nothing about equipment or machinery. That meant no gun. Loomis had always been very anti-guns in the presence of allies, but this was carrying a prejudice too far. Admittedly a gun was no good unless you were prepared to use it, but then he, Craig, was prepared, and Loomis knew it. It would seem, Craig thought, that the fat man doesn't trust me any more.
He called Laurie S. Fisher and got no answer, then tried Victor Kaplan. A voice like that of a method actor playing Bertie Wooster told him that Mr. Kaplan never returned to his apartment before seven. Craig showered and changed, and there were still three hours to kill before Kaplan got home. He sealed the fifty thousand dollars in its manilla envelope, took it down to the desk, deposited it, asked how to get to Brooklyn, and discovered for himself the blood-and-iron realities of New York's subway system. Even the damp heat of Brooklyn was preferable to it, but nevertheless he walked slowly, cautious not to sweat too much, to the old brownstone house with the wide stoop, and grudged the effort needed to try to push his way past the throng of men sheltering on it.
They were all large men, large enough to make Craig's six feet and hundred and ninety pounds look skimpy. It took Craig some time to realize that, like him, they were waiting to get in. In England they would have formed a queue. At last one of them, who wore a single gold loop earring and hair dyed pink, put a hand on his chest.
'They're not hiring light heavies today,' he said.
Craig looked around him. On all sides, giants towered. It was like being lost in a primeval forest.
'I came to see Thaddeus Cooke,' he said. 'I think he's expecting me.'
At once the giants opened up and let him through, then resumed their restless milling. Craig wandered down a corridor lined with open doors. In each room that he passed, giants were wrestling—in pairs, in tag teams, in groups—and with each set of wrestlers was a smaller man screaming directions: part referee, part choreographer. Craig walked on till he came to a door on which the name 'Thaddeus Cooke' was painted, and below, in the same neat lettering: 'Keep Out. This Means You.' He went inside.
The man behind the desk was sleeping peacefully, feet up, thumbs hooked into his belt. He was tall, slender, and apparently ageless: his hair, close-cropped and bristling, could have been pale gold, could have been white, the lines on his dark skin the result of weather or of age. He slept soundlessly, but woke almost at once as Craig walked into the room. Very blue eyes looked into Craig's, but the man didn't move; only there was a wariness, even in his relaxation, that told Craig at once: This one is good.
'Got a good business,' the man said suddenly. 'Wrestlers. I train 'em. Book 'em. Promote 'em. Branch out on the coast. Same deal. Only there we do stuntmen and fight arrangements too. Doin' well. TV helped. You know what I grossed last year?'
'No,' said Craig.
'Hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It's not Standard Oil—but it's enough. For me anyway. I've got a hobby— now I can afford it. Know what it is?'
'No,' said Craig.
'Sleepin'. That's why I put that notice on the door. Maybe you can't read?' Craig said, 'I can read.'
The man sighed and put his feet down, stood up. He wore a rumpled silk-tussore suit from Saks that must have cost three hundred dollars; his dirty unpolished shoes were hand sewn, English imported. The tie twisted almost to one ear was one Craig recognized as that restricted to former pupils of Eton College.
'I better throw you out,' he said. 'It'll hurt you, son, but we all have to learn sometime.'
He moved forward slowly, easily, and for a moment Craig decided to let him do it—or try to. It would be the best practice he could buy. But it would also be noisy, and very noticeable. He backed off.
'Shinju Hakagawa sent me, Mr. Cooke,' he said.
The easy movement stopped, and Cooke became once more a tired and happy tycoon.
'You're Craig?' he said. Craig nodded. Cooke's eyes moved over him warily. 'John Craig. He says you're maybe going to beat him one of these days . .. You know, I always thought I was the one who'd do that. Come into the gym.'
Craig moved back to the door, but the other man shook his head.
'No,' said Cooke. 'Not in public, son. One of us is going to find this embarrassing.'
Cooke's gym was a small, square room, its one article of furniture a dojo mat. Craig and Cooke changed and faced each other across it, bowing in the ritual way as Craig noticed the strength in the other's slimness. He was pared down to undiluted power, and with it, a dancer's speed and precision. Craig moved warily forward, and as he did so, Cooke leaped at once into the air, aiming a snap kick that would have ended the fight then and there if it had landed. But Craig dived beneath it and whirled round, ready, as Cooke landed and aimed a fist strike at his belly. Craig grabbed his wrist and threw him, and Cooke landed in a perfect break-fall, rolling over to avoid the kick of Craig's followup, his grab for Craig's foot just missing as Craig pirouetted away. Time and again they attacked each other and ran into a countermove that just, and only just, prevented success. They fought, each of them, in silence and speed, and with all their skill, and they fought a draw. After twenty minutes Cooke signaled a halt.
'You're not ready for Shinju—not yet,' he said. 'But one day you're going to be—if you go on improving.'
Craig said nothing; his exhaustion was total.
'Bet I know what you're thinking,' said Cooke. Craig looked up. 'If I'd gone on for another two minutes I'd have licked you. That what you were thinking?'
'Yes,' said Craig, 'I was.'
'Know why I didn't? ... Because I couldn't, son. You're the best I ever saw. What kind of business you in?' 'Advertising,' said Craig.
Cooke stared at him. 'Figured you were,' he said. 'Did you?' said Craig.
'Sure. You talk so damn much—what other business could you be in? Tell you something else.' Craig waited. 'If you ever decided you didn't like me—you'd kill me. D'you hate much?'
'Not often,' said Craig.
'Come in when you like, son. Any time. I ain't saying I'll teach you much, but I ain't too proud to learn.'
He walked with Craig back through the gym and paused near a mountainous Negro who appeared to be disemboweling a fat Greek with his bare hands. The Greek's yells were piteous to hear. Suddenly the Greek brought up his knee, and the Negro hit the canvas like a house collapsing.
'Constantine,' said Cooke severely, 'that wasn't nice. You want me to take Blossom's place?'
The Greek broke at once into a babble of broken English, all of it apologetic.
'You just watch it, that's all,' said Cooke. 'You too, Blossom.'
The Negro twitched in response, and Cooke walked on. 'Sometimes they mean it,' said Cooke. 'I can't let 'em fight if they mean it.' 'Why not?' asked Craig.
'Why,' Cooke said. 'They're valuable, son. Can't let 'em go damaging each other. They cost too much money.'
At five thirty Craig reached the Graydon Arms. It was an apartment building, neat, unobtrusive, and wealthy, its air conditioning Arctic, or at least Siberian, Craig thought, at the sweat congealed on his body. Kaplan's Siberia had not been so elegant: maplewood desk with ivory telephones, a desk clerk out of a Frank Capra movie, dark-blue carpet, pale-blue walls. In front of Craig three matrons and what appeared to be two lifeguards with clothes on—so bronzed they were, so golden their glinting hair—talked of vodka martinis as they walked to the lift. Craig told himself he was disguised as a lifeguard, and followed, and the desk clerk looked on and sighed, but made no move to stop him. Perhaps, thought Craig, he wants a vodka martini too—or a matron.
The lift whispered its way to the ninth floor, and by the time they arrived Craig found that vodka martinis and matrons alike were at his disposal, but he stayed on, and went up to the penthouse, and Laurie S. Fisher.
The door to the penthouse was of mahogany and polished till it glowed. A splendid door, a door belonging to a Georgian house; craftsmanship and artistry nicely blended. It made Craig feel good, even patriotic—just to look at it. Except that it was very slightly ajar. Laurie S. Fisher of the Graydon Arms was a wealthy man. He had to be, if he owned the penthouse—and wealthy men in New York don't leave their doors ajar, not even slightly ajar. Craig examined the door and the gap between slowly, with extreme care. No wires, no bugs. Just a door that should not have been open. He pushed it gently, using his knuckles, and it swung wide. Craig took a deep breath and jumped inside, swinging in the air as he moved, hands clawing for whoever hid behind it. There was no one. He pushed the door shut and looked around the apartment. An empty hall, an empty drawing room, an empty dining room, all furnished with a deliberate, conscious good taste, a neat blend of modern and Georgian pieces that had cost Laurie S. Fisher a great deal of money. Craig moved on to an empty bedroom. Its occupant was a devotee of science fiction, stock-car racing, and bull fighting. About seventeen, Craig thought, with a preference for English clothes
