"You'll stay in bed whether you want to or not," Charles told her.
"You're a sick woman."
"I'm a very bad-tempered woman and that means I'm convalescent. Ask
anybody."
"I'll go right out into the street and do that, darling."
She got out of bed and wrapped Oliver's dressing gown around her. "I'm
hungry again," she said.
"He'll be back soon. You've left nothing but some frozen--worms, looks
like. Shall I defrost them?"
"Please don't trouble. I can wait."
"Window!" he snapped.
She ducked back and swore again, this time at herself. "Sorry," she
said. "Which will do us a whole hell of a lot of good if somebody saw me
and started wondering."
Oliver came in with packages. Lee kissed him and he grinned shyly.
"Trout," he whispered. She grabbed the packages and flew to the
kitchenette.
"The way to Lee Falcaro's heart," Charles mused. "How's your throat,
Ken?"
"No pain, today," Oliver whispered. "Latham says I can talk as much as I
like. And I've got things to talk about." He opened his coat and hauled
out a flat package that had been stuffed under his belt. "Stolen from
the factory. Brushes, pens, tubes of ink, drawing instruments. My
friends, you are going to return to Syndic Territory in style, with
passes and permits galore."
Lee returned. "Trout's frying," she said. "I heard that about the
passes. Are you _sure_ you can fake them?"
His face fell. "Eight years at the Chicago Art Institute," he whispered.
"Three years at Original Reproductions, Inc. Eleven years at Picasso
Oils and Etchings, where I am now third figure man in the Blue
Department. I really think I deserve your confidence."
"Ken, we trust and love you. If it weren't for the difference in your
ages I'd marry you _and_ Charles. Now what about the Chicagoans? Hold
it--the fish!"
Dinner was served and cleared away before they could get more out of
Oliver. His throat wasn't ready for more than one job at a time. He told
them at last: "Things are quieting down. There are still some strangers
in town and the road patrols are still acting very hard-boiled. But
nobody's been pulled in today. Somebody told me on the line that the
whole business is a lot of foolishness. He said the ship must have been
damaged by somebody's stupidity and Regan must have been killed in a
brawl--everybody knows he was half crazy, like his father. So my friend
figures they made up the story about two wild Europeans to cover up a
mess. I said I thought there was a lot in what he said." Oliver laughed
silently.
"Good man!" Charles tried not to act over-eager. "When do you think you
can start on the passes, Ken?"
Oliver's face dropped a little. "Tonight," he whispered. "I don't
suppose the first couple of tries will be any good so--let's go."
Lee put her hand on his shoulder. "We'll miss you too," she said. "But
don't ever forget this: we're coming back. Hell won't stop us. We're
coming back."
Oliver was arranging stolen instruments on the table. "You have a big
order," he whispered sadly. "I guess you aren't afraid of it because
you've always been rich and strong. Anything you want to do you think
you can do. But those Government people? And after them the Mob? Maybe
it would be better if you just let things take their course, Lee. I've
found out a person can be happy even here."
"We're coming back," Lee said.
Oliver took out his own Michigan City-Chicago travel permit. As always,
the sight of it made Charles wince. Americans under such a yoke! Oliver
whispered: "I got a good long look today at a Michigan City Buffalo
permit. The foreman's. He buys turps from Carolina at Buffalo. I
sketched it from memory as soon as I got by myself. I don't swear to it,
not yet, but I have the sketch to practice from and I can get a few more
looks later."
He pinned down the drawing paper, licked a ruling pen and filled it, and
began to copy the border of his own pass. "I don't suppose there's
anything I can do?" Lee asked.
"You can turn on the audio," Oliver whispered. "They have it going all
the time at the shop. I don't feel right working unless there's some
music driving me out of my mind."
Lee turned on the big Hawthorne Electric set with a wave of her hand;
imbecillic music filled the air and Oliver grunted and settled down.
Lee and Charles listened, fingers entwined, to half an hour of slushy
ballads while Oliver worked. The news period announcer came on with some
anesthetic trial verdicts, sports results and society notes about which
Regan had gone where. Then--
"The local Mobsters of Michigan City, Indiana, today welcomed Maurice
Regan to their town. Mr. Regan will assume direction of efforts to
apprehend the two European savages who murdered James Regan IV last
month aboard the ore boat _Hon. John Regan_ in waters off Michigan City.
You probably remember that the Europeans did some damage to the vessel's
reactor room before they fled from the ship. How they boarded the ship
and their present whereabouts are mysteries--but they probably won't be
mysteries long. Maurice Regan is little-known to the public, but he has
built an enviable record in the administration of the Chicago Police
Department. Mr. Regan on taking charge of the case, said this: 'We know
by traces found on the Dunes that they got away. We know from the logs
of highway patrols that they didn't get out of the Michigan City area.
The only way to close the books on this matter fast is to cover the city
with a fine-tooth comb. Naturally and unfortunately this will mean
inconvenience to many citizens. I hope they will bear with the
inconveniences gladly for the sake of confining those two savages in a
place where they can no longer be a menace. I have methods of my own and
there may be complaints. Reasonable suggestions will be needed, but with
crackpots I have no patience.'"
The radio began to spew more sports results. Oliver turned and waved at
it to be silent. "I don't like that," he whispered. "I never heard of
this Regan in the Chicago Police."
"They said he wasn't in the public eye."
"I wasn't the public. I did some posters for the police and I knew who
was who. And that bit at the end. I've heard things like it before. The
Mob doesn't often admit it's in the wrong, you know. When they try to
disarm criticism in advance ... this Regan must be a rough fellow."
Charles and Lee Falcaro looked at each other in sudden fear. "We don't
want to hurry you, Ken," she said. "But it looks as though you'd better
do a rush job."
Nodding, Oliver bent over the table. "Maybe a week," he said hopefully.
With the finest pen he traced the curlicues an engraving lathe had
evolved to make the passes foolproof. Odd, he thought--the lives of
these two hanging by such a weak thing as the twisted thread of color
that feeds from pen to paper. And, as an afterthought--I suppose mine
does too.
* * * * *
Oliver came back the next day to work with concentrated fury, barely
stopping to eat and not stopping to talk. Lee got it out of him, but not
easily. After being trapped in a half dozen contradictions about feeling
well and having a headache, about his throat being sore and the pain
having gone, he put down his pen and whispered steadily: "I didn't want
you to worry friends. But it looks bad. There is a new crowd in town.
Twenty couples have been pulled in by them--_couples_ to prove who they
were. Maybe fifty people have been pulled in for questioning--what do
you know about this, what do you know about that. And they've begun
house searches. Anybody you don't like, you tell the new Regan about
him. Say he's sheltering Europeans. And his people pull them in. Why,
everybody wants to know, are they pulling in couples who are obviously
American if they're looking for Europeans? And, everybody says, they've
never seen anything like it. Now--I think I'd better get back to work."
"Yes," Lee said. "I think you had."
Charles was at the window, peering around the drawn blind. "Look at
that," he said to Lee. She came over. A big man on the street below was
walking, very methodically down the street.
"I will bet you," Charles said, "that he'll be back this way in ten
minutes or so--and so on through the night."
"I won't take the bet," she said. "He's a sentry, all right. The Mob's
learning from their friends across the water. Learning too damned much.
They must be all over town."
They watched at the window and the sentry was back in ten minutes. On
his fifth tour he stopped a young couple going down the street studied
their faces, drew a gun on them and blew a whistle. A patrol came and
took them away; the girl was hysterical. At two in the morning, the
sentry was relieved by another, just as big and just as dangerous
looking. At two in the morning they were still watching and Oliver was
still hunched over the table tracing exquisite filigree of color.
* * * * *
In five days, virtually without sleep, Oliver finished two Michigan
City-Buffalo travel permits. The apartment house next door was hit by
raiders while the ink dried; Charles and Lee Falcaro stood waiting
grotesquely armed with kitchen knives. But it must have been a tip
rather than part of the search plan crawling nearer to their end of
town. The raiders did not hit their building.
Oliver had bought clothes according to Lee's instructions--including two
men's suits, Oliver's size. One she let out for Charles; the other she
took in for herself. She instructed Charles minutely in how he was to
behave, on the outside. First he roared with incredulous laughter; Lee,
wise, in psychology assured him that she was perfectly serious. Oliver,
puzzled by his naivete, assured him that such things were not
uncommon--not at least in Mob Territory. Charles then roared with
indignation and Lee roared him down. His last broken protest was: "But
what'll I do if somebody takes me up on it?"
She shrugged, washing her hands of the matter, and went on trimming and
dying her hair.
It was morning when she kissed Oliver good-bye, said to Charles: "See
you at the station. Don't say good-bye," and walked from the apartment,
a dark-haired boy with a slight limp. Charles watched her down the
street. A cop turned to look after her and then went on his way.
Half an hour later Charles shook hands with Oliver and went out.
Oliver didn't go to work that day. He sat all day at the table, drawing
endless slow sketches of Lee Falcaro's head.
Time the Great Kidder, he thought. He opens the door that shows you in
the next room tables of goodies, colorful and tasty, men and women
around the tables pleasantly surprised to see you, beckoning to you to
join the feast. We have roast beef if you're serious, we have caviar if
you're experimental, we have baked alaska if you're frivolous--join the
feast; try a little bit of everything. So you start toward the door.
Time, the Great Kidder, pulls the rug from under your feet and slams the
door while the guests at the feast laugh their heads off at your painful
but superficial injuries.
Oliver slowly drew Lee's head for the fifteenth time and wished he dared
to turn on the audio for the news. Perhaps he thought, the next voice
you hear will be the cops at the door.