. "I'd like to see Mr. Craig," I said, handing her a Chet Arnold business card. "He won't know me. If he's busy, I'll wait."

"Will you have a seat, please, Mr. Arnold?" She rose and walked to the desk of a big man in a dark suit. She placed my card in front of him and said a few words. I gave him a Hash of the double-bitted ax in its straps on the side of the tool-kit when Craig looked up at me, and his glance lingered momentarily before he returned to the work on his desk. I sat down to wait.

The exterior of the bank was old-fashioned but the interior showed signs of a recent facelift. The indirect fluorescent lighting was bright without being harsh. The tellers' cages were behind head-high glass panels. The only bars visible were in the rear around the vault with its huge door gaping open.

A safe prediction nowadays is that a cosmetic job on a bank's interior will result in the appearance of a lot more glass at the expense of a lot less steel. They've made it a little too easy. The pendulum's got to swing the other way. People shoving notes through tellers' windows and walking out with paper bags full of cash are beginning to get under the skin of bank architects, to say nothing of the bonding companies.

Not too long ago knocking off a bank on a smash-and-grab was tough tissue. I believe it will be again. It goes in cycles. Now the thinking is positively no violence inside the bank. Whatever the bank robber wants, give it to him. Most likely it will be recovered, and if it isn't, it's insured.

Human nature being what it is, the script isn't always followed. Bank guards suddenly acquire hero complexes. So do bank customers. It's a rare banker who hasn't testified at an inquest or two concerning the final moments of such a paths-of-glory candidate.

The only real edge a pro has is in how he plans his getaway. The amateur is more likely than not to run straight into the arms of the beat patrolman outside the bank front entrance. Once on the sidewalk, the pro's three-in-ten chances of getting that far blossom into three-in-four of going the rest of the way.

The amounts of cash even branch banks carry today make anything over a job or two a year an unnecessary risk. A job or two leaves time to study an operation. Most bankers tend to become rigid in their defensive thinking. A little probing for the soft underbelly will usually—

"Mr. Arnold?"

I looked up. The big man was standing at a gate in the low railing, my card in his hand. I picked up my toolchest and followed him to his desk. Up close, his color was flat white, and pain lines were at the corners of his mouth. He had a big, lionlike head with shaggy gray hair. He was still looking at the ax, so before he sat down I slipped it from its loops and handed it to him.

He swung it lightly in his left hand, his right unbuttoning his jacket before he remembered where he was. He re-buttoned it. "Nice balance," he said. "Feels a bit light, though."

"You're a big man, Mr. Craig."

His mouth twisted wryly. "I was a big man." He sat down, running a fingertip along the helve. I hadn't made any mistake coming here; this man had seen an ax or two before. "Make your own handles?"

"Yes, sir."

"I used to, too. Except for boning and polishing them." He handed me the ax. "What's your business with me, Mr. Arnold?"

"I'd like to clean up the trees on your place on Golden Hill Lane, Mr. Craig. They need it."

He nodded. "References?"

"Nothing local. I've been working up around Bellingham, Washington, but I ducked out ahead of the rainy season. I'd be glad to meet you at your place at your convenience and show you what I can do. You were in lumber. I couldn't kid you for three minutes."

He nodded again. "Per diem or flat contract?"

"Write your own ticket, Mr. Craig," I said earnestly. "I'll do a job for you, because with your recommendation there's more work in the area I should be able to get. Like tin-Landscombe estate."

"Be out at my place at eight tomorrow morning," he said, rising to his feet. "When did you get into town, Arnold?"

"Yesterday afternoon." His calling me Arnold with no Mr. in front of it was the best sign yet. I had a foot well inside the door.

"I like your style. You've rounded up your information and boarded ship here this morning before the sun's over The yardarm. We've got a breed around here that doesn't move that fast. Eight o'clock," he repeated.

"I'll be there, Mr. Craig. And thanks."

"Don't thank me yet." His eyes had already returned to the papers on his desk. "If you can't cut the mustard, you don't get the job. And you're right about one thing: you won't be able to fool me. See you in the morning."

"With bells on," I promised. I slipped the ax back into its straps while I walked away from his desk. Outside the executive enclosure, I walked to a window, caught a fat lady's eye, and opened up a checking account with eighteen hundred dollars in cash.

On the way out I glanced at Craig's desk. I was sure he'd know about that deposit by the time I saw him in the morning. I wanted him to know. I wanted to look like something more than a fly-by-night county-jumper.

Around Hudson, Florida, Roger Craig's good will could be as sharp a tool as any I had in my kit.

That afternoon I called Jed Raymond's real estate office from the Lazy Susan. "Chet Arnold, the tree man, Jed," I said when I had his molasses drawl on the line "Where do you recommend I do my drinking in town?"

"There's a place a little north of town on 19, Chet. The name is the Dixie Pig, but everyone calls it Hazel's."

"Can I get a meal there?"

"If you're not a vegetarian. Hazel's got a habit of running a slab of beef between a candle and a lightbulb and calling it a well-done steak. You've got to watch that her beef doesn't get up from the platter and bite you back."

"That's for me. See you there?"

"Not tonight." Regret tinged his voice. "I'm doin' a little livin'-room-couch missionary work with a gal whose daddy's plannin' a new development. Ain't it hell what a man's got to do to make a livin'? Say, how'd you make out with Roger Craig?"

"I take a test flight in the morning."

"Hurray for our side. Tell Hazel I sent you, Chet. An' don't let her bull you around. She's a character."

"What kind of a character, Jed?"

He laughed. "You'll see," he predicted. He laughed again and hung up.

I showered, shaved, and dressed. A drink and a good steak sounded just about right. I drove north from the Lazy Susan in the early twilight. Five hundred yards beyond the business district I took my foot off the gas pedal when a big German shepherd burst out of some underbrush and loped along the shoulder of the road in front of me.

I was still trying to decide if he was going to cut across in front of me when a blue sedan swung around me. It must have been doing sixty-five in a thirty-mile zone. The driver crossed over sharply, almost cutting me off, shot out onto the shoulder, and hit the dog. Deliberately.

At the last second the shepherd either heard or sensed the car. He jumped sideways, but not far enough. Either the fender or the wheel rolled him down into the ditch. The blue sedan veered back onto the highway and roared off down the road.

I stuck my foot into the accelerator and held it there for three seconds. Then I backed off. I couldn't afford to catch that sonofabitch. II I left him in a ditch I'd be jeopardizing the project that had brought mc to Hudson. I braked the Ford, put it in reverse, and backed up. Maybe I could do something for the dog.

I stood on the edge of the ditch and looked down. The shepherd was trying to get up. He had a long scrape on his head and one leg wasn't supporting him. I reached in the car window and got my jacket, wrapped it tightly around my left hand and forearm, and scrambled down the bank. The shepherd was still floundering. "You gonna let me help, fella?" I asked him. I held out the wrapped arm until it touched him. I had to know if he was hurting so bad he'd bite anything he came in contact with.

He didn't bite. I moved closer, stooped down, and picked him up. He growled a little, but that was all. An animal has to be in a real bad way to bite me. They just don't do it. He was a big dog, and it was a steep climb, but I made it to the car and put him on the front seat. I turned around and started back toward town. A guy walking on The road told me where I could find a vet.

"Shoulder sprain," the vet said when he'd gone over the shepherd on the table. "And a few gashes. Nothing serious. He'll be lame for a few days. Leave him with me overnight. You ought to get tags for him."

As though on cue the shepherd reached up from the table and took my wrist in his mouth, lightly. "I'll get the tags tomorrow," I told the vet. "Give him whatever he needs."

Outside, I had to stop and think where I'd been going.

I headed north again for the Dixie Pig.

VI

I had no trouble finding the place. It was a long, low building encrusted with neon. No cars were visible although there were marked-off parking spaces in front. I followed a crushed stone driveway around to the rear and found a dozen cars parked. Hazel's customers evidently didn't care to advertise their drinking habits to passersby on the highway.

Inside it was like a thousand others, low-ceilinged, smoke-misty, and dimly lit. Three or four booths were occupied, while another six or eight customers lolled on bar stools. Nobody even looked around as I sat down at the bar.

A curtain rustled in an opening at the center back bar, and a woman's head poked through. She stepped forward onto the business side of the horseshoe-shaped bar at the sight of a strange face. My first impression was that she was standing on elevated duckboards. She seemed enormous.

I looked again, but the back bar flooring was on the same level as my side of the mahogany. The woman wasn't enormous, perhaps, but she sure as hell was big. Six feet, at least, and straining every seam of skin-tight Levis and a sleeveless fringed buckskin shirt that was no more than a vest. Her upper arms looked larger than mine, but the skin was like a baby's. She had flaming red hair and a pleasantly wide mouth.

"What'll it be, pardner?" she asked. Her voice was a ripened contralto, deep and rich-sounding.

"You're Hazel?" She nodded. "I'm Chet Arnold. Jed Raymond sent me along. Make it bourbon and branch. Jim Beam."

She smiled, a quick, attractive smile. "Jed's a good boy." She turned to the bottled array behind her, and I watched the smooth ripple of muscle in her forearm as she poured my drink. I couldn't see an ounce of fat on the woman except where female displacement required it. She was the best-looking big woman I'd ever seen.

She examined me frankly as she set my drink down. "Staying with us awhile?"

"Depends," I answered. "I'm prospecting the area. I make like Tarzan for a living, only with more equipment." She looked her inquiry. "I swing through the trees with an ax and a saw on my belt," I amplified my first statement.

Her red head was cocked slightly to one side as she took me in feature by feature, her powerful-looking arms folded over her superb big breasts. "I'm not so damn sure you've got the face for that kind of work," she said finally. I've been in front of X-ray machines that didn't get as close to the bone as that woman's eyes.

I moved onto the offensive. "Are you from a ranch around Kingman, Hazel?"

Her deep voice warmed. "Not bad for a guess, pardner. Nevada, not Arizona, though. I was raised in McGill, north of Ely. And I get so homesick for the rim rock country sometimes I could bawl like a week-old calf."

"The planes are still flying," I suggested.

She shook her good-looking head. "I guess I'm married to this goddamn place. I just drink another fifth of my live-star shellac and forget about it. Did you want to eat?"

"Jed said you featured steak."

"Jed said right. Take your drink over to the booth there." She pointed to a corner. "I'll put your steak on the fire."

"Medium well," I said.

When she brought it to the booth twenty minutes later with a mound of french fries and a pound of sliced tomatoes, I ate for a quarter-hour without coming up for air. I mean it was really a slab of beef.

I was divot-digging with a toothpick when Hazel returned to the booth. "Apple pie? Coffee?" she wanted to know.

I tested my straining belt. "Better rain check me."

She glanced at the bar. Everything was quiet. I had my first look at her feet as she stood beside the booth. She had on worked-leather cowboy boots studded with silver conches. They're not given away. Evidently the Dixie Pig wasn't about to declare bankruptcy.

Hazel slid into the booth opposite me and sat with her chin propped in her hands. Her steady gaze seeped through to my backbone again. "Maybe it's not the face," she decided. "Maybe it's the eyes. What do you really do for a living, Chet?"

I reached for my cigarettes, offered her one, and lit two when she accepted. "Your pa should have hairbrushed you out of asking questions like that, Hazel."

"My pa never hairbrushed me out of anything I wanted to do," she answered. "Well?"

"I've been known to make a bet." I humored her.

"That's more like it," she said briskly. "A workingman you're not, pardner. What's your action? Horses?"

"Horses," I agreed.

"Is that right?" She straightened up as though someone had turned on an electric current in the booth seat. "D'you remember old Morning Star? I saw him run five-and-a-half furlongs at Delaware Park in a tick less than—"

So we sat and played Remember When.

It's a damn small world sometimes. Hazel's first husband had been Blueshirt Charlie Andrews, the man who bet 'em higher than a duck could fly. I'd never met him, but he'd been a pal of a friend of mine who unfortunately attracted a small piece of lead. I didn't tell Hazel this.

In five minutes we found out we'd both been in Louisville for the same Derby and in Baltimore for the same Futurity not too many years ago. We argued about which

year it was. "I know which year it was," Hazel insisted. "It

was my first year at the tracks. I was seventeen."

"Which makes you—"

"Never mind the arithmetic, Horseman."

"—younger than I am," I finished.

Her inward look turned back down the years. "I guess Charlie Andrews was about the ugliest man I ever knew. He was about five-five and weighed two-forty, and even his ears had muscles. He stopped off for a cup of coffee in a diner in Ely where I was a waitress. He was on his way to Santa Anita, but three weeks later he was still sitting in the diner trying to talk me into sharing the wealth. He was about as subtle as a blowtorch, and I was green as grass. He'd sit across the counter from me, taking up most of two stools, and he'd spread the grease in his own peculiar way. 'Hazel, honey,' he'd say to me, 'you got a croup jus' like a thoroughbred mare. I never hope to see a bigger piece of ass.'"

She shook her head reminiscently. "He married it to get it, finally. He was a lot of all right, that Blueshirt man. Although it sure was chicken today and feathers tomorrow living with him. That character would bet on anything."

Some people came in the back door, and she stood up lo go back to the bar to wait on them. "Don't go away, Horseman," she said over her shoulder.. "I don't get a chance to talk the language much these days."

I knew what she meant. It's a special language. When Jed Raymond walked into the Dixie Pig at eleven o'clock, Hazel and I were still rerunning races we'd both seen.

"You must have had the password, Chet," Jed said to me. "Our hostess doesn't usually unbend like this with the hoi polloi."

Hazel reached up from the booth and nearly collapsed him with a casual backhander in the chest. "This guy is with it, Jed,'' she said, leveling a thumb at me. "Where'd you find him?"

"He found me," Jed said when he could get his breath, "Lay off the strongarm stuff, woman, or I'll call out the militia on you." He sat down in the booth beside me. "One for the road?"

"One," I agreed. "Then I've got to get out of here. I'm meeting Roger Craig in the morning."

I drove back to the Lazy Susan twenty minutes later. Hazel's handsome face and attractive smile danced in the windshield before me. With her hearty laugh and superlative figure she was the most woman I'd seen in a hell of a while.

For a time I'd nearly forgotten the shape of things. It wouldn't do.

I pulled into Roger Craig's elliptically shaped graveled driveway at five minutes to eight. I was wearing my poor-but-honest khakis. Craig was already out in the side yard superintending a young black boy who was setting up an eight-foot section of slash pine about a foot-and-a-half in diameter. If this was the test, it was going to be a breeze. Slash pine is so soft I could have handled it with my teeth. Still, Craig was a native, and this was native wood that he knew.

I opened the back deck of the Ford and slid out my big toolchest along with a couple of coils of rope. Craig nodded pleasantly. I could see he knew about the deposit. His manner was easier. I had the job unless I cut a leg off. He needed the work done, and I was a customer of the bank.

I strapped on safety belt and climbers, giving it a touch of atmosphere, took out a pair of goggles, and unslung the lighter of the axes. "AH set, Mr. Craig?"

"Whenever you're ready, Arnold."

I walked to the pine log and tested it for balance. It was wedged firmly. I settled myself in front of it, digging in with my heels in the soft turf. With wood like this I had no need for a long, over-the-head ax stroke. Just as well for a man who still had a stiff arm.

I went at it from shoulder height, placing the cuts more with an eye to accuracy than speed. Still, a deep V narrowed rapidly as the ax rang with the mellow sound of good steel. The fat white chunk chips flew in a steady stream. Chips were still in the air when I stepped back with the pine log in two sections. The black boy stood to one side with wide, rounded eyes.

"I wish I could have tried you a few years back," Roger Craig said, a wistful note in his voice.

I almost made the mistake of handing him the ax. That would have been a hell of a thing to do to a recent heart-attack victim. I pushed back the goggles after I caught myself in time. "I'd have asked for a handicap," I told him. "You've got a press agent in town. Jed Raymond says you could really go."

He smiled with pleasure. "Jed's a good boy," he said in unconscious imitation of Hazel the previous night. Craig's smile faded. "I get damn tired of being half a man these days." Then he turned businesslike. "You were trying out for two jobs just now. I ran into Judge Carberry at the club last night. Drop around and see him when you finish up here." He held up a restraining hand when I would have thanked him. "What do you propose to do for me here?"

"I'll do it all." I waved at the driveway. "I'll shape up that low bush Ficus and wax myrtle when I finish with the trees." I turned to the side of the house. "Just about all of it needs thinning and trimming, especially the live oaks and that shagbark hickory. See the dead limbs on the sycamore? And you've got two bad palmettos on the other side of the house. The one closest definitely ought to come down, but maybe the other one can be saved." I ran over it in my mind. "All told, two-and-a-half or three days' work."

I le nodded. "I'll let the judge know he can expect to see you when you finish here."

"I appreciate it, Mr. Craig."

"Stop in and see me at the bank whenever you're ready." I le went into the house, and five minutes later his cat eased down the opposite loop of the driveway.

I smoked my before-climbing cigarette while I walked around the grounds planning my day. One of Roger Craig's forbears had had an eye for trees. There was the biggest magnolia I'd ever seen. It must have gone seventy feet. Craig had chinquapin, sassafras, sweet gum, red birch, and mimosa. On the other side of the house I'd seen cottonwoods and aspens. There was even a chinaberry tree.

It was a bright, sunny morning, and the air felt crisp. I was not only established in Hudson, Florida, but my sponsorship was the best. If I couldn't ease up on the blind side of whoever had sandbagged Bunny with a start like this, then there was something the matter with me.

I climbed upstairs and went to work. Most of the morning I thinned tops, occasionally marking a larger limb that had to go. I never stop for lunch when I'm in the trees. Food is just so much extra weight. I go straight through from eight to four.

In the afternoon I looped three different weight saws onto my belt and shouldered up a coil of rope. I went to work on the larger stuff. I undercut it first, then roped it to the trunk and lowered it after the overcut snapped it off. I wanted no heavy drops tearing up the side of the house or scarring the lawn.

The final half-hour I trimmed up stubs and daubed them with paste. I knocked off at four sharp. I felt tired, but pleasantly so. The arm had. held up well. It was the first real day's work I'd done since I'd cased a bank in Okmulgee, Oklahoma I'd finally decided against trying. But I'm never too much out of shape.

I packed the gear into the Ford and headed for the Lazy Susan and a shower. The traffic light caught me in the square, and I sat there waiting for it to change so I could swing south on 19. I had to hold up for a second after the light changed as a slim, redheaded man limped hurriedly across the street in front of the Ford, against the light.

I turned the corner with a teasing tickle in the back of my mind: had I seen the man before, or just someone who looked like him? When you move around the way I do, it's sometimes hard to hit faces to locations.

Then it hit me.

The last time I'd seen that limping redhead he'd been in Manny Sebastian's parking lot in Mobile with the hood up on my car.

I turned into the first vacant parking space, got out of the Ford, and walked back up the street.

I sat at the wobbly desk in my motel room and spread out under the gooseneck light the real estate map of the area I'd obtained from Jed Raymond. On the floor at my feet the German shepherd lay with his muzzle on his paws, his brown eyes watching me steadily. I'd stopped at the vet's and picked him up after I'd spent a fruitless thirty minutes quartering downtown Hudson in my search for the redhead I'd last seen three-hundred-fifty miles away. I hadn't found a trace of him.

Just seeing him, though, meant the honeymoon was over for me. There was only one reason the redhead could be in Hudson. Manny Sebastian had decided to cut himself in on the Phoenix $178,000. It really wasn't very bright of Manny. I had to give thought to how I was going to change his mind, because I was definitely going to change it. First, though, there was the matter of locating the money myself.

The shepherd's shoulder was stiff, but he could walk. The scrape on his head was nothing serious. "How you doin', Kaiser?" I asked him. His big tail thumped the rug. His head came up, and his new tags glistened on his new spiked collar. A twenty-dollar bill had straightened me out with the motel proprietor about the added starter in the unit.

I turned to the map. Finding the sack with the money in it had suddenly taken on urgency. I couldn't take the affair in second gear since seeing the limping redhead. I had to get moving. I knew Bunny wouldn't have dug himself in too far out of town, but he wouldn't have set up in a tent in front of city hall, either. He liked to batch it alone where he wouldn't attract attention. It was one of the things I'd liked about him.

After looking at the map, I tentatively ruled out the north-south stretch of US 19 as the most likely section to look for Bunny. Too much traffic and too many people for a man trying to attract no attention to himself. That left Main Street east of the traffic light in Hudson. And because of Thirty Mile Swamp south of Main Street, it left Main Street to the north.

I took a pencil and lightly marked two points five miles apart, beginning at the edge of town. If I drove up every road leading north from Main in that five-mile stretch, I might not find Bunny but I might find a blue Dodge with Arizona plates. An automobile is hard to dismantle completely. Even the burned-out skeleton of a car could be a starting place.

I looked at my watch. I still had an hour of daylight. "Come on, boy," I said to the shepherd. He was up at once, hobbling but expectant. He was ready to jump into the front seat when I opened the car door, but I picked him up and put him in. "We'll pamper you for a day or two," I told him. He nuzzled my arm and sat down, dignified as a college president.

I went around to the trunk and hauled out knee-high boots, a machete for underbrush, and a steel-shafted number 3 iron for snakes. I'd seen enough of the side roads around Hudson to know I'd be doing more walking than riding. And I planned to cover every cowpath a car or a man could traverse in the five-mile area I'd marked off. I'd cover it a yard at a time, if necessary. Whatever it took, I was going to find Bunny.

We drove out Main Street, Kaiser sitting up as steady as a sergeant-major on dress parade. Me had a big head and a wicked-looking mouthful of teeth. His coat was mostly gray, flecked with brown, and he looked all business riding shotgun beside me.

The first two side roads I turned up weren't too bad. I checked them out without too much trouble. At the third one I took one look, pulled the Ford off the road, and changed into the boots. I didn't have enough daylight left to do much, but I wanted to get the feel of it. I found out I had a bull by the nose in the first hundred yards. Clouds of gnats and mosquitoes dive-bombed me. I lunged through knee-deep brush, chopping steadily, streaming perspiration. Only a few signs of recent car traffic lured me on to the end of the track. When the faint ruts petered out by an abandoned tarpaper shack, I turned around and slogged my way back to the road.

I emerged from the brush to find a two-tone county sheriff's cruiser pulled in behind the Ford. Kaiser was showing a handsome set of fangs to a uniformed man trying to look into the front seat. My brush-crackling progress had announced me, and the uniformed man turned to inspect me.

"Deputy Sheriff Franklin," he announced curtly. "You'd better keep that damn wolf on a leash." I said nothing. Franklin was a stocky man with a red, weathered face. His gray trousers had red piping on the sides, and his khaki shirt was open at the throat. "What's your business out here?" he asked me.

"I'm a timber cruiser," I said.

"You're a what?"

"I'm scouting the area for a stands of second-growth black maple I heard is in here."

He scowled. "We're two hundred miles too far south for black maple. If you know your business, you know that." He glanced at the weedy-looking trees in an area that had obviously been viciously slash-cut.

I made my voice firm. "I had a drink with an old-timer who told me they took a million feet of black maple out of here fifty years ago. If the slash hasn't been burned over, then-should be a buck in it today for the guy who finds the right spot." Franklin was studying me, frowning. "I'm also working for Mr. Craig and Judge Carberry in town," I added.

Whatever Franklin had planned to say, the names stopped him. He wasn't the type to bow out gracefully, though. He swaggered to the rear of the Ford and made a production of writing down the license plate number. "We keep an eye on these badlands," he said gruffly and stalked back to his cruiser. He backed out on the road at fifty miles an hour and roared wide open down the road.

I changed back to my cordovans, put boots, machete, and golfclub back in the trunk, then patted Kaiser's scarred head when I got back into the Ford. "Good dog," I hold him. He rrrrrrr'd deep in his throat, then nipped at my arm. I had a feeling Kaiser and I understood each other about uniforms.

It was full twilight by the time I got back to the motel.

I began to make a habit of eating my evening meal at the Dixie Pig. Jed frequently joined me, and we'd sit over a drink and talk. When the bar wasn't busy, Hazel sat in, too.

Jed was a complete extrovert, like most salesmen I've known. In a roomful of people he'd crawl onto Hazel's lap and talk babytalk to her. He had a high-pitched, infectious laugh that turned every head in a room. But he was still a sharp-witted kid who looked both ways before crossing the street.

Between them Jed and Hazel knew every living soul for fifty miles. I'd get them started and then listen while they rattled family skeletons past and present. I didn't Know what I was listening for. I just hoped I'd recognize it when I heard it.

Early in the game I introduced the subject of the post office. They both shook a few feathers loose from that bird, but I couldn't find anything meant for me. Lucille Grimes was the postmistress, widow of a postmaster deceased five years. Jed said the town wondered why she didn't remarry, since she didn't lack for suitors. He also said zestfully that she was a tall, leggy, cool-looking blonde.

Hazel had her own idea why the beauteous Lucille hadn't remarried. She hinted that the favored suitor already had a wife. Since Hazel, minus her usual spade-is-a-shovel outspokenness, failed to name him, I deduced that he was a Dixie Pig customer. Lucille Grimes wasn't one of Hazel's favorite people, judging from the redhead's attitude. Jed kidded her about it openly.

I wasn't interested in the postmistress' morals or lack of them, but that post office continued to bother me.

It took me eight working days to clean up the Craig and Landscombe properties. Evenings I got out and plowed up and down the side roads north of Main Street. I found nothing. Nobody remarked that I didn't seem to be knocking down stone walls looking for more work after I finished with the Craig and Landscombe properties. The sun coast of Florida is an easygoing place.

Jed Raymond led an active social life, even for a young fellow his age. The nights he didn't show for dinner, it came to be understood I'd postpone my own meal to seven-thirty, and Hazel would serve us both in the corner booth. We'd sit and swap stories about horses and horse-players over coffee and cigarettes.

The big girl was comfortable to be around. Once in a while she'd have to get up and tend bar, but not too often. The Dixie Pig did its real business from nine-thirty to two a.m. The talk was knowledgeable. Hazel had made the racetrack scene from Ak-Sar-Ben to Woodbine, and so had I. It's not the biggest club in the world.

Jed warned me once that she could be moody and her drinking a problem. So far I'd seen no sign of either. I felt she had a chance to let off steam with me that had been a long time bottled up. Blueshirt Charlie Andrews had died a few years before of a heart attack. Hazel had rushed into a no-good second marriage with a mystery man, Lou Espada, who had died as mysteriously as he'd lived. Andrews and Espada between them had left Hazel well off.

I liked her. I could tell she had guts. I was sure she'd spit in the eye of the devil himself, given provocation. I

enjoyed it, sitting around batting the breeze about racetrack used-to-be and might-have-been, but inside I was getting restless.

It wasn't why I had come.

We were sitting in the corner booth one night, waiting for Jed. He was in high good humor when he arrived. "Made a sale today," he informed us. "Drink up, drink up. I'm buyin'. Got to keep the country's money circulatin'."

Hazel went out back to put on the steaks. The bar became busy with before-dinner thirst quenchers, and she didn't come back. Everyone came in the back door. Hazel could have nailed up the front door and never lost a nickel's worth of business.

Jed broke off his highly-flavored account of his real estate triumph to lean toward the window which overlooked the back parking lot. "Well, well, well," he said softly. "Here's company." He stood up, a bright smile pasted on his face as a tall blonde walked in the back door. "Here's Lucille now," he said loudly enough to be heard by her. "Maybe she'll have a drink with us." He moved out of the booth.

I could hear his laughing cajolery as he intercepted the blonde. In seconds he was leading her toward our booth. "OP Chet here's been admirin' your post office, especially the fixtures that aren't government issue," Jed was saying. He winked at me as I stood. "Lucille Grimes, Chet Arnold. Chet's a tree surgeon, Lucille." He grinned at her. "I don't need to tell him who you are. Chet had the word on our beautiful postmistress twenty minutes after he'd hit town."

"Won't you sit down, Mrs. Grimes?" I said to cut off the flow of words. She murmured something I didn't get and slid into the booth opposite me. Her face was cool and composed-looking under her blonde hair. Her features were a bit too long and pointed from brow to chin for beauty, but her skin had a delicate pallor that was attractive. Her eyes were surprisingly dark for the rest of her

coloring. Despite the lack of high points, there was nothing

low-keyed in her appearance.

Jed crowded into the booth beside her and called for drinks. Lucille folded slim, capable-looking hands together on the booth table and looked directly at me. "I hear you're a very capable workman, Mr. Arnold," she said. Her voice was low-keyed, too. No stress or strain and no artificiality.

"Thank you, Mrs. Gr—"

"Hear, hear," Jed interrupted. "Lucille, meet Chet. Chet, meet Lucille. What's all this Mr. and Mrs. business?" He got up and advanced upon the jukebox in the corner. He fed it coins and punched buttons indiscriminately. "Dance?" he offered Lucille when he returned to the booth. "Illegal, but the custom of the country," he grinned down at me while Lucille Grimes rose to her feet. "Join us for dinner?" Jed asked her. "Private little celebration of mine."

"Another time, thanks." She sounded genuinely regretful. She danced with Jed. She danced with me. I'm not much of a dancer, but she followed me easily. She wasn't nearly as willowy as she appeared. She filled a man's arms. I tried to guess her age. Thirty, maybe.

1 was on the floor with her again when the back door opened to admit a stocky man in gray uniform trousers with red piping down the sides and a khaki shirt open at the throat. I recognized the blunt red face. It was my opponent from the side-road encounter of the other day. He sat down at the bar and ordered a beer.

Lucille excused herself to us after another dance with Jed. "It's been pleasant," she said, gathering up her gloves and bag. She smiled at us impartially and exited through the rear door. Three minutes later the uniformed man left his half-finished beer and followed.

Jed was watching, too. "They're not usually that obvious," he said softly. "That's Bart Franklin, one of our risin' young deputies. Popularly known as Blaze due to a high-voltage temper. I'm a jackleg deputy around here

myself in emergencies. Blaze isn't one of our better-loved

members."

"He's married?"

"His wife is," Jed returned. "Blaze has a lech for the blonde widow."

"It always helps to know if another dog's after the same bone," I remarked.

"You go for her?" Jed asked in a half-protesting tone. "I brought her over because I remembered you asked about her the other night, but—" He shook his head. "It's ail yours, man. Yours and Blaze's. That gal spooks me. Somethin' about her just don't entrance my entrancer."

The conversation died when Hazel brought our meal. Jed left at eight-thirty to keep a date, and I said good night to Hazel shortly afterward.

I drove back to town, parked in the square, and went into my act. A week ago I'd marked off four taverns as the type most likely to have attracted Bunny's trade. Each night I stopped off in two of them for a glass of beer. I'd sit for half an hour, exchanging an occasional word with the bartender. They all knew me now when I came in, and had my beer drawn before I said a word.

In another few days I'd throw each of them the same bait, starting with the friendliest. "What's become of that big, dark, quiet fella used to be in here this time of night?" I'd ask each of them. "I haven't seen him lately."

A bartender's customers come and go, but they'd try to remember. "Oh, yeah, that big guy," I hoped one or more of them might say. "That's right, he hasn't been around lately, has he?"

If they remembered Bunny, I might get a lead. I needed a lead badly. I was on my second stretch of mapped-out side roads, and I'd found nothing. If a bartender even remembered the direction Bunny drove in when he left a tavern, it would be more than I had now.

I couldn't racket around this area asking for Dick Pierce. A small town is wired together so tightly it would be almost sure to get back to the interested party. Of

course if I crapped out all around the green-covered table in my efforts to find Bunny, a direct query was my ace in the hole.

Or deuce.

The day I asked I had to be ready for anything.

I wasn't planning on it.

Not yet.

VII

The next night I was making the second of my tavern stops when the limping redhead made a mistake. He didn't know it was a mistake, because he didn't know I'd seen him in Mobile. I'd just climbed out of the Ford, ready to go inside for a beer I didn't want, when he cruised by in a black sedan at eight miles an hour. I got a good look at him.

The redhead didn't turn to look at me. He just drove past. The sedan turned the next corner, pulled into the curb, and stopped. I could tell by the quick glow and then the extinguishing of the taillights. I knew the redhead was tailing me as plainly as if he'd written me a letter.

I went inside and had the beer. I talked a little baseball to the bartender and gave some thought to the redhead. He was a luxury I couldn't afford. That decision left only two things to be settled: finding out if he'd already reported back to Manny Sebastian where he'd followed me, and how I was going to get rid of him.

I said goodnight to the bartender and went outside to the Ford. I pulled away from the tavern and turned the same corner the black sedan had turned. There wasn't a car in sight, parked or moving. I circled the block twice, cursing myself for losing him, and then a pair of headlights settled in behind me. I don't know where the bastard came from, but he was good. It takes ingenuity to tail a man in a car without the victim's knowing it. This boy had it.

I took him back uptown, then cast on Main from the

traffic fight. A little privacy was necessary now. From the edge of town I settled down to a steady fifty miles an hour. I was in no hurry. Somewhere out in the boondocks I'd find a place to leave the redhead, permanently.

I found out in the first five miles how he'd followed me from Mobile without my getting wise. He was an artist with an automobile. He didn't just lock himself onto my taillight and leave me to wonder eventually about the lights that remained the same distance behind in my rear-view mirror. There was only a sliver of moon, but he rode some stretches with his lights out. He'd be almost bumper-to-bumper with me for short distances, and then I wouldn't see him for miles. Twice he passed me, once doing about eighty, only to pick me up again from behind. The first time he went past I wasted a look at his license plate. It was carefully, unreadably mud-spattered.

Twenty-five miles up the road I emerged from the woodsy darkness enveloping the highway into a sleepy-looking, wide-place-in-the-road intersection with a blinking yellow light. There were darkened storefronts and a lighted telephone booth just before the blinker. I turned right at the intersection, right at the next corner, and right at the next. I was out of the car and sprinting between two buildings before the redhead's lights turned the last corner and cruised past the Ford. v

T he last time he'd turned the next corner and parked. I was gambling he'd follow a pattern. If he did, I had him in my pocket. I angled through another space between buildings, headed for the street.

I was in time to sec his lights arc around the corner onto the highway after he passed my parked car. Sure enough, lie pulled in and stopped not fifteen feet from the phone booth. I le cut his lights before he even stopped rolling. He'd probably figure he was getting close to the payoff I le was, but not the kind he expected.

lie climbed out of his car in a hurry, took a quick look around the silent intersection, then started to trot back to the cot net he'd just turned. He didn't want to lose me. He didn't.

I was between him and the corner, and I stepped out from between the buildings and intercepted him, the .38 in my hand. "Hi, Red," I said. "How're things in Mobile?"

It would have stopped the average man's heartbeat. This was a different breed of rooster. Even in the poor light I could see him straightening his face out. "You got me wrong, Jack," he protested, deadpan.

"Walk up to the phone booth," I told him. I wanted to see his face in better light when I asked him the question that was bothering me. I followed right behind him, shoving the gun under my armpit. "Get inside it," I said when he reached the booth. "Make out you're dialing." He took down the receiver before he turned to look at me again. "Don't make the mistake of putting your hand into your pocket for change."

"You're akin' a big—"

"You must be the wheelman who wanted the Ford," I cut him off. "Did Manny tell you that you could have it if you kept tabs on me for him?"

It must have rocked him, but he still didn't lose his nerve. "I don't know any Manny," he said sullenly. He was eyeing me, wondering where the gun had gone. He had a thin, pale face with a scattering of freckles.

"Have you called Manny since you followed me to Hudson, Red?"

He dropped all pretense. "Manny says you're a tough boy," he sneered. "You don't look so tough to me."

"One more time, Red," I told him softly. "Have you called Manny since—"

"Up your ass with a meat hook!" he snarled. He snatched the booth door closed with his left hand while he went for the gun in his shoulder holster with his right. His hand was still on its way under his lapel when I put one in his chest and one in his ear. Both of them took out glass before they ticketed Red. He did a slow corkscrew to the booth floor, his freckles stark in his white face. I emptied the Smith & Wesson into the booth, spraying it from top to bottom. I put the last bullet into the light. Nobody was going to call this one a sharp shooting job.

I walked back to the Ford at a good clip. I backed up to the next corner without putting on my lights, then reversed the way I'd driven in there. I put my lights on just before I reached the blinker. Around me lights were popping on in houses as I turned left and headed for the Lazy Susan.

The intersection's citizenry would be a while finding Red with the booth light out. When they did, they'd be another little bit jawing while they tried to unscramble the jigsaw puzzle. I put the .38 on the seat beside me in case I had to pitch it if anything came up behind me.

Nothing did.

Kaiser greeted me at the motel room door.

He stretched out at my feet and watched for twenty minutes while I cleaned, oiled, and reloaded the Smith & Wesson.

I didn't know whether Manny knew where to find me or not.

He wasn't going to if he didn't.

I went to bed.

I took Kaiser along with me on my next trip to the Dixie Pig. There was the usual sprinkling of a dozen cars in back, including Jed Raymond's sportscar. I went in with Kaiser padding sedately beside me. Jed waved from a booth. I was two-thirds of the way across the floor before I saw Lucille Grimes seated opposite Jed with her back to me.

Jed, with his fey grin, tried to maneuver me into sitting beside Lucille. I pushed him over and sat down beside him. "Good evening, all," I greeted them.

Lucille smiled but didn't speak. She was eyeing Kaiser nervously. Jed reached under the table to pat the big dog. I watched closely, but Kaiser didn't take any offense. "Hey, there, big boy," Jed said to him. He glanced at me. "Who's your gentleman friend, Chet?"

"Kaiser, meet Jed," I introduced them. I noticed that Lueille's long legs were as far withdrawn beneath the booth as she could manage. "Well, folks, what's the chief topic of conversation?" I inquired.

"The star-spangled, unmitigated dullness of life in a small town," Jed replied promptly. "Right, Lucille?"

Her thin smile was noncommittal. "Perhaps Chet hasn't always lived in a small town."

Jed got me off that hook. "They're all small," he asserted. "How much town can you live in? A couple of blocks near where you work and a couple of blocks near where you sleep, even in New York. The rest is as strange as Beluchistan. I'll take little ol' Hudson."

I thought Lucille looked tired. There were dark circles under her eyes. She kept watching the parking lot through the booth window. She hadn't long to wait. A two-tone county sheriff's department cruiser swung slowly through the lot and down the driveway on the other side. The blonde ritualistically gathered up gloves and handbag. "Excuse me, gentlemen," she said, rising. "Good night."

"For a guy slaverin' for blonde meat you don't move very fast," Jed accused me when Blaze Franklin drove Lucille away.

"Pay attention," I told him. "You could learn something. Your hurry-up technique is all wrong."

"Not since I got out of high school it hasn't been," he said cheerfully. He turned serious. "Listen, don't let me needle you about the widow. She's—well, there's a damn sight better fish in the creek. Why don't you let me slip you a number or two from my little black book?"

"All this just because a county cruiser circled the parking lot, Jed?"

He nodded. "So you saw it, too. Blaze Franklin—" Jed hesitated. "Blaze is a little bit primitive. You know? Like he's rednecked all the time. Who needs it to get involved with a thick turd like that?"

"So he's the jealous type."

"In spades, he's the jealous type." Jed pushed his glass around in the wet circles on the table without looking at me. "I've heard some stories about Blaze." He loosed his quick grin at me. "Some of 'em might even be true. Hey, Hazel!" he hollered over to the bar in a quick change of subject. "Bring on the fatted calf!"

We ate diligently. Jed fed small cuts of his steak to Kaiser, who accepted them with dignity. "You'll spoil him," I said.

"He can stand spoiling. That's a lot of dog. I like his looks." Jed glanced at his watch. "Duty calls. Five-foot-two, eyes of blue."

When he left, I sat around waiting to see if Hazel was going to be able to get away from the bar long enough to visit. I got a surprise when she did. She'd changed to a dress. It was the first time I'd seen her in anything but the skintight Levis. She'd done something to her hair, too.

"What's the occasion?" I asked. She set a drink down in front of me and one on her side of the booth, too. I'd never seen her take a drink before.

"No occasion." Her voice sounded husky. "Every once in a while I take a notion to give the animals somethin' to think about besides my ass." She plunked herself down across from me.

Her eyes indicated that the drink in front of her wouldn't he her first of the day. I remembered Jed's warning,. and I wondered if the storm signals were up. Hazel was no shrinking, violet. Every once in a while a half-splashed customer would get carried away by a sudden biological urge in connection with the contents of the Levis.

Hazel always fractured the house with her rebuttal. "What's with you, fella?" she'd rasp in her deep voice. "Your insurance paid up? Nobody told you I got my own cemetery out back for wise guys snatchin' a feel?" It took a hardy ego to survive that little speech intact.

She tossed oil her drink in a swallow and accepted my light for her cigarette. She still wore her cowboy boots, and out heel tapped steadily. Kaiser's ears pricked forward as In stretched out on the floor beside me.

Hazel picked up my drink and downed the remainder of it. She stated at me across the table as she set down the glass "I'm not a blonde," she announced defiantly, "but whatever she's got I'll double an' throw away the change. I'm closing early tonight. Come back and pick me up. Twelve-thirty."

I opened my mouth, and closed it again. "Twelve-thirty," I said finally.

She nodded, ground out her cigarette in the ashtray, then got up and went back to the bar. She didn't return.

I had time to kill. I drove into town, thinking about Hazel. I liked her. She was good company, and she had a caustic sense of humor. When she took the trouble to fix herself up, she was a damn fine-looking woman.

But—

Ahhh, what the hell, I told myself. Play the hand the way the cards are dealt. What do you have to lose?

I backed away from that bit of bravado in a hurry.

I knew what I had to lose.

I stopped in at the baseball-oriented bartender's tavern. He was the friendliest on my beat, and I was just about ready to pull the trigger on a few questions to him. I knew it wasn't going to be tonight, though, as soon as I walked inside. Blaze Franklin was sitting at the bar. It must have been a short date. Franklin had found out the reason for the dark circles under the blonde's eyes, I told myself smugly.

He saw me come in, but he thought it over before he did anything about it. Finally he couldn't leave it alone. He left his stool, which was two-thirds of the way up the bar from mine, swaggered past the half-dozen customers in the place, and pushed himself onto the stool beside mine. His elbows were out wider than they needed lo be. "Don't b'lieve I've heard your name," he said in a loud voice.

"Arnold," I answered.

He waited to see if I was going to say anything else. "Understand you're quite a dancer," lie went on. I wondered how much of his tomato face was due to weather and how much to alcohol. Around us the little tavern conversations had died out. Franklin wasn't satisfied to accept my silence. "I see you peart near ev'y day thumpin' around in the bresh out yonder," he said. "You keep it up you're gonna put your number 12 down on someone's still an' git your head blowed off."

"I carry a spare."

He didn't get it for a second. When he did, he clouded over. "You in town for long, Arnold?"

"It depends," I said.

He took a deep breath as though holding himself down. "Depends on what?"

I turned on my stool until I was facing him. "It depends on me," I told him, and returned to my beer. Franklin put his hand on my arm. I looked down at the hand, and then at him. He removed the hand, his face darkening. I knew the type. He wanted to lean on me just to show he could. I could feel the short hairs on the back of my neck stiffening. The bastard rubbed me completely the wrong way.

Franklin changed his mind about whatever he'd been thinking of doing. He snorted loudly, then got up and walked out the door. Around me the conversations slowly came to life again. The bartender sidled down the bar, his long arm going in concentric circles with a dirty rag. "That's Blaze Franklin," he said almost apologetically. "He's a little—quick. What was that about dancin'?"

"I haven't the faintest idea." I wasn't supposed to know the blonde was Franklin's playmate. Outside the cruiser roared as Franklin petulantly gunned it away. "Quick, huh? Who's he buried?" And then as the words hung in the air I shook my head mentally. It was crazy. More trouble I couldn't use. Where were my brains?

The bartender's laugh was a cackle. "That's a good one. Who's he buried?" He looked up and down the bar to assure himself a maximum audience. "Well, no one he's stood trial for," he grinned. It was his turn to listen to the sound of his own words in the stale-beer flavored air. His grin faded. "I mean an escaped convict or two—things like that," he amended hastily. He sloshed his rag about with renewed vigor. "Blaze is one of our best young deppities." Having retrieved the situation, he favored me with another smile.

I finished my beer and got out. I killed a couple of hours reading at the Lazy Susan while I waited for midnight. I left Kaiser in the room when I went out again. The fights were out in the Dixie Pig when I turned into the driveway except for the night light. There was only one car in back. Hazel's. She was standing inside the back door, waiting, but she came out and turned the key in the lock when she saw the Ford.

"Let's use my car," she said. She got in on the driver's side. I wondered how much more she'd had to drink, but I climbed out of the Ford and got in beside her. She spun the wheels backing up in the crushed stone.

She turned south on the highway. Past the traffic light in town she leaned on it. She had a heavy foot, but she was a good driver. I watched a full moon rising over the Gulf and the road unwinding in the headlights. There was no conversation. Sometimes I know ahead of time, but that night wasn't one of the times.

Fifteen miles down the road Hazel turned left on a dirt track she must have known about because she couldn't have seen it. A mile in on it she turned left again, and her car bumped along for three hundred yards over deep ruts until a cabin showed up in the headlights. Hazel switched off the car lights and we sat and looked at the cabin in the moonlight. "I built it myself," she said. "And I mean I drove the nails. Therapy. Come on."

She unlocked the cabin door and we went inside. "Well?" she challenged me in the soft darkness. "It's a damn good thing I'm shameless enough for both of us. You weren't going to ask me out. Why?"

"When I think of a good answer, I'll let you know," I told her. She closed the cabin door and I heard the snick of a bolt. I couldn't make out many details except the furnishings.

She came up behind me and dropped her hands on my shoulders. "Get into something cooler, Horseman," she said, and walked into the next room.

I undressed slowly. When I padded after her, barefoot,

she was buck naked in the moonlight on the full-sized bed. She could have been the model for all women for all time. Her eyes were closed. I knelt on the edge of the bed. "Hazel—" I began.

She opened her eyes and reached for me. "Don't tell me I've gone and emasculated you," she said softly. "You're a man. You'll do all right."

Some time later when it became apparent even to her that I wasn't going to do all right, she sat up on the bed. "Get me a cigarette, will you, Chet?" she asked me. She sounded tired. I went back out to my clothes and found my cigarettes. She studied my face in the glow from my lighter. "Is it me, Chet?"

"It's not you."

"You're not a queer." It was a statement, not a question.

"No."

"But this happens?"

"Yes. Not all the time."

She blew out a convulsive lungful of smoke. "You shouldn't have done it to me, Chet." Then her big hand closed on mine. "I'm sorry. It was me who did it to you, wasn't il?" The bed creaked as she changed position. "What do you think It is?"

"Everybody has his own opium for this sort of thing." I stubbed out my own cigarette. "Years ago I saw a cartoon in a magazine. A slick looking battalion is marching along in cadence except for one raggedy-assed, stumble-footed type who's out of step. A rock faced sergeant is giving him hell. The tag line had the out of-step character telling the sergeant he heard a different drum."

"What's your drum?" Hazel asked immediately.

I almost blurted out the truth. "Excitement," I said after I caught myself. I'd nearly said "guns." With a gun in my hand and tension crackling in the air, I'm the best damn man right afterward that you ever saw.

"Well, I've heard about bullfighters," Hazel said philosophically. "And I've known gamblers who were on-again-off-again with women." She got up from the bed and walked to the chair where she'd left her clothes. Her superb big body glistened in the moonlight that filtered into the bedroom. She came back to the bed when she was dressed and punched me in the ribs. "Forget it," she said. "Let's just scratch tonight from the results, Horseman."

But it was a quiet ride back to the Dixie Pig to pick up my car.

I've had a few quiet rides in my time.

The next night at the Dixie Pig I couldn't see any change in Hazel's attitude. She made no reference to the previous night. I hadn't gone there expecting to find the details of the disaster soaped on the back bar mirror, but it makes a difference and the difference usually shows. Hazel wasn't big only in her physical dimensions.

"I hear you're picking on our poor little deputy sheriffs now," she began without preliminary, sitting down in the booth.

"Your hearing's good, but you've got the story wrong."

"You could be underestimating Blaze Franklin."

It irritated me. "I'm not overestimating him or underestimating him. I don't give a damn about him."

"Don't get narky, Chet. I'm telling you for your own good. Blaze is dangerous."

"So how come a dangerous man is wearing a badge?"

Hazel frowned. "I don't think anyone had the full picture on Blaze until he had the uniform. A psychiatrist would probably say it gives him the opportunity to work out his aggression safely."

"Lucille Grimes must go for aggressive types."

"Something's happened to that relationship lately," Hazel said quietly. "I see it in her, not him. She always had a cocky way of flipping a hip that had the pigeons crossing the street to bask in the sunshine. It used to be that Blaze rolled over when she snapped her fingers. I don't see that now. She's lost weight, and her eyes look like two burned holes in a blanket. Something's gnawing

on that gal. I'll tell you the truth, I've been wondering lately if she isn't dipping into the till at the post office."

I had to hold myself down. "Why in hell would she need to do that?"

Hazel planted her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. "I'll tell you a tale out of school. When Charlie died, he was on his best winning streak ever, and he left me cash. I invested it. When Lou died, I inherited a whole bunch of stuff I never knew he had. In a small town that kind of thing gets around."

Her voice took on a brooding quality, as if she were thinking aloud. "Two months ago Blaze Franklin came to me and tried to borrow three thousand dollars. He had a red-hot business opportunity, he said. I'd learned from Charlie how to keep an approach like that from becoming a problem. Blaze knew that my investments were being handled by Nate Pepperman, a business consultant with an office above the bank. I told Blaze to explain his proposition to Nate, and if Nate okayed it to tell him I said it was all right for Nate to milk something and finance the deal."

Hazel gave me a little-girl grin. "I've seen Charlie send three a week like that to his business consultant, and then he'd light up another cigar and tell me that the day the guy okayed a proposition was the day Charlie got himself a new business consultant. When they couldn't lean on friendship, most propositions turned out to be swiss cheese in texture."

She sobered again. "A couple of weeks later Nate came ill to see me about something else, and I asked him about Blaze. I wasn't too surprised to hear Blaze had never been near him. Even a professional big-touch artist might choke up trying to explain a deal to a gimlet-eye like Nate."

Hazel shook out a cigarette from my pack on the table and leaned forward to accept my proffered light. She blew out a lungful of smoke and licked at a loose filament of tobacco on her lip. "About the same time I heard from one of my barflies that Lucille Grimes had been into Dick

Turnbull's auto agency pricing foreign sport cars. That seemed to be two and two adding up to four." Hazel leveled the cigarette at me. "Then lo and behold, the next time I saw Lucille she was burnin' rubber on a bright red, brand new MG roadster."

She smiled at my raised eyebrow. "Yes. I was curious enough about it myself to make it my business to find out that Blaze had paid for it, in cash. That's not the way the title reads, but that's the way it happened. So either Blaze found himself another golden goose, or I figure Lucille is into the till. She sure looks like she's waitin' for her pants to be dropped an' the paddle to burn her up."

"Blaze probably saved up for it out of his green stamps," I said, but I was doing a lot of thinking.

"Lucille was all over town in the MG for ten days or so, champagne-bubbly," Hazel continued. "Then the blight set in. I don't know how he managed it, but the reins are definitely in Deputy Franklin's hands these days. Lucille looks like a lamp with the flame blown out. It must be that jealous men are hard on the nerves. She certainly looks like something is grinding her down. Maybe a man wouldn't notice it, but it's there for a woman to see."

There was a lot that interested me in the story. A whole hell of a lot. Had I been knocking my brains out for nothing on the west coast of Florida's brush-overgrown back roads, when the pair of them had been practically under my thumb all the time? Franklin's persistent interest in my supposed timber-cruising, and then the direct connection to the post office. . . .

I gave it some more thought when the bar became active and Hazel went back to work.

I thought about it still more on the way back to the motel.

I was already in bed when something that had come to mind previously occurred to me. I got up, slipped on a robe, and went outside. I unlocked the back deck of the Ford and opened my small toolchest. I found what I was looking for: a miniature Italian automatic that fired

three .17 cartridges. It had its own little holster that strapped on a man's shin under his sock. It was no bulkier than an ankle bandage.

1 went back inside the motel room and strapped it on my shin. I didn't know yet whether Manny Sebastian knew where to find me. When I found out, it could be on goddamn short notice. I might need a little something extra going for me—like a hidden shin holster.

But right now there was Blaze Franklin.

And Lucille Grimes.

I was in the post office lobby at nine o'clock the next morning. The outer doors were opened earlier to allow boxholders to get their mail, but the windows didn't open until nine. Right on the dot Lucille raised the general delivery window. I could see two clerks, but they were busy in the back of the long room. I stepped up to the window, in a hurry to get my piece spoken before we were interrupted by someone walking in. "Morning, Lucille," I said.

She looked surprised to see me. "Good morning," she said almost as an afterthought. The dark circles beneath her eyes were still in evidence, and her blonde hair looked stringy. A trace of blotchiness marred her otherwise velvety pallor. "May I help you?" She recalled herself to business from whatever she was thinking.

"How about having dinner with me one of these nights, Lucille?"

Her original surprise was obviously redoubled. "I don't believe I should," she answered. She stood there testing the sound of it. "I really don't think—"

"You're not wearing his ring," I interrupted her. "Or his collar, I hope."

Her chin lifted "If you're implying—" "I'm implying I'd like to have dinner with you. Say Wednesday night?" "I'll think about it." She appeared confused. A woman came in the door and walked up to the window. I had to step aside. "Wednesday night?" I pressed the blonde.

"I'll have to—call me tonight," she said hurriedly, then smiled at the woman. "Yes, Mrs. Newman?"

I backed away under Mrs. Newman's bright-eyed inspection. No need to put an ad in the paper saying that I'd invited the postmistress out to dinner. The Mrs. Newmans of Hudson would eventually get the word back to Blaze Franklin. And if Hazel was right about who was calling the shots for the loving pair, an acceptance from Lucille would mean that Blaze had okayed it. That would be an interesting situation in itself.

I drove out east on Main Street, and for six hours I beat my way up and back two dozen monstrously tangled dirt roads, old logging trails, and footpaths, a few of them no more than twenty yards apart. I sweat gallons. I lost my temper. And I found nothing.

I went back to the Lazy Susan and showered, then stretched out on the bed for a couple of hours. I couldn't sleep, although I was tired. The continual frustration was beginning to do things to the hair-trigger of my temper. If it continued much longer, a little shove from one direction or another might send me careening off on a course not necessarily the correct one, just because action itself would be a release.

I was still in a bad mood when I whistled up Kaiser and headed for the Dixie Pig and dinner. The first three minutes there compounded it. I walked in to find Jed Raymond in the corner booth wearing the khaki shirt and red-piped uniform trousers I'd come to associate with Blaze Franklin. It jarred me. "Where's the masquerade?" I asked Jed. He looked at me curiously. I didn't like the sound of my voice myself.

"I told you I was a jackleg deputy in an emergency," he said in his usual cheerful manner.

"So what's the emergency?"

His grin was sheepish. "Opening of a new supermarket. I'm on traffic."

I '..it down in the booth. "You must be younger than I thought, playing cops and robbers."

"Cut it out, will you? Around here a guy's expected to do this or go into politics. This takes less time and money."

"Suppose you had to arrest a real estate prospect, Jed?"

"Now you know no prospect of mine could ever be involved in anything requirin' me to arrest him."

"But suppose?"

"If I didn't have the deposit, he just might have a little runnin' room," Jed grinned.

Kaiser padded over to Jed's side of the booth and rested his muzzle on Jed's thigh. Jed reached down and scratched him between the ears. Kaiser took Jed's arm in his mouth. Jed growled at the dog, and Kaiser growled back. I could tell the dog wanted to play, and Jed reached the same conclusion.

"You want a little roughhouse, boy?" he asked. He slid out of the booth and got down on his knees. In seconds the big gray and brown dog and Jed's ginger-colored head were locked in mock combat. They rolled around the floor in a ferocious-sounding battle so real the bar customers scattered like quail. One customer climbed on a table.

Jed got to his feet finally, laughing. He brushed the floor dust from his uniform. Kaiser wagged his big tail appreciatively. Jed sat down in the booth again. "That's a lot of dog," he said, then continued in the same breath, "I hear you're dating Lucille Grimes."

"She hasn't said yes."

"lint yon asked her, according to a dear lady who can give a large mouthed bass cards and spades. You know, I feel a little guilt in the matter. Are you tryin' to prove somethin' to me because I threw you smack dab up against the shark-toothed widow?"

"Shark-toothed?"

"I live in this town, Chet. Do you need a blueprint?"

"I asked the woman to dinner. Does that enlist me among her love slaves?"

"It enlists you on Blaze Franklin's shit list," Jed said soberly.

"How come Franklin's got this whole town buffaloed?"

Jed spread his hands. "You've met the gentleman."

"I've met him," I agreed. "And I size him up about twenty-five cents on the dollar."

"Goddammit, you're askin' for it with that attitude!" Jed bristled. "Look, I'm just concerned my big mouth pushed you into somethin' with a stinger attached."

I pulled up on the reins. The kid meant all right. "Forget it, Jed," I said. "She hasn't said yes. If she does, we'll have dinner. It's a big deal?"

His expression was still serious. "Would you believe a couple of guys who've gone out with our beauteous postmistress have had—ah—accidents? I don't believe she's had an invitation in a year. Until yours."

"Why doesn't Franklin have any accidents, Jed?"

"Who likes to go up against a badge?"

"Okay, okay. You told me. Thanks. Now can I buy you a drink before you leave to show off that Boy Scout uniform?"

"I'll have to ask you to speak with more respect to this minion of the law, suh. I'll take a raincheck on the drink." Jed reached down under the booth to pat Kaiser on the head before he got up and left by the back door.

For the first time since I'd known him I was glad to see him go. It's strange what the sight of a uniform does to me. I was happy to see Kaiser take to Jed so quickly, though. If the cards fell so I had to pull stakes in a hurry, I wouldn't be leaving the big dog high and dry.

I went to the phone booth and looked up Lucille Grimes' home phone number. "Chet Arnold, Lucille," I said when she answered. "How are we fixed for Wednesday night?"

"Oh, ah—" There was a five-second pause. She hadn't repeated my name. I wondered if Franklin was with her. Not that I gave a damn. "Would five o'clock be too early? You could pick me up at the post office, Chet." Lucille's voice sounded a bit breathless.

"Five o'clock will be fine." She didn't want me picking her up at her home for some reason. "See you then."

"I'm looking forward to it."

I replaced the receiver. She'd almost cooed the last words. Something about the way she said it—it was almost as though she'd suddenly turned up the voltage. She was definitely an attractively long-legged female, yet there was usually nothing soft about her. In Dixie Pig conversations I'd surprised an occasional feral gleam in the eyes under the long-lashed lids. Unless I missed my guess, she was a dandy little cutting tool. And now she was sounding cuddly. Interesting.

Hazel was at the booth when I returned to it. "Is Jed coming back after he finishes with his deputy routine?" I asked.

"No. He said he was going courting."

"I wonder what it feels like," I said before I thought.

"What's that?"

"Oh, sitting with a girl on her living room sofa." I tried to say it lightly. "Object: matrimony, if you can't get it any other way."

"I imagine you never tried it." It was a statement, not a question. I didn't try to reply to it. Neither of us said anything for a couple of minutes.

"I've been thinking " I began.

"Do you suppose " Hazel started to say at the same time.

We both laughed.

"You've got the floor, Horseman," Hazel said.

I searched tor the right words. "Maybe we ought to try it again some flight."

"There's a point to it?" She reached across the table quickly and captured my hand. "No, no; I didn't mean that lie way it sounds. Why do you want to try it again?"

"Maybe because you don't have 'Chet Arnold is an impotent slob'up on the front of the building in neon lights."

"What the hell do you think I am?" she began indignantly, and then she started to laugh again. "Can the corn, man. Why d'you want to try it again?"

"It offends my miserly soul to see such a brick pagoda going to waste."

"I suppose even a left-handed compliment is more than I rate most days around here," she said good-humoredly. Then she turned serious. "The fact you want to is what counts with me. I've been around enough gamblers to know that a lot of the time they're wired into different sockets." A glass bottom rapped on the bar. "I'll be back."

I watched her walk away from the booth, and suddenly I knew it was going to be all right.

I never know how I know.

I just do.

The bar stayed busy, and Hazel couldn't get away. I went over finally to one end of the bar, away from the customers. "I'll be back at lock-up time," I told Hazel when she joined me.

She looked at me quizzically but nodded acquiesence.

I had a couple of hours to kill, so I drove downtown. I went into Bobby Herman's tavern, where I'd been when I ran into Franklin. Herman was friendly because I let him show off his encyclopedic baseball knowledge. He had the type of mind that could rattle off the batting orders for the Yankees and the Pirates in the '28 World Series.

Herman greeted me with a smile and the usual tight-collared shell of beer. "Quiet tonight," he said, automatically wiping off the already spotless bar in front of me. There was only one other customer at the bar and a young couple in a booth.

Herman retreated to his washrack and began rinsing out beer glasses. The other customer finished his beer, grunted goodnight, and departed. The only sounds were the low murmur of voices from the booth and the clink of glasses as Herman placed them on the drainboard.

When he looked my way again, I was ready. I nodded down the bar in a way that took in two-thirds of the tavern. "Say, whatever happened to the big, rugged-looking guy who used to stand down there when I first started coming in?"

Herman paused, a sparkling glass in his hand. "Big, rugged—? Oh, yeah. The one with the scar on his throat. That's right, I haven't seen him lately. He must've found greener pastures. He wasn't a regular, anyway."

I felt a tightening sensation in my stomach muscles. "Did he work around here? He reminded me of someone, and I finally remembered who. I thought I'd ask him if he was related."

Herman had returned to his glasses. "I don't think he works around here. I never heard him say. He was a real quiet fella. Drove a blue sedan with out-of-state plates."

A real quiet fella.

I've seen people lose hard cash betting Bunny could talk after they'd been around him for days. He had a trick of walking into a bar and getting his first beer by holding up a finger when the bartender drew one for someone else. He got his refills by snapping a coin down on the bar. He never joined a group but stood in the background, smiling and nodding at the general conversation. He usually anticipated a direct question by turning his shoulder so that his attention seemed elsewhere, and the question flew harmlessly by.

"Could he be staying at the Walton House? Seems to me I've seen a blue sedan parked there," I said.

"I doubt he's at the Walton House." Herman dried his hands on his apron. "Every time I saw him pull away he'd swing around and head east from the traffic light." He paused as if checking his memory. "I don't think he lived in town at all."

"Oh, well, it's not that important. Put another head on this thing for me."

At least it was confirmation of sorts that Bunny had hidden out east on Main as I'd originally figured. I'd been beginning to wonder. I might be stubborn, but I had no intention of working my way to the east coast of Florida a side road at a time. I'd have to keep at it, though, now that Herman's recollection had strengthened my first guess. Bunny was out there somewhere. Not that I was going to be able to do him any good now. It had been too long.

I left the tavern and drove back to the Dixie Pig parking lot. Hazel was sitting in her car, the glow of a cigarette illuminating her face. "Let's go in mine," I called to her.

She came over and got in. I caught a whiff of perfume. She was wearing a dress again. I headed down the driveway and out onto the highway.

"Relax, big stuff," I told her. "Everything's going to be all right."

She looked at me curiously. "Don't go building yourself up for nothing, Chet. It's not that important."

"Relax," I repeated.

I drove with my left hand and held her left in my right. The full moon was past; it was a darker night. I nearly missed the turn-off road, so I had to back up before we jolted down the final three hundred yards and sat looking at the cabin that was a darker blotch in the blackness.

Hazel gave me her key, and I unlocked the door. It was so quiet it almost hurt the ears. We didn't bother with any lights. Hand in hand we stumbled from the cabin's living room into the bedroom.

I undressed her myself. She showed up whiter and whiter with each layer removed until she gleamed in the dark like phosphoresence in the Gulf. I forgot her cowboy boots. I heard the click of her boot heels when her legs came together over my back as we settled down on the bed.

We really dusted off that bed. I made it so big it was a lumped-up, soul-satisfying taste deep in my throat. I could feel the wild pulse in Hazel's neck under my lips. When she blew her boiler it was a damn good thing for me there were no spurs on her boots. I rode for a long time before my cannon fired.

Hazel's voice was a muted, husky sound against the background of our mutual deep breathing. "Welcome back, Horseman. You covered a spread of ground."

I didn't say anything. We were still in the missionary posture. I slid my hands beneath her and took a solid double-handful of her powerful, sleek-feeling nude buttocks. I pulled her up against me, tightly.

"Oh, no!" she chuckled as she felt my renewed manifestation. "Honest to Christmas, Chet—" She started to laugh, a full-throated richness of sound that remained in my mind long after it had died out in my ears.

It was absolutely the finest sound I'd heard in longer than I liked to think about.

I was on my back, relaxed, when Hazel came back into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed. "I ought to sue you for misrepresentation, man," she said quietly. "You had me thinking there was no fire in the boiler at all." She bent down over me, searching for my face in the dark.

"There's fire enough, baby, when the damn engineer's on the job. The trouble is that every so often he takes these two-week lunch hours."

She stretched out beside me lengthily, a healthy animal. Her big arms pulled me closer to her. "At the moment I couldn't care less," she murmured. "Although I'll admit I don't understand it."

I understood it. Up to a point, anyway. I was geared to a different ratio. Bed-bouncing had never been mainline for me the way it is for most guys. Although with this big, warm-hearted, understanding, two-hundred-percent woman—

She stirred beside me. "Funny how okay it can make things, huh? When it's right?"

"You said a hammered-down mouthful, baby."

Her voice was soft when she spoke again. "Nobody's ever called me 'baby.' It sounds-—nice."

We stayed on the bed for a long time.

We showered together finally. The tiny bathroom looked us il a couple of whales had been turned loose in it. Then-was even water on the ceiling. I was conducting a mopping up operation with towels when Hazel came back in. dressed. "Leave it," she said. "I'll drive out tomorrow and take care of it."

We rode back to the Dixie Pig in a comfortable silence. I put Hazel in her car, and she ran down her window and waved to me before she drove off. I set sail for the motel and bed.

I woke with a start from my first deep sleep. A glance at the luminous dial on the alarm clock beside the bed showed I'd been asleep half an hour. My subconscious had somehow put together a nice, neat package: kick the whole bit in Hudson, Florida, and take off with Hazel. For anywhere. Really catch up on living.

I looked around the motel room's long, dappled shadows and blurred dark corners. I heard Kaiser's breathing at the foot of the bed. I listened to the thump of someone turning over in the next room, plainly audible through the thin partition.

I didn't need the cold light of day to squelch that crazy idea.

Don't try to be a bigger goddamn fool than nature intended, I told myself.

I knew what I was.

A leopard doesn't change his spots.

I closed my eyes again.

After awhile I even slept.

VIII

I picked Lucille Grimes up at the stroke of five in front of the post office. "I made a reservation at the Black Angus, since it's early enough for a drive," I said. "Okay?"

"It's a nice place," she replied. She smoothed her skirt beneath her on the front seat, palms flat against her pliant thighs. Her eyes were bright. There was an electric current between us from the instant she got into the Ford.

I headed north on the highway and just rolled it along. It was about a thirty-mile drive. I watched the rear-view mirror without being obvious about it. I saw no indication of a jealous deputy sheriff in pursuit, but Jed's warning stayed in my mind.

Lucille sat beside me in seeming tensed expectation. I couldn't understand it, and it made me cautious. Still, I was satisfied to leave it that way for the time being. I intended to probe a bit during dinner and try to find out what made this woman tick.

It didn't work out that way. Lucille had three Martinis in quick succession in the huge dining room. She apologized for asking me to order the third, but she downed it quicker than its predecessors. She ordered steak but just toyed with it. Conversation stayed at a minimum as Lucille closed out my tentative leads with terse replies. Her tone was brittle.

Her responses included incomplete sentences, dangling phrases, and half-finished verbalizations. These were punctuated by an occasional loose-lipped, dazzling smile.

An aura of almost febrile excitement emanated from her. I almost expected to see sparks fly from her fingers. She was the epitome of promise if I ever saw it.

All this for me, I asked myself?

Careful, man. Careful.

I suggested brandy after dinner. She had two, then another after a cigarette. I was becoming more curious by the minute. Lucille took on a high gloss. She was pronouncing her words carefully. She stepped a bit too high over the threshold when we left the restaurant.

She lapsed into complete silence in the car. Her gaze was fixed dreamily straight ahead down the road. If she felt the car slow down as I studied the motels we drove past, she gave no sign. When she finally spoke, she surprised me. "This one," she said huskily, and pointed.

I turned into a long driveway that wound between individual cabins set well back from the edge of the road. I stopped at the one marked "Office" and got out and went inside. Lucille stayed in the car.

I registered under the bored eye of the bald-headed manager. He read my upside-down "Mr. and Mrs. Chet Arnold" with practiced ease. "Anything special, Mr. Arnold?" he inquired.

"A quiet one."

"Certainly, sir." lie turned to the key rack behind him.

When he faced front again, I was filling in another registration card. "That one's for my brother-in-law and his wife," I said, pointing to the Arnold card. "I'll pay you for both."

The manager dropped the key in his hand on the Arnold card and turned to get another. He performed his upside down reading stunt on the second card. "This one's every bit us good, Mr. Reynolds. They're together, the last two on the right."

"Fine " I paid him, picked up both keys, numbers 10 and 11, and went out to the car. Number 10 was the Arnolds' cabin, Number 11 the Reynolds'. I drove to the end of the wooded lot and stopped in front of number 11. I got out and let Lucille out on her side, opened the cabin door, and stepped aside to let her enter. "I'll be back in a second," I told her.

I went back to the Ford and backed it off the driveway on the grass behind the cabin. I parked it between two trees. We'd eaten so early the sky was still bright overhead, but under the trees it was nearly dark.

Lucille displayed no curiosity about my short absence. She had every light in the place on when I went back inside. She was humming to herself, moving slowly about the room in a way that suggested a dance step. Her eyes were enormous, the biggest part of her face. She began to undress leisurely, without saying a word.

I went into the bathroom and closed the door. I took off my jacket and removed my shoulder holster, I extracted my .38 from the holster, and wrapped the gun loosely in a towel. I put the holster in a jacket pocket, shrugged into the jacket again, and left the bathroom carrying the towel.

Lucille was sitting on the edge of the bed in her panties. She smiled up at me lazily. The tip of her tongue flicked over her lips. I put the towel down carefully on the night table, then sat down on the bed beside her.

I stood her up between my spread legs, and made a production of removing her panties. Her thighs were tanned, her buttocks milky. She looked like a two-toned animal. Fleecy blonde curls covered her prominent mound.

She crawled onto the bed and stretched out on her belly while I undressed. I kept my shoes on. I walked to the door and locked and bolted it. When I turned, Lucille was on her back watching me. Her eyes looked almost filmed. Her head was up slightly from the pillow and slightly turned, as though she were listening.

I was listening, too.

I walked back toward her. I was only a stride from the bed when we both heard it with no trouble at all. There was a splintering crash from the next cabin as the door of number 10 went down. Blaze Franklin had arrived on schedule. I could hear the thump of heavy boots as he blundered around in the dark.

Lucille's eyes widened when she realized I'd somehow

sucked Blaze into the wrong cabin. Her breasts lifted as she opened her mouth to scream. I slapped her bare belly solidly. Her legs jackknifed as the intended scream emerged as a blurted gargle. That was all.

Franklin couldn't stay to hunt for us. He was all done on this caper right now. He had no business there, and he had to get away from the empty cabin where he'd forced entry. Not seeing the Ford, he had to think we'd come and gone already. The .38 and my shoes were insurance against his being smarter than I thought.

I covered Lucille's mouth with my hand until I heard the whine of the cruiser pulling away. She tried to bite me, and I slapped her. When she tried it again, I showed her my knuckles. She quieted down. It was no blacker under the trees outside than in the depths of her eyes.

"You get yourself wet watching him beat them up?" I asked her.

Her mouth was damp at the corners. "He makes them crawl," she said almost in a whisper. She didn't look particularly afraid at being left alone with me. "What are you going to do?"

"I'll show you what I'm going to do."

I took hold of her.

She submitted passively until she realized my intention.

She squirmed like a mink and hissed like a cat all the time I abused her.

It was four in the morning before we left there.

Fifty percent of us had enjoyed it.

I drove back to Hudson and let Lucille out a block from her house. False dawn was lighting the sky. I didn't want to drive to her door in case Franklin was waiting for her or. ha front porch. Given his present mood he might cut down both of us with his police special.

Lucille hadn't said a word all the way back to town. She looked around when I stopped the car. It took her a moment to recognize where she was. She opened the car door and got out, unsteady on her high heels, then leaned back in to spit at me. "Blaze will kill you for this," she rasped.

I appreciate a good hater. "Think again, sister," I told her. "How are you going to explain it to your lord and master? You set up the place, and then you weren't there. What does Blaze use on you when he's a little out of sorts? His belt? A jealous man believes what he wants to believe, and Blaze is going to figure you were a partner in your disappearance tonight."

I could have counted to ten while she stared at me. I'd given her something to think about. Then she slammed the car door and started up the street. I sat and watched her

It wasn't hard to see where Jed Raymond had found the adjective "shark-toothed" in connection with the widow Grimes. I owed Jed something for keeping me from making the play with my eyes shut. Franklin and his blonde must have had a Roman holiday with the suitors she'd set up for him to knock over. And of course none of them would ever talk about it.

I couldn't show much of a plus on the real purpose of the evening. Conversation had been sidetracked in favor of action. On the other hand, it had done me good to vent a little spleen upon a truly poisonous female.

I drove off, easing the-Ford through the deserted square, toward the Lazy Susan. I parked a block away and came up on it from the rear on foot. I thought I had Franklin's reaction figured, but until I knew for sure I had to be ready to see him on short notice. There was no cruiser in the motel yard. I walked completely around the motel, my footsteps silent on the grass. I could see the night clerk through the office window, his head nodding.

There was no sign of Franklin.

Lucille would be lucky if it was tomorrow instead of light now that she was down on her knees trying to explain.

I took vicarious pleasure in the thought.

I went into my unit at last and showered and shaved. It

was dawn when I stretched out on the bed with my hands folded behind my head. A thousand flickering images of the night's activities paraded through my mind. But I finally turned off the mental projector. I began to get a feeling about Blaze Franklin and Lucille Grimes.

It was time I figured a way of getting at them.

I interrupted Hazel's preoccupied feeding of potato chips to Kaiser at our booth in the Dixie Pig. "That's the third time in ten minutes you've looked me over as though checking for ringworm," I said. "What gives?"

"Just looking for battle scars," she answered. "I heard you had a date with the blonde."

"My, my. This is a small town. You've got the blonde all wrong, though. She's really quite kittenish."

Hazel snorted. "So's a Rocky Mountain panther. Frankly, I don't get it. Has the light in your baby blues reformed her?"

"How did she get into the conversation, anyway? Let's get to something important, like what's on your schedule after closing tonight."

"I could run out in back and check my social calendar, but I'll take a chance and say I'm free." She gave me her warm, beautiful Hazel-smile. "Did you have a discussion period in mind?"

"If you can discuss on your back." "What a rejuvenation!" The smile on her lips over-flowed into her eyes. "I've got to get back to work before I lose my maidenly reserve entirely." She wagged a finger at me. "You watch out for the blonde, y'hear? She's a tricky hitch."

"And here I thought I'd successfully changed the subject."

Hazel smiled again before she went back to the bar. I took over her job of feeding potato chips to Kaiser. The big dog loved potato chips. I'd tested him with a potato chip versus a piece of steak. He ate the steak, all right, but

lie ate the potato chip first. He'd crunch the chip, then circle his muzzle with his tongue to get all the salt.

This town had already given me one surprise in the appearance of the redheaded Eddie from Manny Sebastian's Golden Peacock parking lot in Mobile. When I looked up from feeding Kaiser, I had another. Lucille Grimes was halfway across the floor, heading toward my booth.

Her hands were empty, and her bag dangled loosely from its shoulder strap. That much I made sure of in the first split second. Then she was standing beside the booth. "Sit down, if you can," I greeted her. "What color welts are you wearing these days?"

She attempted to smile, but her eyes were murderous. She sat down, and I watched her until she laid her handbag aside. I had no intention of playing clay pigeon for this dolly. When she began speaking, it was plain she had herself under a tight rein. "I stopped to ask you to come to dinner tomorrow night, Chet."

Now here was a switch. "Yeah? Where?"

"At my house."

Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. "Your house? What's the occasion?"

She manufactured a smile. "Why don't you come and see? Perhaps I can use someone as foresighted as you seem to be."

"At the post office?"

She stood up. "Call me in the morning and let me know." She picked up her bag and walked toward the door. Her movements weren't as fluid as I remembered them. I was beginning to think Blaze really had worked her over. If so, it was the first time I'd been in agreement with him since I'd hit town.

Since Lucille was no Campfire Girl, the dinner invitation had to mean one of two things. Either Franklin was so crazy mad he was willing to try to drop a ton on me right in her house, or Franklin had given her such a hard way to go the blonde was looking for reinforcements to get her ass away from Franklin. I couldn't see much nourishment for me in either setup.

Of course if it was Franklin and the blonde who had short-circuited Bunny—

I'd have to give the dinner invitation more thought.

Out at Hazel's cabin I walked from the bathroom to the bedroom and looked down at her tastefully attired in one-thirty-second of a sheet. "Come on and let's take a shower, big stuff," I said.

She yawned, then stretched mightily. The effect was spectacular. "You must have otter blood in you, man," she complained drowsily. "The last two nights I've been in and out of that shower with you until my corns are waterlogged. Why don't you just tumble on down here and relax your—"

I reached down and goosed her. She bounded from the bed to the middle of the room with a strangled yelp. Hazel was touchy. I aimed my thumb at her again, and she flew into the bathroom. I herded her into the glassed-in shower compartment and turned on the needle spray. We each took soap and in silence began to lather each other. The water hissed softly while the single off-center fluorescent light made sleek flesh dazzlingly brilliant, and my hands glided gently over slippery body contours. It was a moment out of a lifetime. We stayed in the shower a long time.

I stepped out at last and grabbed a towel. I handed one to Hazel, still in the shower. She buried her wet red head in the towel. I reached in behind her and flipped the shower regulator over to full cold.

"Oooooooohohohohl" It was a yell that would have backed off a catamount. Hazel boomed out of the shower enclosure like a fullback in an open field. She ran right over me I was laughing so hard when she turned and came after me, I couldn't defend myself. She got me down and banged my head enthusiastically on the tile. I couldn't get her off me until I got into her ribs and tickled. She squealed indignantly and rolled away.

Several more wet towels and a couple of cigarettes later we were stretched out on the bed, the firefly glow of cigarettes the room's only light. Beside me I could hear Hazel's deep, even breathing. She reached up over me to stub out her cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table, then trailed her hand lightly along my body as she dropped back beside me with a sigh. "You don't happen to think you're pretty far out reaching for sensations, Horseman?" she asked in her rich voice.

"You can tell your grandchildren you did it under water."

She laughed, then sobered. "That parlay breaks down with the first dog out of the box, Chet. Children come before grandchildren, unless they've repealed a law of nature."

I didn't like what I thought I heard in her voice, so I changed the subject. "I didn't get a chance to tell you before, but I'm invited out to dinner."

Hazel came up on one elbow. "The blonde?"

"In living color."

I could see the outline of her features but not her expression as I took a final drag on my cigarette. "Chet," she began, then hesitated as though wondering whether to continue. "I don't want to know your business, and I hope I'm not jealous of Lucille Grimes, but there's something I think you ought to know." She stopped again, and it was a full minute before she continued. "Blaze Franklin is asking questions about you all over town."

Instinct is a wonderful thing. I didn't have a stitch on, but my hand was up instantly, reaching for the butt of the Smith & Wesson—in its shoulder holster in the next room with my clothes. "Like what kind of questions is he asking?"

"Where you came from. What you're doing here. Where you lived before. How much talking you do about yourself." Hazel's voice was quiet. "I don't want you to think I'm prying, Chet. I just thought you ought to know."

"Don't think I don't appreciate it, baby."

1 thought about Blaze Franklin. He wasn't asking those particular questions because of anything that had happened between Lucille and me. Things were getting warm. I had no damn business on the bed here playing with Hazel's ass when the wash was out on the line and a storm coming up. "Any reaction from the questioned?" I asked.

"Even Jed was saying it was odd how little we really knew about you." There was no emphasis in Hazel's remark. She was reporting a fact. Her hand settled on my arm. I'm going to say one more thing, and then I'm going to shut up. And that's if you think of anything I can do to help, let me know. I'm not even fussy what I'll be helping with." She rolled over and sat up on the edge of the bed. "I've got to open up the bar in the morning."

It was a fact the life had gone out of the party. We dressed, locked up, and went out to the Ford. On the way back to town I thought about Hazel's last remark. It was just short of putting it in writing that she was on the team. More, she didn't care which name was on the uniform. I've run into few blanket endorsements in my life. The big woman was all gold and a yard wide.

I appreciated her help, as I'd told her, but I was damn well going to put a stop to the necessity for it. She could only get hurt. It was two-thirty when I turned into the Dixie Pig's crushed stone driveway. Our good-nights were an anticlimax.

I drove to the Lazy Susan. There was only one reason Franklin was asking those questions about me. He'd watched me tramp the sawgrass swamps and savanna intermingled with pineland, salt meadows, and mangrove thickets on the-cast side of town. Blaze Franklin had just about stamped the brand on himself. Franklin was the reason I'd come to Hudson.

It left unanswered questions. How had a mulehead like Franklin out-maneuvered Bunny, who could break Franklin up with his bare hands? And why was Franklin nosing around me at all, when by all rights he should have been keeping i low profile and hoping no one was looking in his direction?

I didn't know.

There was no question now about my accepting Lucille Grimes' dinner invitation.

That would be the first step in supplying a few answers.

The dinner was quite an affair.

We sat at opposite ends of a six-foot table, and we were served by a girl in a maid's uniform. Lucille sat at her end of the table with an expression like a medieval landowner's among his serfs. All I could think of was Lady Bountiful among the poor.

It was plain enough that I was a stink in the nostrils with the lady seated at the head of the table. It was interesting that, feeling as she did about me, Franklin could force her to issue this invitation. It made Hazel a hundred-percent correct about who was wearing the pants in the corporation.

It had to be that Franklin was pushing her to set up the deadfall again. She wouldn't have told him exactly what happened that night; she wouldn't like to admit it even to herself. Blaze would assume I had made out with Lucille after suckering him into the wrong cabin, and this would leave him grinding his teeth. But he would also assume I was slavering for another go-round and would eagerly snatch up any invitation from the blonde. Lucille knew, better, but she had to go along with Franklin's idea.

It gave me an idea of my own.

"I'm glad to see you finally wised up to Franklin," I said to her when the little maid disappeared after serving dessert.

Her mind had been a long way off. Probably gloating over an image of me staked out naked over an anthill. She came back to earth. "Wised up?"

"Sure. I'll never know what you saw in a jerk like him. Just a big bag of wind." It was no trouble to make that sound convincing. "Having me to dinner like this shows you're a smart girl. You should have cut Franklin loose a

long time ago. You and me, now—we could really play

chopsticks together on the same piano."

She didn't swallow it hook, line, and sinker. Not at first. She was suspicious as I oiled up both sides of my tongue and greased her liberally. She couldn't believe at first I was too stupid to know her reaction to me, but her suspicion gradually died. She was used to such a masculine response for one thing. By the end of the meal she had come as alive as if someone had just reported my painful demise. She was tossing them back to me as fast as I batted them at her.

Lucille was no fool. I was giving her an out on a problem through which she hadn't been able to see daylight. This was the way it should go as far as Franklin was concerned. If she could report progress to him, it was a load off her back. If she could set me up as a foil against Franklin in the infinitesmally possible event he couldn't handle me—why, how lovely. She had nothing to lose.

She didn't overplay her hand much, either. "I was very angry with you the other night," she said gravely. "I thought you were a gentleman."

Even the boob I was supposed to be couldn't let her get away with that. "My grandmother raised me to be a gentleman everywhere except in bed," I informed her. "Besides, you'd just set me up to get cut off at the knees, sweet heart. You're lucky I didn't really get mad at you."

"But I wasn't going to do anything! I was just—" Her protest died away when I forced her gaze to meet mine.

"You were just going to sit there and cheer, that's all. You got what was coming to you, sugar. Just like Franklin's going to one of these days." I threw that in as an afterthought, she was really getting restless under the Franklin thumb—

She didn't appear to notice the opening. Honest curiosity shone for an instant through her genteel facade. "I admire clever men, Chet. Whatever led you to take rooms in two different names?"

"Self preservation. I inherited large quantities of it. Look, maybe I leaned on you a little hard, but that's water over the dam. I don't see why we can't get along. You're a smart girl. You and I make a much better team than you and Franklin. Just don't try any more cute tricks. And I don't like bossy women. Do as you're told and we'll be all right."

I expected to hear her grinding her teeth at the end of that little speech. Instead, she smiled sweetly. She was a cinch to bring along a sawed-off baseball bat to our next motel room assignation. Without her realizing, it oozed from every pore that she couldn't wait to bring the loudmouthed abusive animal into the dust. "I'm not used to such a—such a forceful man," she said demurely. "Shall we have our coffee on the patio?"

We had our coffee on the patio. I buttered her up some more. She buttered me up some more. Instead of the silver fingerbowls placed on our trays, twin showers would have been more appropriate.

She finally cut across the radius of the circle. "What are you really doing in this area?" she asked directly. "I never have believed your black maple story."

"A man can make a quick dollar if he stumbles onto the right patch of second growth out in that timber," I argued.

She was beyond the point of letting me get away with it. "You don't seem to me like the type of man interested in making just a few dollars."

I set down my coffee cup and rose to my feet. Lucille rose, too, surprised. "You talk too much, sweet heart," I told her. I walked around the little marble patio table and took her by the arms, below the sleeves of her short-sleeved dress, harder than necessary. "You're going to have to break that habit." Her face whitened at the pressure of my hands on her arms. "I'll give you a chance tomorrow night to start breaking it. I'll pick you up for dinner at five."

"I'll—all right. Five," she echoed breathlessly.

I let her go. Her hands came up instinctively to caress her arms, where my handprints stood out lividly. "Good night, Lucille," I said.

"Good night," she said numbly.

I went down the patio walk to the street without going back into the house. The blonde should have been thinking, A pox on both their houses. But she was still committed to Franklin. The devil you know oftentimes seems better than the devil you don't.

Lucille would see to it that Franklin took me tomorrow night.

So she thought.

I'd see that I took the unholy pair of them.

I was positive now.

Tomorrow night I'd start winding up the whole ball of yarn.

It was still early, but I didn't feel like going to the Dixie Pig. I drove back to the motel and parked in the yard. I opened my door slowly because Kaiser had a habit of sleeping against it. He wasn't against it this time. I could see him sprawled in the left-hand corner of the room, motionless, his head at an awkward-looking angle.

"Close the door," a voice said from behind it.

Manny Sebastian's fat figure came into view.

His hands were empty, but the hands of the sandy-haired, buck-toothed man who moved out beside him weren't.

A blued-steel revolver was trained steadily on my chest.

I stepped inside and closed the door.

IX

Bucktooth moved to my right, the gun level. "Don't get careless," he said. His eyes were red-rimmed and wild-looking. His free hand snaked under my jacket and delicately removed my .38 from its holster. He tossed it to Manny.

"He carries a Colt, too," Manny said. His round, swarthy face was shiny with perspiration.

Bucktooth gave me a shoulders-to-knees hand-patting treatment from behind me. He located the Woodsman in my pants pocket, but he didn't make the mistake of trying to take it out himself. "Throw it on the bed," he ordered. "And be goddamn careful how you do it."

I fished out the .22 with thumb and forefinger, then tossed it on the bed. I could see Manny relax. I wondered how the bastards would feel if they knew I still had the little three-shot .17 caliber puff adder in the miniature holster on my shin.

"Let's take him out of here," Bucktooth said from behind me.

"We're going to take a little ride," Manny informed me. He mopped at his streaming features with a soggy handkerchief. My Smith & Wesson was in his other hand.

I went over and knelt down beside Kaiser. He was still breathing. There was a ragged-looking, bleeding furrow between his ears alongside the half-healed one from the roadside ditch. I stood up and turned around. Bucktooth

had moved in right behind me. "I suppose you hit the dog, you sonofabitch?" I blared at him.

"Just like I'll belt you if you make one more move like that without being told!" he snarled.

I walked right into him, swinging.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" Manny bleated. "He's got to talk first!"

Bucktooth reversed his gun and swung it at my head. It landed on my left shoulder just as I put my fist out of sight at his belt buckle. He doubled up as I staggered sideways. Manny clocked me on the back of my neck with my own gun before I could regain my balance. I found myself on my knees without knowing how I got there. The room whirled sickeningly.

"Cut it out!" Manny said sharply to Bucktooth, lunging at me with his gun upraised. "You can have your fun later." Bucktooth hesitated, red eyes slitted, but reluctantly backed away. "Get up," Manny said to me. I got to my feet shakily. "Where's the money?"

"Fifteen, eighteen miles out in the swamp," I mumbled.

"Didn't I tell you he'd say that?" Bucktooth growled.

"And didn't I tell you it didn't matter what he said?" Manny rebutted. "If it isn't where he takes us, then you get to exercise that gun butt." He waved the Smith & Wesson at me. "Let's get going."

"Can't find—the tree—at night," I said.

"We'll go in the morning. Right now you're coming to our place. Less chance of an interruption." Manny sounded pleased with himself.

"The dog goes with us," I told him.

"Now here's a type practicing' to be a character," Bucktooth said in a wondering tone. He shoved his bristled chin against my face. "The dog goes nowhere, jerk!"

"I'll show you where to leave him," I said.

Bucktooth made a sound deep in his throat. Manny caught his arm as he started to swing the gun at me. "We can't leave the dog looking like that in an empty room for the maid to find," he said. He looked at me. "What's your play?"

"I know someone who'll take care of him," I said. "()pen the door and I'll carry him."

"No!" Bucktooth said violently.

"Pick him up," Manny said to me. "The dog will be a good excuse if we run into anyone," he shut off his angry partner. "Stop your bitching, will you? Rudy Hernandez told me years ago the guy was like this about animals."

1 picked up Kaiser—a hell of a lift for the shape I was In. My ears were still buzzing. Bucktooth was right beside me. "Pretty soon I'm gonna ask you what happened to Red, pal," he said softly. "An' I hope I don't like your answer. Right now you make one wrong move an' you've had it. I won't kill you, but you'll wish I had. I'll break every bone in your stupid face."

"Open the door," I said.

He leveled the gun at me again. "I'll cover you from the doorway till you get him in the car," he said to Manny.

Manny opened the door. It was black night outside. I carried Kaiser out. Manny pointed to a big station wagon parked on the rim of the driveway. There wasn't a soul around. Manny opened the front door on the passenger's side, and I straggled in with Kaiser on my lap. Manny got under the wheel, waved his arm, and in seconds I heard Bucktooth crawling into the seat behind me. I could visualize his gun three-quarters of an inch from the back of my neck.

Manny drove out of the motel parking lot. "Where to?"

he asked.

"Right. Toward town." I waited until we were across The street from Jed Raymond's office. "Pull in anywhere here." There was a light on in Jed's office.

Manny curbed the station wagon. "What's the play?" he said to me again.

"See that light up there? I'll carry the dog up one flight of stairs and leave him outside the door of the real estate office."

"An' I suppose you'll okay that, too?" Bucktooth rasped at Manny.

"We got to get rid of the dog, anyway," Manny said defensively. "I'd just as soon humor this guy till we get our hands on the money. This is one stubborn sonofabitch."

"I'll unstubborn him or anyone else in three-an'-a-half minutes, guaranteed," Bucktooth snapped, but he opened his door and got out. He opened my door. "Come on, you. Sometimes I think the whole damn world's crazy."

I lugged Kaiser up the stairs and laid him down gently outside Jed's door. Bucktooth stayed a yard behind me all the way. I knew if Kaiser came to before Jed found him, the big dog would smell Jed inside the office and wouldn't leave.

We were back in the wagon in two minutes. I felt a lot better. Jed would take care of Kaiser, and I knew Kaiser liked him. Now I could concentrate on getting rid of these Mongolian idiots.

Manny headed north on US 19. He turned into a second-rate motel a few blocks out of town. "No noise," Bucktooth warned me when we got out of the wagon. When Manny's back was turned, Bucktooth slammed me viciously in the ribs with his gun butt. I nearly went down, but when I stumbled inside the motel room, I began to make plans for Bucktooth.

Manny turned to me when the door closed. "How do we get to the money?"

"Airboat," I said.

Manny nodded.

"Air what?" Bucktooth wanted to know.

"Airboat," Manny told him. "They use them in swamps. An airplane engine on a plank, practically. They'll float on a heavy dew. I've seen movies of them."

"What's the arrangement about the cash, Manny?" I asked him, not wanting him thinking I was going too easily.

The pair of them exchanged looks. "A three-way split," •Manny said. "IT it's all there." Bucktooth turned his head, but not before I saw his ugly grin. Not that I'd ever been in doubt about their ultimate plans for me.

There was only one bed in the room. Bucktooth motioned me to a chair. "Squat," he said to me. He produced

\ a length of manila line and efficiently roped me to the chair, arms, legs, and waist. Manny tested the job, then stretched out on the bed. Bucktooth soon joined him, taking off only his shoes. They left the light on.

The room grew quiet. I could hear my own breathing. My shoulder hurt. My neck hurt. My ribs hurt. My legs went to sleep. It was a long night, but my time was coming.

When I got these two city types out in the swamp, I'd leave them there, permanently.

I must have dozed off finally, because their stirring loused me. The light was still on, but I could see early-morning sunlight at the edges of the curtains. "Where do we get the airboat?" Manny asked me while Bucktooth was unwrapping me from his diamond hitch.

"We rent it. There's a place about seven miles east on Main Street." My arms weren't in too bad shape after my night in the chair, but I couldn't stand up. I massaged my legs. It was ten minutes before I could walk decently. Bucktooth glowered while I hobbled around the room.

When we got outside, I could tell from the sun and the haze that it was going to be a hot, humid day, a real stinger. We stopped for breakfast east of the traffic light in town. They took turns going inside while one stayed with me in the station wagon. Manny brought me out coffee and a sweet roll.

Outside of town I didn't have to say a word. Manny saw the shack with the hand-painted "Airboat For Hire" sign that I'd noticed my first day in Hudson. He pulled the wagon under a tree. "Bring him down when I signal to you," he said to Bucktooth before he walked down to a little dock. We could see him talking to a slatternly-looking woman, and in a couple of minutes a boy handpoled an airboat to the dock from behind the shack. Manny raised his arm.

"We won't need any conversation," Bucktooth informed me, nudging me with his gun. He slipped it into his pocket as we went down the path. Bucktooth looked distrustfully at the airboat's wide-planked, battered hull with its high, platform seats and the big propeller encased in wire mesh. Three of the planks were fresh where someone had ripped out the bottom on a snag.

I stepped up onto the boat and started the engine. It was old, with a hand throttle. A rudimentary tiller guided the lightweight craft. I revved the engine a few times, listening. I tested the plugs and battery, then checked the gas gauge and compass. I had no intention of being stranded in the swamp myself.

The kid who'd brought the airboat saw I knew what I was doing, and he wandered off. The woman had already disappeared with Manny's rental money. "Can't you run this thing?" Bucktooth demanded of Manny. "I don't like the idea of him runnin' it."

"Sure I can run it," Manny said. I was sure he couldn't. "But he's the one who's got to do the steerin' to the right spot. Just keep an eye on him."

He climbed up into one of the front platform seats. Bucktooth settled himself in the dishpan cockpit, facing me, his back braced against a platform strut. He could watch every move I made in the navigator's bucket seat. "You'll get wet there," I told him.

"Just sec to it I don't get wet, pal," he answered me. I would have preferred them in reversed positions. Manny had my .38 and the keys to the station wagon. "How long's this goin' to take us?"

I shrugged. "Hour and a half each way." It wasn't going to take a third of that if I had my way.

I eased the airboat away from the dock. Bucktooth stared nervously at the brackish-looking water lapping at the boat's low sides. I could see Manny flinch the first few times I rammed the airboat over deceptively solid-looking areas of sawgrass.

The sun beat down upon us. Dark patches of perspiration appeared on Manny's back and under his arms. Bucktooth was sweating freely, too. Shade, but no coolness, was under the gnarled cypress trees with their trailing moss. The swamp was a miasma of sticky heat.

I turned right and left through narrow channels, often enough to get them thoroughly confused. I kept one eye on the compass and the other watching for mangrove roots that might tip us over. The engine didn't sound as noisy beneath the thick, green jungle growth overhead. Mosquitoes and gnats hummed around us. Manny and Bucktooth swatted them busily. Once or twice Manny turned to look back at me. I could see he was beginning to have doubts about the expedition.

I gave them enough time to become relaxed, then began watching for a wide enough space between the trees bordering the channel, accompanied by a lowlying branch of the right height. I passed up a couple of places that almost, but not quite, filled the bill.

When I saw what I wanted, I didn't wait.

The opening was on the left, more than wide enough for the boat. "Alligator!" I yelled and pointed to the right.

"Where?" They bellowed it together. Bucktooth turned in the direction I pointed. Manny stood up to see better. I jammed the throttle wide open and steered hard left. The boat stood up on its port gunwale as it darted between the I roes. The lowlying branch caught Manny squarely in the chest. He shot off the platform like an ice cube from a •.pilled cocktail. He crashed into the right-hand tree, and even above the engine roar I could hear the squishy splash he made when he hit the mud below.

Two-thirds of the way around the tree I shut the engine oil' with the tiller still hard right. Bucktooth had grabbed with both hands to save himself from sliding overboard as the airboat tilted. I reached down and slipped the little .17 caliber from my shin holster. Bucktooth started to turn to check the shut-off engine as we drifted back into the main channel.

"Don't turn a thing but your head, man," I told him. My voice sounded loud in the sudden quiet.

His eyes bulged when he saw what I had in my hand.

Desperately he looked up at the platform for Manny. His gaze fled to the space between the trees, and he looked stricken anew at the sight of two feebly kicking legs visible above the watery, greenish mud.

"Drop your gun in the water," I directed. I didn't even blink while he did it. His nerve was gone. He was ashen, and his hands shook.

"Listen—" he began.

"You've got a choice," I interrupted him. "You can stay out here with the heat and the mosquitoes and the bugs and the snakes and the alligators." His whole face was wet as he stared at me. I showed him the handgun. "Or you can take one from this."

He couldn't make a sound for a second. "You'd—you'd shoot me?" he croaked.

I laughed. "What the hell were you planning to do to me? Come on, make up your mind. Which is it going to be?" His eyes darted wildly in all directions. "Take the bullet," I said. "You'll go out of your mind in twelve hours here." His chest was heaving as he tried to force air through his constricted throat. "Take the bullet."

"No!" It was wrenched from him forcibly.

"Okay." I ruddered the airboat to a little sawgrass island with ;t single half-grown scotch pine slanting up from it. "Jump."

"Oh, Jesus, no! You wouldn't—"

"Jump, you bastard. Or catch the bullet."

His voice soared to a shriek. "Just gimme a chance to—"

1 moved my arm.

Me jumped.

Mis scream echoed hollowly through the green tunnel as he went In up to his knees in the gelatinous ooze. He grabbed at the tree, then screamed again as something slithered away from under his hands. He kept trying to pull his legs up out of the muck.

I stalled the engine and turned the boat around. The last I saw of Bucktooth he was halfway up into the tree which was bending double under his weight. If he was

making any noise I couldn't hear it above the engine sound.

I went back to Manny Sebastian. His legs were under water now, too. I had a hell of a time pulling him far enough up from the mud to get my .38. I didn't bother with the car keys. I dropped him back in.

I rode the compass back to the shack. I poled in the final quarter-mile and beached the airboat three hundred yards away from the dock, behind a point. The crackers weren't going to worry too much about their boat while the station wagon remained as security. I'd be long gone from Hudson by the time they started combing the swamp for the supposedly missing threesome.

I walked a mile, then hitched a ride into town. I made and remade plans all the way. I had a date with Lucille Grimes at five o'clock, a date I was going to keep. Five o'clock would be the payoff, but I had a few things to do first..

It must have been ninety in town, but it felt almost chilly compared to the swamp. I had a meal in the truck-stop diner south of the traffic light in the square. I could hardly believe it when I saw from my watch that it was only ten-thirty in the morning.

From the girl cashier I borrowed a sheet of paper, an envelope, and a pencil. Then I practiced composing telegraph messages on napkins. I finally hit on one I thought would do the trick. I printed ARRIVING SOON MEET ME LAZY SUSAN MOTEL URGENT YOU NOT FAIL ME. I addressed it to Dick Pierce, General Delivery, Hudson, Florida, and I signed it Earl.

I copied it out on the sheet of paper and sealed it in the envelope along with two one-dollar bills. I printed "Western Union" on the outside of the envelope. I watched the drivers from the northbound, diesel-rigged big vans and selected a middle-aged, steady-looking man. I gave him a five-dollar bill and the envelope and asked him to drop it off at the Western Union office wherever he was at noontime. He promised he'd be sure to do it. I sat there till he drove off.

When that telegram hit the deck in the Western Union office in Hudson, it would be sent to the post office and delivered to Lucille Grimes. I should get a little action for my seven dollars right about then. The telegram with that signature should give Lucille Grimes and Blaze Franklin something to think about besides Chet Arnold.

I walked from the diner to the motel room, where I took the phone off the hook. If Jed was trying to call me about Kaiser, it was better the line should be busy than that he couldn't reach me. I didn't want to talk to Jed right now. I spent half an hour cleaning, oiling, and completely restoring the .38. Then I got into the shower and did the same for myself.

I went back uptown at noon and parked across the street from the post office. I had a good view of the general delivery window through the plate glass. I could even see the alphabetized slots for the mail. I'd specified noon for the sending of the telegram because from twelve to two Lucille was on duty with just one clerk, and she almost always handled the front herself.

I could feel the pressure building up inside me. I don't have nerves, but I get keyed up. Everything around me is magnified, including the tick of a watch and the color of the sky.

I settled down to wait. I had a newspaper draped over the steering wheel as though I were reading it. It was hot in the car, even with the windows down, but not as hot as the swamp. It wasn't as hot as plowing up and down overgrown back roads on the cast side of Main Street, either. I was through with all that. In just a few minutes I was going to pop the weasel right out of the box.

It was "in twenty-live by my watch when the old man shuffled up to the post office entrance with the bright yellow envelope in his hand. He went inside, and I saw him place the telegram on the counter. Lucille appeared at the window, picked it up, and looked at it—for a long time. The old guy had to remind her she hadn't signed for it.

She scribbled her name on his clipboard, and the old guy left. Lucille never even looked at the general delivery

dots behind her. Telegram in hand, she made a beeline for the back of the post office. Telephone call, I told myself. A hurried telephone call. I folded up my newspaper and placed it on the seat beside me. Lucille was at the front entrance in three minutes. I could see her explaining something over her shoulder to the clerk whom she'd moved up to the front counter.

She came out on the sidewalk and walked quickly to a ted MG parked three doors down the street. A double-parked delivery van had kept me from noticing it before. Lucille climbed in, backed up, swung around the van, and zipped up the street. I already had my engine running, and I made an illegal U-turn and took out after her.

She hightailed it through town, straight north on 19. I stayed a reasonable distance behind. I didn't need to stay too close. I knew where she was going. No farther than it look to meet Blaze Franklin, Deputy Sheriff, in some kind of privacy.

They didn't bother too much about the privacy, actually. I watched Lucille pull off onto the shoulder of the road where she tucked the nose of the MG right on the tail of a two-tone county cruiser. I pulled off the road and stopped. Blaze Franklin was out of the cruiser and on his way toward Lucille in the MG before its wheels stopped rolling.

From a curve away I had no trouble seeing both his red face and the flash of the yellow telegram he snatched from her through the window of the MG. Franklin tore it open, then stood motionless for a good sixty seconds before he walked around the MG, opened its door, and sat down beside Lucille.

Their heads stayed close together for what seemed like fifteen minutes. When Franklin scrambled out of the MG and headed for his cruiser, I was ready. I swung around and headed back to town, turned off at the first intersection, and parked. The cruiser came flying along the highway, its siren rrrr ing. Franklin was hunched over the wheel, his tomato face set in bulldog lines.

Three minutes later the MG rolled past.

Lucille's face was white and strained-looking.

I tagged along behind them.

The curtain was going up.

I found Blaze Franklin cocked up against the back wall of the Lazy Susan's office in a straight-backed chair when I walked in two hours later. That's where I'd have been, too, if it were me, but I still had to grade him A for nerve. He took one quick look when I came in the door, then paid no attention to me. Mr. Franklin now had other things on his mind than Chet Arnold. They had to think now they'd had me in the wrong picture.

I inquired at the desk for mail, then got myself a Coke from the machine. The young clerk behind the desk tried to engage Blaze in conversation, and Franklin bit his head off in about eight coarsely chosen words. The clerk turned a dull red and subsided.

I went out and walked down to my unit. I could see the office from it, and I could see Franklin. Twice he got up and picked up the phone on the desk without a by-your-leave and made a phone call. I was glad to see it. The longer he sat there with nothing happening, the more time he had to think about things that could go wrong. I wanted him shook. I hoped his phone calls were to Lucille. I wanted her shook.

Most of all I wanted Franklin right where he was. His uniform made it hard for me to move openly against him. I could kill them both, but that wouldn't get me the cash. I could be sure of getting to Lucille with no interruptions as long as Franklin was nailed down at the motel. I had a five P.M. date with Lucille, although in the excitement she was a good bet to have forgotten it. If she gave me a hard time about where the cash was when I had her alone, I'd shake her till her pants fell down.

I watched Franklin for another hour. He made a couple more phone calls. He was a busy boy. At four-fifteen I shaved and started to change for my date with Lucille. I went back to the window, buttoning my shirt. I couldn't see Franklin. I could see the chair where he'd been sitting, but he wasn't in it. I waited a couple of minutes, but he didn't come back.

I finished dressing in a hurry. I shoved the .38 in its holster, slipped on my jacket, and walked to the office, Franklin still wasn't in sight. The clerk looked at me inquiringly. I jerked a thumb toward Franklin's empty chair. "The birddog gone?"

The clerk didn't spit, quite. "Good riddance," he announced.

"Did he say where he could be reached?"

"He said nothing."

"Did he get a call from anyone?"

"No, but he made enough of 'em. The last one he swore and banged down the receiver and took off."

J went outside and sat in the Ford. What could have happened? Nothing on earth should have moved Franklin from that chair. Once he read the telegram, he must have seen that his one chance to keep the lid on was to intercept the telegram-sending Earl Drake and dispose of him quietly.

The telegram from Earl Drake announcing a meeting at the Lazy Susan should have made Franklin afraid to move. He should have sat there in the motel office, getting both madder and shakier by the minute as nothing happened. Nothing should have been able to move Blaze Franklin away from that motel office.

I went over it step by step. The only logical answer forced itself upon me, finally. I'd underestimated the bastard. Suppose he'd been smart enough to call the point of origin of the telegram to check on its sender? And had been told the circumstances which the trucker wouldn't have disguised? With the telegram exposed as a phony, how much brains did Franklin need to figure out who'd sent it from up the road so it could come back and bounce off Lucille at the post office?

So why hadn't he rushed down to my motel unit and shot me up, down, and sideways, and triumphantly hauled in the riddled corpse? It was what he should have done. If lie had the sense to escape the booby trap I'd set for him, how could he have missed the obvious follow-up?

There was something I still didn't understand. Something I didn't know. It was time I learned it.

I started up the Ford. Nothing was changed, really, except that now I had to keep an eye peeled for Franklin. I drove to the post office to collect Lucille.

She was standing on the sidewalk when I pulled up in front.

One look was enough.

Wherever Blaze Franklin was setting himself up to do business with me, Lucille Grimes knew about it.

X

I opened the passenger-side door and she got in. "Let's stop for a drink at the Dixie Pig first, shall we?" she said with no preliminary. Her tone was icicle-brittle.

My first impulse was to refuse. For one thing, I wasn't fussy about waving the blonde under Hazel's nose. But there were overriding factors. The Dixie Pig was now obviously just another gambit in the game.

Okay, we'd go to the Dixie Pig.

I drove there and drew up in front. I reached across her and opened her door again. "You go on in," I told her. "I just remembered I've got to pick up a few dollars a guy owes me. I'll be right back."

She didn't like it, but what could she say? She climbed out reluctantly and closed the door. "Hurry back," she said with an attempt at a smile. The shark teeth were polished to a high gloss.

I circled the Dixie Pig driveway when she went inside. My hunch had paid off. Snuggled in among the six or eight parked cars at the rear was Franklin's cruiser. Lucille had brought me here so that he could take up the trail without difficulty for their intended final act of the drama.

I pulled out on the highway and in half a mile found a shiftless-looking country store where I bought two pounds of brown sugar. I opened the sack and placed it carefully on the front seat beside me. Back at the Dixie Pig, I nosed into a parking space near the cruiser.

1 sat and watched the booths whose windows overlooked the back parking lot. I couldn't see anyone in either booth. I picked up the sack of sugar, got out of the Ford, walked to the rear of the cruiser and removed its gas cap, dumped in the brown sugar, replaced the cap, and crushed the bag and stuffed it in a pocket. It might have taken me ten seconds. The sugar I spilled was indistinguishable from the crushed stone.

I brushed off my hands and walked through the Dixie Pig's back door. If Lucille and Blaze had seen me drive in, I was right on schedule. Franklin was at the bar, his back elaborately to the door through which I'd entered. Lucille bounced up from a booth and met me in the center of the floor. "I've changed my mind about a drink right now, Chet. Why don't we wait until we eat?"

"Anything you say," I told her. Franklin was already gone from the bar when we moved toward the door. Behind the bar Hazel all but stood on her head trying to attract my attention. I avoided looking at her.

The cruiser was gone from the parking lot. Franklin would take up the pursuit on the highway. How would he know whether to turn north or south? I found out how he knew. "There's a nice place south on the highway, Chet," Lucille said. "I understand it's quite good."

"Anything you say," F repeated. Full twilight wasn't many minutes away when I turned left from the Dixie Pig driveway. "How far is it?"

"A dozen to fifteen miles. The decor is supposed to be attractive." Her voice was as cool as a mountain brook. Only the hands clenched in her lap betrayed her tension.

A dozen to fifteen miles was the superlative of fine. Franklin shouldn't be able to fetch half that before the sugar in his gas line froze his engine. It was a bonus that he'd ho decommissioned outside of town.

I switched on my lights south of the square. I kept an eye on the shoulder of the road. A mile south we passed a car pulled off on the right, almost indistinguishable in the gathering darkness. I wouldn't have seen it if I hadn't been looking for it. I watched its parking lights come on in my

rear-view mirror as it rolled out onto the highway behind us. The wolf was in the sheepfold.

We played follow-the-leader down US 19. Franklin dogged me from so far back I caught only an occasional glimpse of the cruiser's parking lights. He didn't need to stay close because he knew where we were going. After a few miles there were no lights of any kind behind us. I didn't think even Franklin would be running that letter-S stretch without them. Right about now he should be cursing up a storm.

It was a silent ride. Lucille roused herself from a private reverie when we'd been on the road twenty minutes. "Three's a big white sign," she said, leaning forward in the seat. "And then it's off to the left about a mile."

Naturally they wanted a spot away from the main highway. We both saw the sign at the same time. A little beyond it Lucille pointed out a graveled road. I turned into it. No lights of any kind turned in behind us.

A wagon road branched off in the headlights, and I turned up it. "Not that way!" Lucille said sharply. I drove about fifty yards farther and cut the motor and lights, insurance against a raging Franklin commandeering another ear.

"Plenty of time for food," I said, slipping an arm around Lucille. My purpose was to keep her from fleeing if she suspected anything, but she didn't. She lowered her head on my shoulder. She was content to await the arrival of the rear guard in the darkness under the trees.

I wished I could see her face. Her expression should be interesting. As far as I was concerned, Lucille Grimes was already dead. It was just a question of when and how. In a way it was too bad. This was a really talented bitch.

Right then she gave me another demonstration of it. She grabbed the horn, and it blatted twice. She was reaching for the light switch when I caught her arm. She sat there tensely with her arm in my grasp, waiting for Blaze Franklin to come from the darkness and kill me.

I could sense the shriveling of her self-confidence when

nothing happened. "You beginning to get the idea he's not coming?" I needled her. "He's not splitting with you, Lucille. He's splitting with me. Your boy friend's sold you out. I'm supposed to bury you twenty yards off this side road."

It shook her to her round heels, but she was too smart to go for it completely. "He'll k-kill you," she rasped. She tried to look over her shoulder.

"Where is he, then?" She was silent. "Get smart, woman. It's lucky for you I like you. Get on the ball now and steer me to the money. I'll take care of Franklin for you."

There was only one thing she could think. Even if Franklin hadn't sold her out, he'd flubbed his end of the deal, and she had to protect herself. Her steel-trap mind should have been telling her she was in perfect position to play it cool right down to the finish line and then choose up sides with the winner.

I couldn't understand why she hesitated.

"We—we never found the money," she said at last. Her voice was husky. "Only the—the thousand in the envelope, and a f-few thousand on—on him." She drew a quivering breath. "If only I'd never mentioned to Blaze the odd-looking man who mailed such odd-looking—" Her voice died away.

So that was why Franklin wanted me alive.

He hoped I knew where to find the cash.

The funny thing was that I did.

Now.

I tightened my grip on Lucille's arm. "Franklin killed him before he found out where the money was?"

"Hell yes," she whispered.

It wasn't too surprising that Franklin hadn't been able to crack I Bunny. I started up the Ford. "Tell me where he was staying, Lucille." She didn't say anything. I turned my head to look at her. Her face was an indistinct pale oval. "Tell me," I said impatiently. "Franklin might not have been able to find it, but I can."

She told me.

She had difficulty in getting it out.

Her directions would have put Bunny's place north "I town. I switched on the dashlight. She was watching me,

and she backed away in the seat as far as she could get. I lowered my hand over my chest and drew my .38. Her face

crumpled in fear. I pulled her toward me, reversed the gun, and slashed her across her soft inner arm with the gunsight. She cried out in pain and shock as the blood welled. "I'm giving you one chance to change that story,' I told her. "Because if there's nothing there, the gunsight is what happens to your face till my arm gets tired."

She changed her story.

The new one put Bunny's place east of town, which sounded a lot more reasonable to me.

I rammed the Ford out. Lucille sat huddled beside me. I hadn't expected her to go to pieces so completely. She

should have had no difficulty riding with a foot on each addle until either Franklin or I got dumped.

II was odd riding east on Main Street past the shack with its sign, "Airboat For Hire." The side road which Lucille reluctantly directed me to turn on couldn't have been more than three-quarters of a mile beyond the point where I'd so painfully slogged over brambled trails. No wonder Franklin had been getting itchy.

11 was a small cabin way out in the middle of nowhere. I got out of the Ford and ran a flashlight around the building. There were no telephone wires. I circled it cautiously. A mound of cut branches loomed up in the light. I pulled away a handful. There sat the blue Dodge, up on blocks.

So Lucille hadn't lied to me this time. I returned to the Ford. She sat in it, motionless. I had to take her by the arm again to get her out. She didn't want to come with me.

I got a chisel and maul from the trunk of the Ford, herded Lucille up to the door ahead of me, and smashed the lock. A wave of dry heat rolled out at me as the door shivered open, a musty, long-closed smell. Lucille was still dragging her feet, but I kept a good hold on her arm.

I moved her away from the door inside before I closed il. I walked through the place quickly. A skillet was still on the two-burner stove. The flashlight picked out Bunny's clothes, neatly arranged on hangers. There were two more locked doors. A couple of swings of the maul disposed of the first. There was nothing at all in the room. Bare walls, bare floor. I smashed the lock on the second door. I beamed the flash around the interior rapidly, and then it hung, motionless.

I'd found Bunny.

He was face down on the rough pine flooring. His wrists were handcuffed to ringbolts in the floor at right angles to his head. The ringbolts were new. Fresh pine sawdust was still visible where the holes had been drilled for them.

Despite the dry air in the place, there was an almost overpowering odor. Bunny had been in the cuffs for a long time. Not even his great strength could achieve leverage with his chest flat on the floor and his arms spread-eagled. He had thrown himself onto his right side in a final contortion. The bone in his left knee glistened at me from raw-looking meat, trousers and flesh long since abraded away in his ceaseless struggle against the flooring. His upper left arm was mincemeat where he'd gnawed at himself.

Bunny had lain in the cuffs till he died.

Which kills first, hunger or thirst?

1 couldn't remember.

I couldn't think.

The game had dealt Bunny a rough hand. He must have temporized, looking at Franklin's gun, thinking he'd find a way to turn it around. He hadn't counted on the cuffs. How do you break a stubborn man? You starve him. When he's out of his mind with hunger and thirst, he'll tell you what you want to know.

If he's not too far out of his mind.

Willi the hunger, the thirst, and the maddening heat, Franklin had returned to the cabin one day and found a mindless animal who could never tell him anything.

I stooped and examined the head, cruelly battered from endless, raving contact with the floor. There had been no merciful bullet.

Franklin had left him to die.

Blaze Franklin and Lucille Grimes had left him to die

I knew now why the blonde had been so afraid to tome in here with me. She'd known exactly what I was going to find.

I turned to her. "Blaze did it!" she screamed when she saw my face. "Blaze did it! I wanted to let him—"

I pulled the .38 and shot her in the throat, three times. "Tell your story in hell, if you can get anyone to listen," I told her. She thrashed on the floor, blood pulsing between the fingers of the hands clasped to her neck. "If they can patch up your lying voice."

I stepped over her.

I had work to do.

I went outside, into the clean darkness. I looked up at the stars to orient myself. I knew where the sack with the money was. Bunny and I had always followed a pattern for a cache in the country. I stepped out due north as accurately as I could figure it. I knew it wouldn't be more than thirty or forty feet from the front door of the cabin.

It would have been a cinch in the daylight, and even in the darkness it wasn't hard. My feet told me when I arrived at softer earth. Bunny had planted something green. I ripped it up, pulled the chisel—the only tool I had— from my pocket and dug into the loose ground. A foot below the surface I ran into the sack.

I hauled it up and by the light of the flash made sure the bulk of the swag was still in it. Then I buried it again, stamping down the loose earth. There was no sense in lugging it around with me. I'd come back for it. I'd come back for it when I brought Blaze Franklin out here and roped him to Bunny's body and left him to die the same way he'd left Bunny.

I went back inside for a look around. Lucille was unconscious. Bubbles of blood pulsed gently instead of jetting with each ragged breath. She wouldn't last long. She was lucky. If I'd stopped to think instead of going off hair-trigger when I found Bunny, I'd have figured something different for her. She was just as guilty as Franklin.

I'm used to death, but Bunny's infuriated me. Where would Franklin be now? Back at the Lazy Susan, probably, chewing up the rug. He had to hope I came back there. He'd get his wish in a way he never expected.

I drove straight to the Dixie Pig.

I wanted Franklin so bad I could taste it, but I had another errand first. I scouted the back lot carefully. There was no two-tone cruiser. I went inside.

Hazel was at the end of the bar with a slim, black-haired, dapper-looking man. Her face lit up when she saw me, but I thought she looked anxious. "This is Nate Pepperman, my money manager," she said when I approached her. "Chet Arnold, a good friend, Nate."

"I keep telling you the correct phrase is business consultant," Pepperman said easily as we shook hands. "Nice to meet you, Arnold. See you later, Hazel."

Before he was out the door Hazel raised the hinged flap at the end of the bar and motioned me through it. I followed her through the hanging curtain in the center of the back bar. I'd never been out there before. It was set up as a lounge, with a couch and a couple of chairs, a Primus stove, and a coffeepot.

"Get a bag packed," I said when she turned to face me. "I'll he back for you in an hour."

Her hand caught mine and squeezed it, hard. "Listen to me, Chet, please." Her voice was low and intense. "Franklin has everyone out looking for you. They never dreamed you'd come back here. There's half a dozen of them waiting for you down in the motel yard."

So.

End of the line in Hudson, Florida.

And I couldn't get Franklin.

I couldn't? The hell I couldn't. I held out my hand to Hazel. "Forget what I said about a bag. Give me your car key. "

She turned to her handbag which was on a chair. "Chet, please let me come—"

"Tell them I took the keys away from you." I couldn't take her with me now. I was a lot less than even money to make it. She handed me the keys. I punched her in I In eye. Big as she was, she went over backward and landed on the couch. The eye would be her alibi and keep the police off her back. "So long, baby," I said from the curtained opening. I didn't look back. I didn't want to see the expression on her face.

I drove to the Lazy Susan in Hazel's car. They should have been looking for my Ford. It turned out they were looking for anything. I'd no more than rolled into the yard and opened the car door when some eager beaver tapped his headlights. Three more sets came on instantly. I was semicircled by police cruisers. The motel yard looked bright as day.

Blaze Franklin came roaring out of the nearest cruiser, leveling a gun. He couldn't afford to let anyone capture me. He couldn't afford to let me talk. At ten yards I put five in a row into him—five shots a playing card would have covered. He went down, bellowing like a wounded bull. He was a wounded bull. A dark red stain spread over the crotch of his uniform trousers. He'd live, but he wouldn't enjoy it as much. I put the last shot in the .38 into his jaw as he flopped on the ground. That would keep him quiet if I got away.

Firecrackers were going off all around me. They couldn't shoot worth a damn. I dived back under the wheel and aimed Hazel's car straight ahead through the largest gap in the encircling headlights. Gravel spurted from the car's rear wheels just as someone shot out the windshield. I ducked flying glass while I bumped over the lawn, through a flowerbed, around the swimming pool, and over a white picket fence. The car jounced down onto the highway, and I floored the accelerator. For the first live hundred yards, part of the fence I'd crashed through kept banging against the front wheels. Then it fell away.

Behind me there were lights and sirens. No shortage of cither. I roared through the square and set sail for the Dixie Pig. I had a chance of outrunning them in the souped-up Ford. Right now I could just about smell the overheated engines pursuing me.

I cut the lights a thousand yards from the Dixie Pig, got over on the shoulder, and drove in darkness. If there had been anything parked it would have been all over. I whirled the wheel hard when I saw the lighter outline of the crushed stone driveway, took a section of hedge with me, but I made the turn. Outside on the highway the cruisers screamed by.

I got Hazel's car stopped and lit running on the back parking lot. The door on the driver's side of my Ford stood open. I didn't remember leaving it open. I came to a sliding stop beside it, my hand on the butt of my .38. I saw a dark figure on the other side of the front seat. I came within a tick of pulling the trigger before I recognized Hazel. "Get the hell out of there!" I ordered, trying at the same time to listen for sounds on the highway.

"Take me with you, Chet," she pleaded. "Give me a gun."

"Don't make me do it, baby," I warned her. "Get out of the goddamned car."

She climbed out. I could see she was crying. "Chet, why won't you let me—"

"Stop making these losing bets, will you?" I crowded under the wheel. "Get back inside and keep your mouth shut. They can't touch you." I backed up, swung around, and belted the Ford down the driveway. The last I saw of Hazel was the glitter of her cowboy boots' silver conches in the big swing of the headlights.

I doubled back toward town. There were bound to be roadblocks north and south on 19. I'd head east on Main. The added power of the Ford felt good under my foot. I slowed down approaching the traffic light in the square. I'd just started to make the left turn when there was the snarl of a siren practically in my ear. Someone in the posse had had the brains to leave a trailer.

I le was headed the wrong way, but I saw the shine of his lights as he came after me. My forty-five-mile-an-hour turn carried me up onto the sidewalk before I got straightened out on Main. I really rolled it away from there.

The pursuing headlights grew smaller. I was doing eighty-five on a road built for forty, so the Ford was all over the highway. I watched the dark ribbon of macadam unroll in the headlights, the soft night breeze whistling through the open windows. The wailing shriek of the siren in the cruiser following me grew fainter. I was outrunning him comfortably. V

Then I burst out of a curve into a long straightaway, and far up ahead winked the red fights of trouble.

Roadblock.

I lifted my foot from the gas pedal instinctively, but I still rolled up on it fast. A spotlight came on when they saw me. A tiny figure stood out in the roadway, waving me down with flapping arms.

I sized it up.

Two cruisers across the road, their snouts extending out onto the shoulders. Three-quarters of a car's width between them in the center. A ditch on the light. An open field on the left. And in the rear-view mirror the lights of the trailing cruiser gaining rapidly.

A roadblock you do or you don't. I mashed down on the gas again and headed for the center opening. I just might rip my way through. The fool with the flapping arms stood in the center of the gap. The headlights picked him up clearly. The Ford's engine snarled with power as I suddenly recognized the white, strained face of Jed Raymond.

I hoped he'd jump, but if he didn't, he'd have to take his chances as I was taking mine. I couldn't have been twenty yards from him—and he hadn't made a move— when Kaiser pranced out in front of Jed, head cocked, tongue lolling, tail wagging.

My brain sent me straight through, over the dog, over the man, to try the odds with the blockading cruisers. But my hands spun the wheel, hard left. Somebody else will have to explain it to you. I missed them both, caromed broadside from the left-hand cruiser in a whining, ear-splitting shriek of tortured metal. The Ford hurtled a hundred fifty yards out into the field. The front wheels dropped into a ditch suddenly. There was a loud whump, and the Ford stood up on its nose. The doors flew open. I flew out. I landed hard, then rolled.

I didn't lose consciousness. I still had the gun and loose cartridges in my jacket pocket. The Ford was down on its knees in front, its ass-end up in the air. The wheels were still spinning. There was something the matter with my left hand. I started to crawl toward the Ford and realized that my right leg was broken.

Up on the highway the spotlight pivoted and crept down through the field. It caught me, passed on, hesitated, and came back. There was a sharp crack, and a bullet plowed up the ground beside me. A rifle. It sounded like a .30-.30. I dragged myself over the uneven ground to the Ford, underneath its back wheels where I could see up to the road.

I reloaded one-handed. A thousand hours of practicing reloading one-handed had come to this: a final time in a black earth Florida field. I looked up toward the road again, and I got the spotlight with my third shot.

They turned the other cruiser around, the one I hadn't hit, and its spotlight started down through the field. I popped it before its beam reached me. Not that it made any real difference. More red lights, sirens, and spotlights were whirling up to the roadblock every second now.

To get to me in a hurry they had to come through the field. By now they knew enough not to hurry. The .30-.30 went off again, and a large charge of angry metal whanged through the body of the car over my head. The rifle would keep me pinned down while they circled around me.

Nothing for it now but the hard sell.

Nothing for it but to see that a few of them shook hands with the devil at the same time I did.

The spotlights crisscrossed each other eerily in the open field, but one of them kept the Ford bathed steadily in luminously glowing, eye-hurting brilliance. A hump in the ground kept me in shadow. I couldn't see anyone coming through the field.

I heard the ride's sharp crack again. Above my head (here was a loud ping! Suddenly I was drenched to the waist in gasoline. The .30-.30 slug had ripped out the belly of the gas tank. I swiped at my stinging eyes and shook my dripping head. I looked up just as gas from my hair splashed onto the hot exhaust.

Whoom!!

I saw a bright flare, and then I didn't see anything.

The explosion knocked me backward under the Ford. I rolled out from beneath it. I didn't even feel the broken leg or the damaged hand. I couldn't see at all. I could hear the crackle of flames. Part was the Ford. Part was me. I was afire all over.

I tried to smother the flames by rolling on the ground. It didn't help. I still had the gun. I hoped they could see me and were coming at me. I knelt up on my good leg and faced the highway, bracing the .38 in both hands. I squeezed off what was left in it, waist-high in a semicircle, blind.

I threw the empty gun as far as I could in the direction of the road.

There was a dull roaring sound in my ears. I tried to put out the fire in my hair. I could smell my own burning flesh.

The last thing I heard was myself, screaming.

XI

I was blind for six months.

I may have gone a little crazy, too. I went the whole route: baths, wetpacks, elbow cuffs, straitjackets, isolation. I stopped fighting them a while ago. They don't pay much attention to me now.

I knew what I looked like even before I could see again. I could tell from the reaction when a new patient was admitted or a new attendant came on duty. Hazel came to see me five or six times. I refused consent for her admission.

They don't know that I can see again. That I'm not crazy. They think I'm a robot. A vegetable.

I'll show them.

There's a hermetically sealed quart jar buried in Hillsboro, New Hampshire, and another in Grosmont, Colorado. There's nothing but money in both. I don't need money. All I need is a gun. One of these days I'll find the right attendant, and I'll start talking to him. It will take time to convince him, but I've got plenty of time.

Plastic surgery will take care of most of what I look like if I can get back to the sack buried beside Bunny's cabin. With a gun, I'll get back to it.

That's all I need—a gun.

I'm not staying here.

I'll be leaving before too long, and the day I do they'll never forget it.

Table of Contents

THE NAME OF THE GAME IS DEATH

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI