"Yes, yes, of course." The man's voice was sharp, and there were tired
lines around his eyes. "Take it easy, Jeff. You wouldn't be able to get
him if he did come in--the way you are. He'd spot you in two seconds."
Jeff's hand trembled as he gripped his glass, and he settled tensely
back in his chair. "It can't go wrong, Ted. It's got to come off."
"It should. The girl is here and she got word from him last night."
"Can she be trusted?"
The sandy-haired man shrugged. "Don't be silly. In this game, nobody
can be trusted. If she's scared enough, she'll play along--okay? We've
done our best to scare her. We've scared the hell out of her. Maybe
she's more scared of Conroe--I don't know. But it looks cold to me. On
a platter. So get a grip on yourself."
"It's got to come off." Jeff growled the words savagely, and drained
his glass at a gulp. The sandy-haired man blinked, his pale little
eyes curious. He leaned back thoughtfully. "Suppose it doesn't, Jeff?
Suppose something goes wrong? Then what?"
Jeff's heavy hand caught the man's wrist in a grip that was like a
vise. "You don't talk like that," he grated. "Your men I don't mind,
but not you--understand? It can't go wrong. That's all there is to it.
No if's, no maybe's. You got that now?"
Ted rubbed his wrist, his face red. "All right," he muttered. "So it
can't go wrong. So I shouldn't talk, I shouldn't ask questions. But if
it does go wrong, you're going to be dead. Do you know that? Because
you're killing yourself with this--" He sighed, staring at Meyer.
"What's it worth, Jeff? This constant tearing yourself apart? You've
been obsessed with it for years. I know, I've been working with you and
watching you for the last five of them--five long years of hunting. And
for what? To get a man and kill him. That's all. What's it worth?"
Jeff took a deep breath and took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket.
"Drive a nail," he said, offering the pack. "And don't worry about me.
Worry about Conroe. He's the one who'll be dead."
Ted shrugged and took the smoke. "Okay. But if this blows up, I'm
through. Because this is all I can take."
"Nothing will blow up. I'll get him. If I don't get him now, I'll get
him the next time, or the next, or the next. With or without you, I'll
get him." Jeff took a trembling breath, his gray eyes cold under heavy
black brows. "But there hadn't better be any next time."
He sat back in his chair, his face falling into the lines so familiar
to Ted Bahr. Jeff Meyer had been a handsome man, before the long years
of hate had done their work on his face. He was a huge, powerfully
built man, heavy-shouldered, with a strong neck and straight nose, and
a shock of jet black hair, neatly clipped. Only his face showed the
bitterness of the past five years--years filled with anger and hatred,
and a growing savagery which had driven the man almost to the breaking
point.
The lines about his eyes and mouth were cruel--heavy lines that had
been carved deeply and indelibly into the strong face, giving it a
harsh, almost brutal cast in the dim light of the bistro. He breathed
regularly and slowly as he sat, but his pale eyes were ice-hard as they
moved slowly across the little show floor. They took in every face,
every movement in the growing throng.
He was out of place and he knew it. He had no use for the giddy,
half-hysterical people who crowded these smoke-filled holes night after
night. They came in droves from the heart of the city to drink the
watery gin and puff frantically on the contraband cigarettes as they
tried desperately to drive off the steam and pressure of their daily
lives.
Meyer hated the smell and stuffiness of the place; he hated the loud
screams of laughter, the idiotic giggles; he hated the blubbering
alky-sikys who crowded the bars with their whisky and their strange,
unearthly dream-worlds. Above all, he hated the horrible, resounding
artificiality, the brassiness and clanging noise of the crowd. His skin
crawled. He knew that he couldn't possibly disappear into such a crowd,
that he was as obvious, sitting there, as if he had been painted with
red polka dots. And he knew that if Conroe spotted him a second before
he spotted Conroe--He eased back in the chair and fought for control of
his trembling hands.
The lights dimmed suddenly and a huge red spotlight caught the curtain
at the back of the show floor. Jeff heard Bahr catch his breath for a
moment, then let out a small, uneasy sigh. The crowd hushed as the girl
parted the curtains and stepped out onto the middle of the floor, to a
fanfare of tinny music. Jeff's eyes widened as they followed her to the
center of the red light.
"That's her."