I was hoping Aunt Gretchen hadn't heard the question because she would
fail to understand that while his words were uncouth, he had a heart of
gold and meant well. And I don't think she _did_ hear him. She didn't
even hear Joy, who replied,
"That's the dame that owns the joint."
Aunt Gretchen fixed her accusing eyes upon me to the exclusion of
everyone else. Her button of a chin quivered. "Please understand,
Homer--I'm not criticizing. Things have gotten past that stage. I've
merely come to report that the house is filling up with an astounding
assortment of characters. Johnson resigned a half-hour ago. But before
he left, he suggested a man who could handle the situation far better
than he himself. A man named Frank Buck."
"But, my dear aunt," I protested. "There must be some mistake. I did not
invite any unusual people to this reception. I issued only three
invitations. I invited Willie Shank, who could not come because of a
dispute with the police over the ownership of a car he was driving
yesterday; John Smith, who could not come because this is the day he
reports to the parole board, and my good friend Bag Ears Mulligan."
"How did you happen to overlook Red Nose Tessie?" Joy asked.
"The poor woman is emotional. She does not enjoy wedding receptions. She
weeps."
"So does Aunt Gretchen," Joy observed.
Aunt Gretchen was indeed weeping--quietly, under the blanket of reserve
with which the Nicholases cover their emotions. I was about to comfort
her when she turned and fled. I started to run after her but decided
against it and returned to Joy.
"Perhaps," I said, "we had better investigate this strange turn of
events. Possibly our reception has been crashed by some undesirable
persons."
"Impossible," Joy replied. "But it might be fun to look them over. Shall
we have a quick one first--just to stiffen the old spine a bit?"
It sounded like a good suggestion so we stiffened our spines with what
was left in the bottle, and quitted the conservatory.
* * * * *
Back in the house, one thing became swiftly apparent. We had guests who
were utter strangers to me. But it was Bag Ears who summed up the
situation with the briefest possible statement. "Jees!" he ejaculated.
"It's a crooks' convention!"
"You can identify some of these intruders?"
"If you mean do I know 'em, the answer is without a doubt, pal. Somehow,
the whole Cement Mixer Zinsky mob has infiltered into the joint."
"Cement Mixer Zinsky," Joy murmured. "Another of those odd names."
"It's on account of he invented something. Zinsky was the first gee to
think up a very novel way of getting rid of people that crowd you. He
got the idea to mix up a tub of cement--place the unwanted character's
feet in same and then throw the whole thing into the lake. Result--no
more crowding by that guy."
"He was the first one who thought of it? A sort of trail blazer."
"Of course Cement Mixer is a big shot now and his boys take care of
things like that. But sometimes he goes along to mix the cement--just to
keep his hand in you might say."
"A sentimentalist no doubt."
"No doubt," Bag Ears agreed.
I patted Joy's hand and said, "Don't be alarmed, darling. I will take
care of everything."
The situation was definitely obnoxious to me. Tolerance of one's fellow
men is one thing, but this was something entirely different. These
people had come uninvited to our festive board and were of the criminal
element, pure and unadulterated by any instincts of honesty or decency.
And it made me angry to see them wading into Aunt Gretchen's liquor
supply as though the stuff came out of a pump.
They were easy to count, these hoodlums, segregated as they were. The
more respectable of the guests who had not already left, were clustered
together in one corner of the living room, possibly as a gesture toward
self-protection. None of these elite were making any effort to approach
the buffet or the portable bar at the other side of the room. And in
thus refraining, they showed a superior brand of intelligence. Under
present circumstances any attempt to reach the refreshments would have
been as dangerous as crossing the Hialeah race track on crutches.
In fact, as I surveyed the scene, one brave lady made a half-hearted
attempt to cross over and spear a sandwich off the corner of the buffet.
She was promptly shoved out of range by a lean, hungry-looking customer
in a pink shirt, who snarled, "Scram, Three Chins! You're overfed now."
Unhooking Joy's dear fingers from my arm, I said, "You will pardon me,
but it is time for action. Bag Ears will see that you are not harmed."
I started toward the buffet, or rather toward the crowd of male and
female hoodlums who completely blocked it from my sight. But Bag Ears
snatched me by the sleeve and whispered,
"For cri-yi, Homer! Don't be a fool! This mob is loaded wid hardware.
They don't horse around none. Start slugging and they'll dress you in
red polka dots. Better call in some law."
I shook my head firmly and pulled Bag Ears' hand from my sleeve. But,
his attention now turned in another direction, he held on even harder
and muttered,
"Jeeps! I'm seeing things!"
I glanced around and saw him staring wide-eyed at the entrance hall, his
battered mouth ajar. I followed his eyes but could see nothing unusual.
Only the hall itself, through an arched doorway, and the lower section
of the staircase that gave access to the second floor of the house. It
appeared to be the least-troubled spot in view. I frowned at Bag Ears.
"Maybe I've gone nuts," he said, "but I'll swear I just saw a face
peeking down around them stairs."
"Whose face?"
"Hands McCaffery's face! That's whose!"
"And who is Hands McCaffery?"
Bag Ears looked at me with stark unbelief. "You mean you don't know?
Maybe your mom didn't give you the facts of life! Chum, they's two
really tough monkeys in this town. One of them is Cement Mixer Zinsky
and the other is Hands McCaffery. At the moment they're slugging it out
to see which one gets to levy a head tax on the juke boxes in this
section. It's a sweet take and neither boy will be satisfied with less
than all. Seeing them both in one place is like seeing Truman and that
music critic sit down at the piano together. And I know damn well that
Hands is up on them stairs!"
"You are obviously overwrought. If I have this type of person sized up
correctly, none of them would be dallying on the stairs. If this Hands
person were here, he'd be at the buffet fighting for a helping of
pickled beets and a gin wash. Pardon me--I have work to do."
But there was another interruption. I froze in sudden alarm when I
realized Joy was no longer at my side. Just as I made this discovery,
there was an upsurge of commotion at the bar; a commotion that went head
and shoulders over the minor ones going on constantly. A short angry
scream came to my ears, then a bull-voiced roar of agony.
* * * * *
The crowd at the buffet surged back and I saw a bucktoothed hooligan
bent double, both hands gripping his ankle. Thick moans came from his
lips.
And standing close to him was my Joy. But a new Joy. A different Joy
than I had ever seen. A glorious Joy, with her head thrown back, her
teeth showing, and the light of battle in her eyes. She was holding a
plate of jello in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other and was
shouting in outraged dignity.
"Watch who you're shoving, you jug-headed gorilla! And keep your mitts
out of the herring! Eat like a man or go back to the zoo!"
With that she placed an accurate kick against the offending character's
other shine-bone and aimed the beer bottle at his skull.
Joy turned and smiled gayly. "He pushed me," she said. "It's the most
wonderful wedding reception I ever attended. Have a pickle."
But surprise was piling upon surprise. Again I froze as a new phase of
this horrible affair presented itself.
Uncle Peter.
Clad in apron and cap, he was behind the bar serving out drinks. This
shook me to the core. It was a little like seeing Barney Baruch hit a
three-bagger in Yankee Stadium and slide into third base.
But there he was, taking orders and dishing out drinks with an attitude
as solemn and impersonal as an owl on a tree branch.
Also, he had an assistant--his blonde bombshell. She was fully dressed
now and I was struck by the peculiar manner in which this peculiar team
functioned.
Uncle Peter would mix a drink, glance at his wrist watch as he served
it, then turn and whisper some sort of information to the girl. She
noted it down in a small book and the routine was repeated.
At this exact moment, I felt a sharp dig in the ribs. This brought my
attention back to Joy, who had done the digging.
"I'm still here, husband mine. Your bride--remember? Or are you waiting
for that blonde hussy to start stripping?"
"Darling, I'm afraid you're not paying close attention to things of
importance. Don't you see Uncle Peter there--serving drinks?"
"Of course I see him. What of it? If the old roue feels like dishing
out a little alcohol to the boys, what--"
"It's absolutely beyond all conception. Uncle Peter never does anything
without a good reason. And _this_--"
My reply was cut short by a cold, brutal voice that knifed through the
room and put a chill on all present. "Hold it, everybody! Stand still
and don't move a finger!"
Not a finger in the room moved. But all eyes turned toward the arched
doorway leading to the entrance hall. In its exact center, there stood a
man--a short man of slight stature. He stood spread-legged, wearing a
colored kerchief over the lower part of his face. Only his eyes were
visible--icy, black, narrowed. Those eyes seemed to be smiling a grim
smile. Possibly his hidden teeth were bared in a snarl. But no one cared
about that. Everyone was far more interested in the black Thompson
sub-machine gun he held cradled over one arm.
He toyed with the trigger, knifing the room with quick side glances. He
said, "Okay. Start sorting yourselves out. You, pretty boy, and the
frail with the beer bottle--out of the line of fire." He motioned with
the gun barrel and I drew Joy toward the wall.
"Now you, Cora--and old puddle-puss. Out of the way. And not a peep out
of anybody."
No one was inclined to peep, and now the stage was set in a manner which
seemed to satisfy the masked gunman. The Cement Mixer Zinsky crowd was
clustered, cowering, around the buffet, staring at the machine gun as
though it possessed the hypnotic eyes of a snake.
The situation was entirely plain. The masked man fully intended to break
the law by committing murder in Aunt Gretchen's living room. The only
moot point seemed to be whether he intended to slay the whole mob or be
selective and cut down only important members. His trigger finger turned
white at the knuckle.
Then Uncle Peter stepped forward to hold up a protesting hand. "You
mustn't fire that weapon, my good fellow. Indeed you must not."
His matter-of-fact attitude, rather than his words, was what gave the
gunman pause. He had hardly expected the display of completely
impersonal bravery that Uncle Peter put on. The gunman asked, "Are you
nuts, fiddlefoot?"
"Far from it. But you must not, under any circumstances, fire that gun.
It will upset one of the most important experiments in the history of
science. That experiment is now in progress."
"Look, brother. I came here to mow down Zinsky and his mob. And I'm
mowing. The St. Valentine's deal in Chi'll look like a Sunday school
binge after this one."
"Possibly it will not be necessary to use your weapon."
* * * * *
Uncle Peter's words, it seemed, were prophetic. At that exact moment,
Cement Mixer Zinsky exploded. Not violently, or with any peril to those
standing close by. Yet no other term can describe it. There was a soft
pop--as though a large, poorly inflated balloon had been pricked with a
pin. Zinsky seemed to go in all directions--fragments of him that is.
Yet, as each fragment flew away from the main body, it shriveled up so
that there was no blood, and no bystander suffered the inconvenience of
messed-up clothing. Just the _pop_ and Zinsky expanded like a human bomb
and then turned into dust.
As this phenomenon occurred I saw Uncle Peter nod with great
satisfaction and consult a passage in the book presided over by his
blonde assistant. He made a check mark in the book.
Then a second member of the buffet group went _pop_. The masked man
stared in slack-jawed wonder. In fact his jaw went so slack the kerchief
dropped away revealing his entire visage. He lowered his head and looked
down at the gun in his hands; the gun that had not been fired.
Two more members of Zinsky's party followed him into whatever oblivion
was achieved by going _pop_ and dissolving into dust. Uncle Peter
evinced bright interest and made two more check marks in the book.
The balance of the mob moved as one, but in many directions. They paid
no attention to their own weapons as they headed for cover. One of their
number exploded as he was halfway through the French doors. Uncle Peter
checked him off and Bag Ears said, "Jeeps! tomorrow every juke box in
town can play 'Nearer my God to Thee.'" Then he added, "Leave us blow
this joint. Goofy things is happening here. I don't like it."
I was perspiring. I mopped my forehead. "A most amazing occurrence," I
observed.
Joy was digging the fingers on one hand into my arm. I had been watching
Hands McCaffery back crestfallen out of the living room and toward the
front door, terrific slaughter having been accomplished without the
firing of a shot. I turned my eyes now to follow the direction in which
Joy pointed with her other hand and saw the blonde assistant hauling
Uncle Peter through one of the French windows. He did not seem to be
enthusiastic about leaving. In fact he appeared to argue quite
strenuously against it, but her will prevailed and they disappeared out
onto the lawn.
Now, with all the danger past, people began fainting in wholesale lots.
Aunt Gretchen was resting comfortably with her head braced against the
brass rail of the portable bar. Those who didn't faint contributed
variously intonated screams to the general unrest. And over all this
brooded the dank clouds of acrid dust that had so lately been Cement
Mixer Zinsky and certain members of his mob. Indeed, the scene took on a
startling semblance to one of Dore's etchings in an old edition of
Dante's Inferno.
"I repeat," Bag Ears bleated plaintively. "Leave us blow this joint. It
ain't healthy here."
"He's right," Joy said. "A lot of explanation is wanting. There are some
people we've got to catch up with. Let's go."
With that, she drew Bag Ears and me toward the French doors through
which had recently passed some of the fastest moving objects in this or
any other world. We made the flag-stone terrace above the drive where
Bag Ears cordially grasped my hand and said,
"Well, it was a nice party, folks, and if I ever get spliced I'll sure
give you a invite and I sure had a swell time and remember me to your
aunt when she wakes up and--"
He was backing down the steps when Joy cut in with, "Bag Ears. Don't be
so rude. You're in no hurry."
Bag Ears slowed down and allowed us to catch up with him. He gave us a
sickly smile. "That's where you're wrong, babe."
"Bag Ears," Joy went on. "I heard you whisper to Homer that you know who
that blonde is."
"What blonde? Me? I don't know nothing about no blonde no-how."
"Don't hedge. I mean the girl who was assisting Uncle Peter behind the
bar. Who is she, really?"
"Oh--her. Everybody knows her. She's Hands McCaffery's moll. He likes
'em blonde and--"
Bag Ears was on the move again, striding in the direction of the gate.
We hurried to catch up. "That babe's poison," he told us. "Any skirt
that'd flock with Hands McCaffery is poison. I'll tell you kids what I'd
do. If she drives south--I'd drive north. Goodbye now."
Just at that moment a big blue sports roadster pushed a bright chromium
nose around the corner of the house. I took a firm grip on Bag Ears'
collar, grabbed Joy by the arm, and the three of us leaped behind a
bush. The car rolled past us. We saw the blonde behind the wheel and
Uncle Peter seated beside her, evidently still protesting the hasty
exodus.
* * * * *
But the girl looked very sharp and businesslike; the way a girl would
look who knew where she was going and why. The car picked up speed and
swung north.
"I wonder," Joy murmured, "how Uncle Peter happened to select Hands
McCaffery's girl friend as his assistant."
"She was a burlycue queen last time I heard of her," Bag Ears said.
"Still is, I guess."
"That could explain it," I told Joy. "You see, Uncle Peter has--ah,
facets to his personality. A tendency to admire women. Ah--"
"Women--period; isn't that what you mean?"
"Well, it would be perfectly logical for Uncle Peter to select an
assistant from the stage of a burlesque theater."
"Enough of this," Joy snapped. "We're wasting time. Go get--oh, never
mind! Wait here."
Joy was off in the direction of the garage and in no time at all she was
back in my Cadillac convertible. As she sailed by I managed to hook a
finger around the door handle and get a foot inside.
This was no mean feat, as I was also occupied in hauling Bag Ears along
by the collar. I managed to deposit him in the seat beside Joy and
squeeze in beside him.
"A burlycue queen, eh?" Joy was muttering. "Well, she's not so much! If
she couldn't get her clothes off she'd starve to death."
"Darling," I said, "I don't think this is the sort of thing you should
be doing. It's far too dangerous for a girl."
"Or anybody else," Bag Ears moaned. There was a bleak look on his face.
"I don't like playing around with a guy like Hands McCaffery or friends
of a guy like him. It's a good way to collect your insurance."
"She's heading for Higgins Drive," Joy observed.
Which was entirely true. The roadster had made a turn on two wheels and
was going west.
"But our honeymoon," I said, plaintively.
"Yeah," Bag Ears repeated, "what about our--your honeymoon?"
Joy's eyes were sparkling. She turned them on me. The car lurched. She
returned her eyes to the road. "Yes, darling. Our honeymoon! Isn't it
wonderful?"
"But this isn't it! This isn't what people do on their honeymoons."
"Oh, you mean--but don't worry about that, darling. We'll have plenty of
time for--"
"Lemme out o' here," Bag Ears moaned. "I got a date to take Red Nose
Tessie to the movies."
Joy apparently did not hear him. "I wish we had all the parts to this
puzzle. It looks as though somebody put somebody on the spot for a
rubout. But it would seem that somebody else got the same idea but
didn't know that somebody else was going to achieve the same result in a
more spectacular way and--"
"I think you've figured it out most accurately."
"Some of it fits together. Uncle Peter was no doubt responsible for the
Zinsky boys coming to our reception. We'll get the dope on that when we
catch up with him. But the blonde must not have known what was going to
happen, so she tipped Hands off that he could find the whole Zinsky mob
at the reception. He decided it would be a good place to settle certain
matters of his own."
"But why did Uncle Peter want them there?"
Joy glanced at me with love in her eyes. "Darling, we're going to be
wonderful companions through life, but most of the fun will be strictly
physical. Mental exercises aren't your forte."
"When Red Nose Tessie makes a date with a guy," Bag Ears said, "she
expects the guy to keep it."
"The blonde Cora is no doubt heading for a rendezvous with Hands
McCaffery," Joy went on. "And she's taking our dear uncle with her."
"Okay," Bag Ears replied. "So we mind our business and keep our noses
clean and live a long time."
Joy was weaving through traffic, trying to keep the roadster in sight.
"Turn on the radio," she told me. "There might be some news."
I snapped the switch and we discovered there was news indeed; an evening
commentator regaling the public with the latest:
"--an amazing mass phenomena which leading scientific minds have
pronounced to be basically similar to the flying-saucer craze. Relative
to that--you will remember--otherwise reliable citizens swore they saw
space ships from other planets hovering over our cities spying on us.
"This phase of the hysteria takes an entirely different turn. It seems
now that these otherwise entirely reliable citizens are seeing other
citizens explode and vanish into thin air. The police and the newspapers
have been deluged with frantic telephone calls. In the public interest,
we have several persons here in the studio who claim to have seen this
phenomena. Your commentator will now interview them over the air.
You--you, sir--what is your name?"
"Sam--Sam Glutz."
"Thank you, Mr. Glutz. And will you tell the radio audience what you
saw?"
"It wasn't nothing--nothing at all. That is--this guy was running down
the street like maybe the cops was after him--I don't know. Then--there
wasn't nothing."
"You mean the man disappeared?"
"He went pop, kind of--like a firecracker only not so loud--and then
pieces of him flew all over and they disappeared and there wasn't
nothing--nothing at all."
"Thank you, Mr. Glutz. And now this lady--"
"Turn it off," Joy snapped. "The blonde's pulling up."
* * * * *
This was evident to all three of us. "And by a cop yet," Bag Ears
marveled. "Looks like they're going to give theirselves up."
It was Uncle Peter who got out of the car and approached the traffic
officer standing at the intersection.
"What'll we do?" Joy asked. "Do you want to try and keep the old goat
out of jail or shall we let him go to the chair as he deserves?"
The possibility stunned me to a point where it was hard to think
clearly. "Good Lord, Joy! Think of the scandal! I don't care about
myself, but Aunt Gretchen would never live it down! She'd be
black-balled at all her clubs and--"
"Then," Joy replied sweetly, "I'd suggest you get out and slug that cop
quick and grab Uncle Peter before he makes a confession."
I had come to the cross-roads, so to speak. The necessity of a weighty
decision lay upon my shoulders. Was blood thicker than water? Was I
justified in breaking the law--assaulting an officer in order to keep my
uncle from becoming a blot on the family name?
I decided, grimly, that one owed all to one's relatives and I was
halfway out of the car. Then I paused. Uncle Peter did not seem to be
making a confession at all. He chatted easily with the officer and
indicated my Cadillac with a movement of his thumb. Something passed
from his hand to the hand of the policeman and the latter looked toward
us and scowled.
"Uncle Peter is pulling a fast one," Joy said. "The cop's coming after
_us_!"
I was uncertain as how to proceed now. I watched the scowling policeman
approach our car while Uncle Peter got back in with the blonde Cora and
drove away.
"Are you going to hang one on him, sweetheart?" Joy asked.
"What--what do you recommend?"
"I've got a hunch that if you don't, we go to the pokey and Uncle Peter
will be left free to blow up everybody in town."
I don't believe the officer meant to arrest us but at the moment my mind
wasn't too clear and I accepted Joy's point of view.
I doubled my fist as the officer approached. He wasted no time in
getting acquainted. He said, "How come you guys are tailing those guys?
You figuring a stickup or something?"
It was now or never. I hunched my right shoulder and aimed a stiff
knockout jolt at the officer's jaw. It wasn't too good a target because
he had a lantern jaw and it was bobbing up and down as he munched on a
wad of chewing gum.
But I did not connect. As my fist completed but half its lethal orbit,
the officer blew up in my face! He went _pop_, just as so many others
had gone _pop_ at our wedding reception; his entire anatomy flying in
all directions, to turn into a cloud of sooty smoke and mix with the
elements.
I was frozen with consternation. But not Joy. Instantly she dragged me
back into the car. "Don't you get it? Uncle Peter gave him that stick of
gum!"
"You're damn right!" Bag Ears stated. "The old monkey's gone clear off
his trolley. Maybe he plans to clean out the whole town!"
Joy, her eyes slitted, was weaving in and out of traffic so as not to
lose track of the blue roadster. "It's as plain as your nose! He's hand
in glove with McCaffery and that blonde is bird-dogging him around town
and pointing out McCaffery's enemies. Uncle Peter is knocking them off
like clay pigeons."
I was amazed at this revelation, but was also thunderstruck by the
underworld jargon flowing so easily from Joy's luscious lips. "Angel," I
gasped. "Where did you learn to talk like that? Those underworld terms!"
"I read all the true detective magazines I can get my hands on," she
said. "They're good fun, but that's beside the point. We've got to nail
Uncle Peter and nail him quick, or Aunt Gretchen will ring up a nice big
zero in the social world."
"How about nailing him without me?" Bag Ears suggested. "It's nine
o'clock and Red Nose Tessie never likes to miss none of the show."
"I'm sure, Bag Ears," Joy said, "that Tessie would sympathize with our
efforts to keep Uncle Peter out of the electric chair."
"I doubt it," he replied dubiously. "Tessie's brother got burned in
Frisco for knocking over a bank clerk and Tessie never even attended.
Let him fry in his own grease was what she said about it."
"Nevertheless," Joy said, "I have no time to stop and let you out."
A fast, fifteen-block chase followed. Once we lost the blue roadster
completely, but, by sheer luck, picked it up three blocks further on as
it came wheeling out of a side street.
We were in a quiet residential section now, so there was no one to
interfere as Joy skillfully forced the roadster to the curb. I jumped
out and leaped swiftly toward the driver's door.
* * * * *
The blonde sat behind the wheel with a sullen look on her face. "What is
this?" she asked. "A stickup?"
"Don't be vulgar," I replied. "We are here to take charge of my uncle.
This weird slaughter must cease!"
Joy was by my side now, but Bag Ears hung back as though somewhat
worried about the possible consequences of our act.
I heard him muttering: "What if he can just shoot the stuff in your eye
maybe? What if a guy doesn't have to swallow it--?"
Joy's gayety was again coming to the surface. Her eyes were bright and I
was struck by the fact that she seemed to thrive on this sort of thing.
"Hello, Blondy," she said. "Get out from behind--"
The blonde's eyes threw sparks. "Who you think you're talking to, you
lard--"
"Not Truman," Joy said. "Now get--"
I seized Joy's wrist. "Angel! He's gone! Uncle Peter isn't here!" I
stared at Joy in horror. "Do you suppose he inadvertently chewed some of
his own gum?"
Joy did not reply. She shouldered me aside, opened the car door and
surprised me by getting a very scientific grip on Cora.
"Okay--where is he? What did you do with him?"
"He's not here!"
"Any fool can see that. Did he blow up?"
"Of course not. He went to keep a date."
The blonde jerked herself loose from Joy's hold and was sullenly
straightening her clothing. "I don't see why you and Pretty Boy have to
stick your big noses into this. It's none of your business."
"We're making it our business."
"You don't seem to realize," I said stiffly, "that Uncle Peter is very
dear to me. He has performed some horrible deeds, and as his loving
nephew--"
The blonde seemed puzzled. "You're off your crock! Pete's okay. He just
entered into a little private deal to help out Hands McCaffery. I don't
see where it's anybody's business, either. If he wanted your help he'd
ask for it!"
It made my blood run cold to hear this girl refer so casually to the
wholesale slaughter that had been going on around us. I strove to find
words to shame her, but Joy cut in. And apparently my dear wife was more
interested, at the moment, in the details of the affair rather than the
morals involved.
"McCaffery and Uncle Peter haven't got any deal," she said to the
blonde. "You lie as easily as you undress. If they had an arrangement to
knock off all those parties at our wedding reception, how come McCaffery
brought a machine gun along?"
The blonde had an answer. "Hands was a little doubtful. He didn't think
Pete could do it--blow people into thin air just from something they et.
He was willing to go along with the gag but he wasn't going to pass up
an opportunity to rub out the Zinsky gang--or as many as he could
hit--if the gimmick didn't click. That's why he brought the Tommy--just
in case."
Joy turned to me. "It fits," she said. "I've been trying to give Uncle
Pete the benefit of every doubt, but it looks as though you've got a mad
dog sniffing at the trunk of your family tree."
* * * * *