Schiml's eyebrows went up. "I see. That's a big word. Maybe you can
support it."
"I can. There are Mercy Men here. There have been for several years."
"You're sure of that."
"Quite. I know one. He was a skid-rower with a taste for morphine when
I first ran into him--a champagne appetite to go with a beer income.
Then he went out of circulation for about six months. Now he has a
place up in the Catskills, with many, many thousands of dollars in the
bank. Of course, he uses the money to feed several hundred cats in his
basement." Jeff's eyes narrowed. "He never liked cats very much before
he left here. There are other funny things he does--nothing serious, of
course, but peculiar. Still, he doesn't need the dope any more."
Schiml smiled and put his fingers together. "That would be Luke
Tandy. Yes, Luke was a little different when he left, but the work was
satisfactory and we paid off."
"Yes," said Jeff softly. "One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Cash
on the line. To him or his heirs. He was lucky."
"So what are you doing here?"
"I want a hundred and fifty thousand dollars too."