part FRIDAY 8:00 P.M 8:30 P.M
Bollinger turned immediately from the dead man and looked at the
revolving doors.
Nobody was there, no one on the sidewalk beyond, no one who might have
seen the killing.
Moving quickly but calmly, he tucked the pistol into his pocket and
grabbed the body by the arms. He dragged it into the waiting area
between the first two banks of elevators. Now, anyone coming to the
doors would see only an empty lobby.
The dead man stared at him. The mustache seemed to have been painted on
his lip.
Bollinger turned out the guard's pockets. He found quarters, dimes, a
crumpled five-dollar bill, and a key ring with seven keys.
He returned to the main part of the lobby.
He wanted to go straight to the door, but he knew that was not a good
idea. That would put him in camera range. If the men monitoring the
closed-circuit system saw him locking the door, they would be curious.
They'd come to investigate, and he would lose the advantage of surprise.
Keeping in mind the details of the plans he had studied at City Hall
that afternoon, he walked quietly to the rear of the lobby and stepped
into a short corridor on the left. Four rooms led off the hall.
The second on the right was the guards' room, and the door was open.
Wondering if the squeaking of his wet shoes sounded as loud to the
guards as it did to him, he edged up to the open door.
Inside, two men were talking laconically about their jobs, complaining,
but only halfheartedly.
Bollinger took the pistol from his coat pocket. He walked through the
doorway.
The men were sitting at a small table in front of three television
screens. They weren't watching the monitors. They were playing
two-handed pinochle.
The older of the two was in his fifties. Heavy. Grayhaired. He had a
prizefighter's lumpy face. The name 'Neely' was stitched on his left
shirt pocket. He was slow. He looked up at Bollinger, failed to react
as he should have to the gun, and said without fear, 'What's this?
The other guard was in his thirties. Trim. Ascetic face. Pale hands.
As he turned to see what had caught Neely's attention, Bollinger saw
'Faulkner' stitched on his shirt.
He shot Faulkner first.
Reaching with both hands for his ruined throat, too late to stop the
life from gushing out of him, Faulkner toppled backward in his chair.
'Hey!' 'Fat Neely was finally on his feet. His holster was snapped
shut. He grappled with it.
Bollinger shot him.m twice.
Neely did an ungraceful pirouette, fell on the table, collapsed it, and
went to the floor in a flutter of pinochle cards.
Bollinger checked their pulses.
They were dead.
When he left the room, he closed the door.
At the front of the big lobby, he locked the last revolving door and put
