by Dean Koontz
"That's cruel," she said.
It was, and it hurt. "But it's also true."
"Call him back anyway," she said, tucking her bright hair behind her ears. Her ears were like delicate shells. "When you are finished with him, I'll have a drink ready for you." She waited, watching him closely. The reflection of the bedside lamp made a star in the center of each green eye. "You know, maybe your father has seen the light at long last."
He laughed.
"No, really. Maybe he's willing to let you have your inheritance."
"Fat chance," Tucker said. "The old man never softens his stand once he's taken it. He just gets more adamant than ever. The only way I'll get what my mother left me is to fight him from one court to the next." There was uncontrolled bitterness in his voice, and his dark eyes hardened when he thought about his father.
"You've gone through a couple of courts already," she said. "And you're no further ahead."
"Sooner or later," Tucker said, "I'll get a judge who is not impressed with my father's name and money. An honest judge. And the old man's high-powered, high-priced lawyers will finally make a mistake "
She said nothing.
He looked at her, knew pretty much what she was thinking, sighed loudly. "Oh, hell I guess there's always the slim chance that he's sick. And if he's sick enough, he might decide it's time for him to give in on a few points." He got up and put on a dark blue silk robe. "I'm going to need that drink when I get back."
"It'll be here," Elise said.
He went down the hall to the den.
Albert Littlefield, his father's most trusted attorney, had a wire-thin, reedy voice that never failed to irritate Tucker. It was not a whine, as it might have been had it come from any other man, but somewhat of a sneer. It went well with Littlefield's lean, cold, patronizing, negatively aristocratic appearance and manner. "Michael, I'm so glad you called back. How have you been?"
They had been on opposite sides of too many courtroom battles for Tucker to feign friendship with Littlefield. He found it difficult to be even minimally polite with the man. "What do you want?"
"I'd like to see you tomorrow," Littlefield said.
"About what?"
"I have a proposition for you, Michael. A very fine offer from your father."
"Give it to me now."
"On the telephone?"
"Why not?"
"Well, it's quite a compromise on your father's part," the attorney said. "I would think the least you could do would be to come around to my office and hear it. Besides, it isn't really suitable stuff for the telephone. We're talking here of quite complicated terms, large sums of money "
"I'm not interested in compromises," Tucker said. "I simply want what is mine, my inheritance. I want the old man to stop interfering with my mother's wishes."
"Have you forgotten, Michael, that it was your mother's last wish that your father maintain control of your estate and use it with his own greater fortune to increase it until such a time as you-"
Tucker almost gritted his teeth. When he spoke, cutting off Littlefield, his voice was strained. "When my mother was dying, delirious, when she didn't know what she was doing, he got her to sign that damned paper, giving him guardianship over the inheritance. You know that isn't what she really wanted."
Littlefield sensed that Tucker was about to hang up on him. "Michael, let's not argue, please. This is old stuff, hashed over too often already."
Tucker did not reply.
"Come around and see me tomorrow," Littlefield said. "You'll like what your father's proposing. You must be as weary of the courtroom as we are. Come see me for lunch, please."
"I'm busy at lunchtime," Tucker said.
"Three o'clock then?"
Tucker thought about it. If he could pry even a fraction of his inheritance out of his father, he would be a millionaire. There would be no need at all to fly out to California, no need to set up this operation at Oceanview Plaza, no need to get inextricably involved with the unstable Frank Meyers, no need to take any more risks. He would be able to devote more of his time to his art interests. Perhaps he could even promote his freelance dealership into a viable business that would help to pay some of the bills. And, most importantly, there would be more time to spend with Elise, more time to keep in touch with her career, to give her the support and confidence she had so often given him "Three o'clock," he agreed at last.
"Wonderful," Littlefield said.
"Just you and me."
"Excuse me?" the lawyer said.
"This meeting," Tucker said. "It's just between the two of us, right?"
"Well, of course. Michael-"
"I would not be at all receptive to a surprise appearance by the old man."
"Just the two of us," Littlefield assured him. "And I'm certain we can come to an agreement tomorrow despite the bitterness of these last few years."
"We'll see," Tucker said. He hung up.
Out in the corridor again, he stood in front of the Edo shield and spear for several minutes, hoping that the sight of them would settle his nerves, as had so often been the case in the past months. This time their beauty did not affect him. Even after he had finished the drink that Elise had waiting for him in the bedroom, he was tense and jumpy. He had trouble getting to sleep. He kept waking from bad dreams, all of which involved his father, Frank Meyers, Oceanview Plaza, and dozens of armed policemen
Ever since Elise had brought him there on a long winter's afternoon last December, the Museum of Natural History had been one of Tucker's favorite places in New York. It had everything from dinosaur skeletons and cross sections of giant redwood trees to insect and rodent exhibits, the enormous and the apparently insignificant all crammed into one great, drafty old building. A tour of the museum provided a breadth of experience and a sense of eons that was more than intellectually stimulating; indeed, it could be an emotional experience, especially for a man who, like Tucker, appreciated the antique and the primitive. Wandering through these rooms and halls, Tucker was always impressed by the fact that he was witnessing millions of years of change that, by this very evidence of its transpiration, proved the meager role of mankind in the greater workings of the universe. An hour here could make his daily problems seem petty, even laughable.
This impact, this realization was especially forceful when he had time to think in a moment of quiet between the screaming packs of undisciplined schoolchildren who roamed like wild creatures through the stone halls and chambers. And one of the best places to find quiet in the museum was the Eskimo totem-pole room. Although all teachers touched on dinosaurs, redwood trees, and other wonders, few ever mentioned the Eskimo culture to their energetic charges. Therefore, the kids ran and screamed and played tag around other exhibits, leaving this place to older and much calmer heads.
As usual there was a strange and mournful silence in the room. It was broken only by the hum of an electric fan that was standing on a platform by one of the doors and raking the totem poles with cool air. The lights were low, as always, the ceiling shrouded in mysterious shadows. One after another the mammoth totems rose, majestic, crude, and yet beautiful, the gnarled faces peering either straight ahead or glaring down at whatever puny men dared to walk beneath them.
Edgar Bates was standing halfway along the main aisle, staring up at a fierce-looking bird-god that was staring right back down at him. "Those damned kids," he said when Tucker stopped beside him, "gave me a splitting headache."
"They seldom come in here," Tucker said.
Their voices, though whispers, shushed around the room and added to the funereal atmosphere.
"Took four Anacins," Bates said. "But I feel like I'm about to lose the top of my scalp."
"How you been?" Tucker asked.
"Fine, until I ran into those kids. Screaming like banshees."
"Doing much work lately?"
"Whenever it looks good."
"I need a jugger."
"And I'm here to listen," Bates said.
He was a solid man, an inch or two shorter than Tucker, at least forty pounds overweight, although he was not fat. With big rounded shoulders, broad chest, and short, thick legs, he might have been a Russian peasant who had spent most of his life in the fields. His face, too, was Slavic, square and well lined, capped with a shock of bushy white hair.
Although he was sixty years old, not much younger than Clitus Felton, Edgar was a long way from retirement. He not only liked what he did, he defined himself almost entirely in terms of his unorthodox profession. He had no wife, no children. His talents meant so much to him not merely because they earned him large sums of money but because they made him valuable as a man, respected and appreciated by his peers. He was good, the best jugger Tucker had ever seen. He was almost an artist. He could break, file, acid-breach, finesse or blow a safe faster than any other man in the business. If he worked another twenty years, he would most likely still be the best safecracker in the country when he checked out of it.
"There's a shopping center in California that was just made to be hit," Tucker said.
"Shopping center?"
"Hear me out."
"Shopping center?" Bates wrinkled his flat face.
"I know it sounds ridiculous. It isn't."
"Go on then."
"It's a very exclusive mall," Tucker explained quietly, his voice whispering unintelligibly around the long display room. "It doesn't cater to the average citizen. It's as if you were to round up twenty of the best businesses on Fifth Avenue and put them all under one roof. There are a handful of very exclusive dress shops-Markwood and Jame, Sasbury's There's a furrier, an art gallery where the prices start at five hundred dollars a throw, a Rolls Royce dealership, a London-style tailor best of all, there's a savings bank."
"Ahhh," Bates said, nodding and smiling, still looking up at the bird-god.
Tucker also looked at that evil wooden countenance rather than at Bates. From a distance they seemed to be discussing the totem. "We're going to hit the bank. But the vault's probably going to be open."
Bates looked away from the totem, grimaced as if in imitation of the bird-god's face. "Open? You mean you're hitting it during business hours? Then why do you need me?"
"It's an after-hours job," Tucker assured him.
"And the safe will be open?"
"Most likely. I'll explain why in due time. First-"
"But if it's open," Bates said, "why take me along?"
"Just in case it isn't open," Tucker explained. "And we'll also need you to break the safe in the jewelry store next door."
"You're taking jewelry?" Bates asked.
"Unset stones."
Bates shook his head disapprovingly, turned and looked up at the totem pole once more. His face was hard, the Slavic softness gone. His eyes were squeezed half shut, heavy but alert. "Merchandise!" he said, strong on the sarcasm. "You'll have to fence the damned stuff. And you know what a risk that is."
"I know. But-"
"It's almost as big a risk as taking the stuff in the first place," Bates said gruffly. "And what the hell can you get from a fence anyway? One-third the real value? More than likely, only one-fourth."
"I can get a third on this," Tucker said.
"Small potatoes."
"Maybe better than a third."
Bates cleared his throat, would have spat on the floor if this had not been a museum. "It's always best to take cash. Only cash. Never merchandise."
"I agree," Tucker said. "You've worked with me before. You know I usually pull cash jobs. But unset stones are eminently fenceable. And these ought to be worth half a million. Perhaps two hundred thousand to us when we sell them. I'd be surprised if we get more than a hundred thousand out of the bank."
"Half a million in uncut stones tucked away in a little jewelry-store safe?" Bates asked, surprised.
"It's a big, expensive safe," Tucker said, smiling. "I told you this was no ordinary shopping mall. This jewelry store makes rings and necklaces to order. It doesn't sell nineteen-dollar watches, Edgar."
"Tell me more," Bates said.
Tucker told him all of it, the whole layout and every step of the plan. He tried to make it sound especially sweet, for he wanted Edgar Bates more than he did any other jugger. Although he had a reputation as an extremely cool and calm operator, Tucker was routinely frightened and tightly wound when he was in the middle of a heist, regardless of whether the job was going well or disastrously. He always projected an aura of self-assurance, was always quick to lead, a sure commander-all the while seething inside. However, when he worked with men like Edgar Bates, he was considerably more relaxed than when he had to deal strictly with Frank Meyers's type. "If the jeweler's safe isn't too difficult for you, we should be able to pull off the entire operation in less than one hour." He looked sideways at Bates. "Sound reasonable to you?"
"Sure," Bates said. He looked away from the Eskimo artwork. "But what about this Frank Meyers?"
"What about him?" Tucker asked.
"You trust him?"
"Do you know him?" Tucker parried.
"I've heard the name, I think. But I've never worked with the man. Do you think he noticed everything he should have noticed? No guards or alarms that he might have overlooked?"
"He's got every detail," Tucker said, remembering the care put into the diagram of Oceanview Plaza. He did not mention his other reservations about Meyers. If Bates came in on this, the two of them could make up for any boner that Meyers might pull. "Are you with us?"
"You the boss?" Bates asked.
"I always am."
"Just checking." He looked up and down the display room and saw that they were alone except for a thin, bearded young man who was studying a totem twenty yards away. He turned his gaze on the bird-god again, studied the splintered beak and the madly gleaming eyes. A group of thirty or forty screaming schoolchildren raced past one of the doors, filling the chamber with maniacal echoes, remnants of eerie high-pitched laughter. When silence returned like a fog drifting in, the jugger said, "I'm along for the ride, then."
Tucker almost sighed aloud with relief.
"When?" Bates asked.
"Next Wednesday."
"Suits me."
"We'll stay in Los Angeles," Tucker said. "I have a hotel picked out. It has over four hundred rooms, so no one will notice us or remember us later. We'll check in separately and drive out to the mall for the job."
"Will we have a chance to look this Oceanview over firsthand?" Bates asked.
"Of course. We can explore it all afternoon before we hit it at closing time."
"Three men," Bates mused, "doesn't seem like enough."
"It is."
They ironed out the minor details of time and rendezvous in Los Angeles, then left the display room by different exits. The leering, hawk-nosed, painted faces of the monstrous totems stared after them with fierce intent.
"This is only a compromise, not a complete surrender," Albert Littlefield said as he settled into the high-backed leather chair behind his desk. "I want to be certain that you understand this straightaway, Michael. Your father is willing to be generous, but he is not willing to meet all of your demands." They made no small talk. The ice between them was much too thick to break. He sensed Tucker's attitude and knew the briefer the meeting the better for both of them.
"Go on, then," Tucker said, knowing already that it was really useless for Littlefield to continue. A compromise was not going to be good enough.
Littlefield's office seemed to be designed to match the chilly mood that separated the two men. The walls were white, unmarked, like partitions of snow. The ice-blue vinyl furniture looked cold and uncomfortable, all square and sharply angled, harsh and plain. The bindings of the hundreds of legal texts-green, brown, dull red-were matched and sterile, nearly hypnotizing the eye.
The man suited his office, Tucker thought. Littlefield was tall, slender, composed of sharp angles. His face was long and thin, with a fresh but slightly milky complexion. Ar
row-straight, his nose was slightly flared around the nostrils, as if he were constantly sniffing some odor that offended him. His colorless lips were taut bow lines. He was clearly well bred, from a background of wealth and position, although he had none of the charm and personal easiness that most often accompanied the strong self-confidence of the aristocrat. Indeed, he was quite reserved and prim enough to fit comfortably the part of an eighteenth-century schoolmaster.
Littlefield folded his hands on the desk, his sticklike fingers pressed together at the tips. "As you know, Michael, your father has established for you a ten-thousand-dollar monthly allowance drawn from the earnings of your trust fund. Thus far, forty-two of these checks have been issued. Since you have consistently refused to accept them, they have been deposited in a special account in your name."
Tucker did not bother to explain why he had summarily rejected this apparent windfall. They both knew that by signing the waiver to be eligible for the dole, he would be endorsing his father's control of his mother's estate even before he spent the first penny. He would be signing away his right to file any further suits in federal court and would be limiting himself to the role of a minor for the remainder of his father's life if not his own.
Besides, ten thousand dollars a month was not enough, not when a single Edo spear went for sixty-five thousand dollars
"In the past," Littlefield continued, "you have said that the wording of the waiver was unacceptable, the conditions much too stringent."
"I'm sure I reacted much more strongly than that," Tucker said. "I probably indicated that it was not only unacceptable but immoral and almost criminal as well."
The lawyer's smile was brittle. "Well Your father has now drafted a new waiver which should be more to your liking and which should not stand between you and your allowance." He opened a manila folder that lay atop his desk, took out a single sheet of yellow paper, leaned across the desk and tried to hand it to Tucker. "If you'll take a moment to read this, you'll see how generous the offer really is."
"Why don't you read it to me?" Tucker asked, not bothering to rise out of his chair to accept the paper.