Frank Herbert

by Frank Herbert

  Paul turned. “Where’re you going? Uncle Angie’ll flip if he finds you behind the counter.”

  Afraid I’ll dip into the till?” Carlos sneered. “Fat chance in this dump!” He stopped at the bench, peered out the shallow window. “I’m just admiring the view.”

  Involuntarily, Paul glanced down at Carlos’s feet, saw dark blue pants with knife-edge creases, black shoes polished to a high gloss. He had seen those pants and shoes recently—walking past the little window. The same feeling of disquiet returned to Paul. He said, “Have you been hanging around outside there?”

  Carlos whirled. For an instant, there was a savage cast to his face. Then he relaxed, smiled—feral and toothy. “What makes you ask that?”

  Paul shrugged.

  “You see something that interested you?” asked Carlos.

  “Just your feet,” said Paul.

  “My … feet?” Carlos exploded into laughter.

  “What do you want?” demanded Paul. He felt uneasy, sensing an undercurrent in the other’s actions and words.

  Carlos assumed a confidential manner. “While you’re away in the army, something interesting happens around here.” He nodded toward the window over the bench. “That old rat trap across the street—a factory moves in. Real sweet kind of a factory. Makes jewelry. You know: ice, gold—all kinds of real nice goodies.”

  Abruptly, Paul recalled the armored car, the armed guards.

  Carlos said, “Now, just to look at a place like that, you wouldn’t think it was much. Old dump like that. Unless you happen to have a little inside leak, kind of, that says there’s going to be half a million bucks in ice shipped in there this afternoon. Yes, sir. Half a million. About three thirty, four o’clock. Maybe a little earlier.”

  Paul swallowed past a lump in his throat. He felt sudden menace, thought, A robbery? This small-time punk? He said, “So what?”

  “‘So what?’ he asks!” Carlos shook his head sadly. “Man, you just don’t fit. Strictly a square.”

  Paul glanced at the yellow alarm clock on the bench—2:25. Uncle Angie would be coming back soon.

  And again, he thought, A robbery? But this punk’s the car-thief type—shoplifting, snatch and grab. Then: But even punks dream of the big time. And if he’s moved in with some gang …

  Carlos glanced back out the window, then returned to his smirking observation of Paul. “They got guards on the truck,” he said, “but they’ll be easy to handle. No sweat. The real problem’s an old character sits at an upstairs window with a shotgun every time there’s a big shipment. You can see him real easy from down here. Every time.”

  Paul frowned. “You’re planning on robbing …”

  “You don’t get a business opportunity like this every day,” said Carlos. “Uh-uh!”

  “But …”

  “Strictly a square,” said Carlos. Again, that flicking glance out the window, then back to Paul. “That guard in the window. Man stands down here with a rifle—blowie! And everything gets real simple.”

  Paul took a step forward. “Murder?”

  “Business necessity, call it,” said Carlos. “Like you got competition, maybe.”

  Paul shook his head as though to clear it. “You can’t just …”

  “Is that right?” Carlos straightened, and his right hand dipped into his suitcoat pocket. “Why not?”

  Paul pointed to the window. “You think we’d just let you shoot some …”

  “Aw, shut up!” rapped Carlos. He leaned forward. “You think because you’re studying this law bit, that makes you a lawyer? You ain’t arguing in no court, man. Besides …” He displayed a wolfish grin. “… you ain’t heard my whole case yet.”

  “I know what to …”

  “You don’t know nothing! Look, little man—have you thought what could happen if your uncle gets too excited?” Left hand up, he snapped his fingers. “His ticker. Just like that!”

  Paul stared at him. “His ticker?”

  Carlos looked surprised. “Yeah. His ticker. His heart. The beat-beat-beat machine. You mean you ain’t with it?”

  “I …”

  “You mean like you don’t know he goes to the sawbones up the street here every Wednesday? The heart fixer? Don’t you know your dear old uncle had a couple attacks while you’re off doing the army bit?”

  Paul shook his head. “I didn’t …”

  “Well, then!” said Carlos. “You see how it is. We got to keep Uncle Angie from getting too excited.”

  Paul glanced at the envelope on the counter. From the lawyer’s office. Uncle Angie’s will?

  “We got this figured real close,” said Carlos. “You got no phone here. You ain’t going no place. And even if you thought about trying to get the word to somebody … well, me and my friends could always get poor old Uncle Angie all excited …” Again, he snapped his fingers. “See how it goes?”

  “You wouldn’t …”

  “Like I tell you,” said Carlos. “Business necessity.” He lifted a small automatic from his pocket far enough for Paul to see it. “And like any good business, we got insurance. You learn about these in the army, don’t you? Guns? They use ’em to kill people.”

  Paul’s chest felt tight, breathing difficult. He thought, My God! He’s serious! He said, “But what …”

  “Now, all you gotta do is stay out of the way and act natural,” said Carlos. “Then, nothing happens to Uncle Angie.”

  Paul just stared at him.

  “I told my friends you’d be sensible,” said Carlos. “You wouldn’t want to make me out a liar, would you?”

  And Paul thought, Just give me one customer I can get to call the cops!

  “You don’t get many customers in the middle of the week,” said Carlos.

  Paul took a quick, short breath.

  Carlos laughed. “You think we ain’t got all the angles figured?” He hefted the gun in his pocket. “Don’t make no mistakes, Pauly boy. I’m gonna be right here with you until it’s all over. If you get any customers, you just act natural. All business, see?”

  Paul nodded, thought, But Uncle Angie’s going to blow up when he sees this punk here again. And when they come in with the rifle!

  “Kinda makes you squirm, don’t it?” asked Carlos. “You keep wondering what you can do. Just make up your mind, little man—you can’t do nothing! Just take it!”

  He’s getting his kicks out of telling me all this! thought Paul. The punk! He said, “What if Uncle Angie objects to you being here?”

  “Oh, we can handle Uncle Angie, can’t we?” asked Carlos. “It’ll just be for an hour or so.”

  And Paul thought, I could take this punk right now, gun or no gun. What chance would a yuk like him have against someone trained in combat judo? Look at him! Wide open! He inched forward, glanced out the window, hoping Carlos would turn to look.

  “I mean, like we got to keep everything real natural in here,” said Carlos. “We don’t want nothing to happen to dear old Uncle Angie.”

  Talk away, punk! thought Paul. Another two feet and I can rush you before you know what’s happening!

  Abruptly, Carlos slid away along the bench, glanced up and out the window, back to Paul. It was done swiftly—no time to close the gap. Now he stared narrowly at Paul. “What you coming over here for?”

  “I have to work.” Paul gestured toward the bench.

  Suspicious, tense, Carlos backed away to the left. “Yeah? So get to work then.”

  Paul hesitated. The ticking of the alarm clock beat loudly in his ears. He saw the feet of a small boy run past the little window, heard the gear clashing of a truck turning the corner.

  “I mean like now!” snapped Carlos. “Natural! Remember?”

  Footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Paul whirled.

  Angelo was making his painful descent—slow, stiff-legged. He opened the door, shuffled into the shop, closed the door. “Got lots of business while I am gone?” He began removing his coat, saw Carlos, and froze.

 
; Carlos moved out of the rear of the shop. “Hello, Mr. Serafim.”

  “What you want?” demanded Angelo. He finished removing his coat, glanced at Paul, back to Carlos, and thought, The minute I get out of sight, this no good shows up!

  “Just having a friendly visit with your nephew,” said Carlos. He crossed to the front windows, leaned over a chair to peer out and up, pushed back to stare at Angelo.

  Paul raged to himself, Why’d he have to come back just then? Another couple of minutes!

  “Visit is over now,” said Angelo. “You go. Is time for work. Don’t you got work?”

  “I got a real good business going,” said Carlos. He sank into one of the wooden chairs beside the front windows.

  “I say you go!” snapped Angelo.

  “Oh, now, Mr. Serafim. I thought I’d read one of your magazines.” He picked up a magazine from the seat of the next chair.

  Paul slipped around the end of the counter, stood behind and to one side of Angelo. He felt frustrated, impotent. Uncle Angie’s getting too excited!

  Angelo’s face darkened. “You go now,” he repeated.

  Carlos gestured with the magazine. “But I was just …”

  Angelo snatched the magazine from his hand. “These for customer! You are not customer!”

  Paul saw Carlos’s hand slip into the gun pocket. He moved closer, wet his lips with his tongue. There was a pinched look of rage on Carlos’s face.

  Angelo stepped back, pointed toward the door. There were little flecks of spittle on his lips. “You get out! You no good! You stay away from my Pavlos!”

  Uncle Angie’s too worked up! thought Paul. He felt desperate, inched closer, ready to dart in at the first hint of a wrong move from Carlos.

  Carlos stood up, spoke through tight lips. “What you jerks think? I’m just gonna …” He broke off, stared at Angelo.

  Paul turned to his uncle in an instant of white panic, thinking, His heart?

  Angelo had stepped backward, gaze fixed on the stairwell. He looked terror-stricken, mouth working soundlessly—then a whisper escaped him: “Dolofone!”

  Paul translated it unconsciously, thought, Killer? He looked through the front windows.

  A short, round-faced fat man was coming down the stairs. The man let himself in the door, closed it. His actions were precise, steady—like the movements of a heavy machine. Then Paul focused on the eyes shaded under the brim of a brown hat: eyes of a dark, wash blue—empty and deadly. The man wore a lumpy brown overcoat buttoned to the neck. A dead cigar jutted from his thick, wet lips, and bits of dark cigar leaf—chewed and damp—trailed down the front of the coat.

  The man rolled the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, said, “Good afternoon, Carlos.” Flat, empty voice—like the eyes.

  “You come just in time, Finch,” said Carlos.

  “Oh?” The shark eyes seemed to see everything without looking at any single object. “They are not cooperating?” He shook his head. “Sad.”

  Paul heard his uncle muttering in Greek, realized that Angelo was praying. The sound grated on Paul’s nerves as he tried to think. Two of them. How can I handle two of them?

  “Be quiet, old man,” said Finch.

  “Please!” said Angelo. It was almost a shriek. “We not anything to you! Please!”

  “Oh, this will never do,” said Finch. He glanced at Carlos. “A customer comes in, sees him like that? Oh, no.”

  Carlos said, “Maybe we better …” He shrugged. “Hang up the sign saying they’re closed.”

  “Considered and rejected,” said Finch. “The one across the street there, in the window—we know him to be very observant. It is possible he counts the number of persons who come and go from this shop. Especially on a day such as today. If the shop is closed with several people still inside, that could arouse his suspicions. We do not seek to arouse his suspicions.”

  Carlos nodded toward Angelo, who was backed against the counter, eyes closed, praying in Greek. “Sure, but …”

  Paul stepped forward. “Look, let me—”

  “You will be quiet,” said Finch in a flat, conversational tone.

  “Let me take him somewhere out of this,” urged Paul.

  “Did I not ask for quiet?” said Finch. The shark eyes turned toward Paul, seemed to pin him without focusing. “You do not want trouble with me, lad. Really you don’t.”

  The very casualness of the statement coupled to the cold stare chilled Paul. Now he began to see the thing that Angelo’s more experienced eyes had detected immediately in this man.

  Finch turned back to Carlos. “You will take the old man up to the truck. It is around the corner, out of sight of the one across the street. You will appear to be helping the old man. Put him in the back of the truck.”

  Carlos said, “How …”

  “Patience,” said Finch. “There is a large roll of surgical tape in the back of the truck. Merely be certain that no one sees you taking the old man in there. Close and lock the doors when you come back out.”

  “He’s an old man,” said Paul. “He’s sick.”

  “Patience,” repeated Finch. “We will only detain him there for his own good. And if you behave, the old man may live to grow even older.”

  Paul looked at Carlos, at the way he was staring at Angelo. Paul had seen that expression on the faces of boys tormenting a cat. He trembled.

  “Old man!” snapped Finch.

  Angelo opened his eyes and mouth, stared mutely.

  “You will go now with Carlos,” said Finch. “Go quietly, attract no attention, and the young lad here will remain unharmed. It is only for a little while.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Less than an hour now.”

  “Don’t hurt my Pavlos!” begged Angelo. He looked at Paul, eyes glazed. “Don’t do something, Pavlos. They get mad! Don’t do something.”

  Paul stared at his uncle, wanting desperately to help him but menaced now by two men. And he could hear Angelo’s words ringing in his ears: “Don’t do something.”

  “You must remain calm,” said Finch. “Hear me, old man?”

  Angelo gulped, nodded. He thought, Killer stays here with Pavlos … He looked up. “What you do? Please!”

  Carlos said, “What if we get up there on the sidewalk and he—”

  “He’s an old man,” said Finch. “They know this around here. He’s ill. You’re helping him. Traffic is very light just now. You’ll have no trouble once you get him around the corner.”

  “Please,” mumbled Angelo.

  Carlos took Angelo’s coat from the hook, tossed it to him. “Gotta look natural. Put this on.”

  Finch produced a pistol with silencer from his coat pocket, held it on Paul, and opened the door. “No heroics, eh?”

  Paul swung his gaze from the gun to his uncle, watched Angelo slip into the coat and shuffle out the door. Carlos held Angelo’s arm. A cobweb smear marked Carlos’s sleeve.

  The door hid the smear as Finch closed it, gesturing with his pistol. “Now you have a reason to cooperate, eh?”

  Paul tried to swallow a lump in his throat. “You won’t let that punk hurt my uncle?”

  “Punk?” Finch rolled the cigar to the opposite corner of his mouth, smiled. It transformed his face into a roly-poly image of good humor—all but the eyes. “You are correct—he is a punk.” Finch nodded. “But as long as you remain reasonable, I will hold the punk in check. All right?”

  Paul looked away, saw the clock on the bench—3:00 PM. If delivery time is three thirty … He turned back to Finch with the abrupt certainty that the man meant to kill him and Angelo. This kind won’t leave anyone alive who can positively identify them. What are two more murders to men who’d plan the cold-blooded killing of that guard across the street?

  “You must have work to do,” said Finch. He slipped the hand with the gun back into his pocket. “Everything must appear natural. We would not want to excite the suspicion of a chance customer, eh?”

  Paul’s mouth felt dry,
his throat raw. He turned, headed for the bench, thinking, Could I slip notes in some of the shoes that’ll be picked up today? But we only have a half hour, maybe!

  Finch slipped past him, moving swiftly for such a fat man, glanced out the window above the bench, back to Paul, examined the area around the bench, again looked at Paul. “I will wait up front, young man. You will not try anything foolish, eh? You will remember the old uncle outside there with the punk?”

  “Sure,” grated Paul.

  “Good.” Again, Finch took on the image of roly-poly good humor. “Then I will assume the pose of the patient customer waiting for shoes.” He returned to the front.

  And Paul stood at the bench, thinking, I just let Carlos walk out of here with Uncle Angie. How do I know what that punk will do to him? He felt sudden desperation. And all I can do is stand here thinking about notes in shoes! He turned, glared at Finch, who stood by the front windows.

  “Natural, remember?” said Finch. “Do your work.” He glanced up the stairwell. “Ah-hah!”

  Carlos came down the steps, let himself in, and closed the door. He appeared out of breath, perspiration dotting his forehead. The cobweb was gone from his sleeve.

  “No problems?” asked Finch.

  “He’s all tucked away,” said Carlos. He brushed a sleeve, straightened his tie, and shot a glance at Paul.

  “And you did the old man no harm?” persisted Finch.

  “Harm? Oh … no. Of course not. Just taped him up like you said.”

  “Good!” Finch produced his smile. “You see, the young lad back there worries about his uncle. But as long as he remains reasonable, he has no cause to worry, eh?”

  And Paul thought hysterically, Yeah! No cause!

  “We have a few details to take care of,” said Finch. He pulled something from his left pocket, handed it to Carlos. “The silencer for the rifle.”

  “Yeah.” Carlos looked at Finch’s coat. “You got the rifle under that?”

  Finch glanced out the front, then back to Carlos. “Stand here and keep watch. We must be sure that no one sees this.” He moved behind the counter, unbuttoning his overcoat.

  Carlos stared up the stairwell. “All clear.”

  Finch turned his back on Paul, fumbled under the overcoat. Something clicked. He pulled a rifle from beneath the coat, pushed it back on the long shelf beneath the counter.