I stood up. Tony was a darned good-looking chap, about my age, with very
dark hair, somewhat curly, and a flash of white teeth for a smile. I
told him I was pleased to meet him.
"Move over," Anita directed, stepping smartly around my desk and giving
my elbow a sharp yank. "You sit behind the desk, Tony. Now try to look
like a big wheel, for heaven's sake."
"I _am_ a big wheel," Tony protested. "In the used 'copter racket."
Anita was already reaching up to push down on my shoulders. "Won't you
sit down?" she demanded. She had me in one of the comfortable chairs I
have in my office for callers, rather off to one side. She put herself
down in the chair across my desk from Tony Carlucci, as though she were
getting instructions.
He didn't need much hinting. "Tell the bulls we're gonna clean up the
District," he started, waving his hands around. "No more poker. No more
dice. No more Sneaky Pete." I'd never heard of that.
"Shut up!" Anita said. "He'll be here any instant."
Fred was as good as her word. He was holding the door for his telepath
within seconds. Tony Carlucci stopped hamming it up and straightened
importantly in my chair. I had to admit that Anita had found a guy who,
superficially, resembled me more than a little. No one who knew either
of us would ever mistake one for the other, but our general descriptions
were quite similar.
The woman who came in not only was a gypsy, she was dressed as a gypsy.
Her blouse was white, and quite frilly. She had on a billowing red
skirt, liberally encrusted with embroidered beads of a darker red. The
tattered hem of a petticoat hung below it. Her hair had been dark once,
but it was shot with threads of silver. There was a lot of it, and piled
up high so that her ears were exposed. They had pierced lobes, and heavy
gold rings hung from them.
Instinctively I closed my mind as tight as a clam. The mere sight of a
telepath triggers that reaction. Fred closed the door behind him,
continuing to stand just behind his captive. She glanced briefly at me
and then looked for a longer moment at Tony Carlucci, behind my desk.
"Joe," she said to him. "Joe, don't let them do this to me!"
I don't know how much coaching Anita had given Carlucci, but he knew
enough to call her "mother." And I knew enough to watch Fred Plaice the
instant Tony said: "Oh, mother! Why the devil couldn't you keep out of
sight!"
Fred was one mighty confused looking boy. The two-bit word is
consternation. He had it. Anita had given him the business.
"I'm sorry, madame," I said standing and walking over to where Tony was
emoting, with the back of his hand pressed to his eyes. "We threw you a
curve. Meet Mr. Tony Carlucci." Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "And I,
madame, am Joseph Tinker."
"Joe!" she cried, or wailed is a better word, and threw herself around
the desk to seize me in her arms. She smelled faintly of garlic, oregano
and some kind of incense, maybe sandalwood. A nice clean gypsy smell.
Cleaner than a lot of gypsies I can think of.
Fred pulled her off me, not too gently. I'd say he was a little sore
about something. Anita's eyes were slits of fury.
"Thanks, Tony," I said. "See you around."
"Honest Tony Carlucci," he said. "If you need a used 'copter, Joe, jet
on down to my dock. Nothing down. Listen, I got one that was never used
except in the spring by a little old lady who gave up walking for Lent.
I'll tell you what I'll do--"
"Wasting your time," Anita told him. "The Government provides Mr. Tinker
with any kind of transportation he needs. A thousand thanks, Tony. I
won't forget--" The rest was cut off as she gave him one of the more
polite bum's rushes. I think he would have liked to hang around to see
the rest of our little amateur theatrical.
* * * * *
Fred had his grin going. "Couldn't get the drift for a minute, Gyp," he
said, clapping me on the shoulder. "Nice work! Now I know why I get such
a kick out of working for you!" He whirled on Maude Tinker. "And you,
you foolish old biddy! How far do you think you would get with an act
like this against another telepath?"
She spat a curse at him in Romany. "So smart!" she sneered. "There isn't
another telepath in the city of Washington!"
That was a laugh. For its own safety the F.B.I. has its own gang of tame
TP's--they are all, of course, exceptionally short-range telepaths, and
we practically keep them under lock and key to make sure some important
thoughts don't leak in and out of their diseased minds.
"Send in Freeda Sayer," I said, leaning down to press the intercommute.
Freeda is a thick-ankled, thick-headed telepath. But stupid or not, she
is telepathic, and _is_ an acid test in these cases.
"Is this woman a telepath?" I asked Freeda, when she stumped in.
Freeda looked at Maude Tinker, her mouth hanging a little open. She
snuffled and walked quite close to the gypsy woman. "Yeah," she said.
"She knows I'm thinking her hem is torn." She turned her head with that
low-thyroid slowness to me. "Is that all, Mr. Tinker?" she asked.