clip-on holster pressed against the roll of fat that pressed over his belt. Another .357. Costigan issue. I unclipped the gun, holster and all, from his belt and stuck it in my hip pocket. Hawk came into the guardhouse. He was smiling.
“Man had a world-class belt,” he said. I glanced down: Hawk was wearing it. It was buckled up tight and too long for him. The end stuck out from the buckle like an anteater’s tongue. The .44 was stuck in the belt in front. The blackjack strap still hung from his back pocket but now it was in the right-hand pocket.
“Put your hands back on the desk,” I said to the guard, “and back away and spread your feet apart.”
I patted him down, and came up only with a pocket knife. A good one, a buck knife with a two-and-a-half-inch blade. I gave the knife to Hawk and he cut off the loose end of the belt. He closed it, handed it back, and I put it in my pocket.
“Neatness is important,” I said.
Hawk reached over and took hold of the back of the guard’s shirt collar and pulled him upright and put his face close to the guard’s.
“Let’s talk about the security here,” he said. “Aside from how it sucks.”
“I’m not talking about shit,” the guard said. He had a haircut with no sideburns, and a lot of skin showing above the ears.
I hit him with my right forearm, bringing it up along his jaw. He would have fallen but Hawk held him up.
“Tell me about security,” I said.
He started to shake his head and I hit him again with my forearm. He almost went limp and I could see the muscles bunch slightly in Hawk’s neck as he increased the force to keep the guard upright.
“Last chance,” I said. “If you don’t tell me this time, I’ll kill you and find out for myself.”
“Twenny-five men,” the guard mumbled. “Three shifts of six on the grounds and seven for Mr. Costigan when he travels.”
“What’s the surveillance setup?”
Hawk still held the back of his shirt, but the guard was standing now. Hawk wasn’t holding him up.
“Cameras on the perimeter. Monitors in here. Cameras on each corner of the house, monitors in the security room.”
“What brought you down here?”
“Gate guard is supposed to call in every fifteen minutes.”
“Somebody waiting to hear from you?”
The guard shook his head. “I’m in charge of the shift.”
I put the .25 hard against the tip of his nose. “There’s the gate guard, you two, and the two guys walking around the house. That makes five. You said there’s six on a shift.”
Hawk said, “Tell me ‘fore you shoot. I don’t want his brains all over me.”
“Awright,” the guard said, “awright. Bob’s in the security room. We’re supposed to report in.”
“Do it,” I said. “Call in and say you caught two prowlers and you’re bringing them up to security. Tell him your partner is going to stay with the gate guard for a while, make sure that’s all there was.” I moved the gun from his nose and Hawk let go of his collar. There was a line of sweat on his upper lip, and his face was pale except for a reddish streak along his right jawline where I’d hit him.
He picked up the phone and punched out two numbers with the same hand that held the receiver. Then he put the receiver to his ear.
“Hello, Bob. It’s Rocky. Yeah, it’s all right. We got two prowlers. Slade’s going to stay here with Mickey for a while. Make sure. I’ll bring the two prowlers up… Yeah. Be up in a minute… Okay. Bye.”
He hung up. Hawk said, “Rocky?”
I took Rocky’s gun off my hip and emptied it, and put it back in its holster and clipped it back onto his belt. I put the shells on the desk. Hawk pulled his shirt out and let the shirttails hang over the .44, stuck in his belt. We went out of the guard shack and walked to the Bronco. Rocky’s partner lay at the edge of the guardhouse in the shadows, his neck turned at an odd angle. He wasn’t moving, and wasn’t going to. There was a bench seat in the front of the Bronco, and we sat three across, Hawk and I slouching like cowed felons, Rocky driving.
“How long you figure it take us to pick off the whole twenty-five?” Hawk said.
“More time than we got,” I said. “But not much. Were you guys in charge of security at Pearl Harbor?”
Rocky swung the Bronco around the house and pulled to a stop in front of the brass-studded oak door on the basement level. There were two other identical black Broncos parked in the wide turnaround, and a bright green light gleamed over the entrance.
I palmed the little .25 again.
“You take each of us by the arm,” I said to Rocky, “and walk between us into the security office. You let go of either one and I’ll kill you. You got that.”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go.” I reached over and took the keys from the ignition. We got out of the car and Rocky came around and took each of us by the arm, grasping firmly just above the elbow. At the door we turned sideways and Hawk went in first, and then Rocky and then me, with Rocky holding on to each arm for dear life. A portly red-haired man wearing a western-style gun belt with a pearl-handled revolver in the holster was sitting on a high stool looking at four television monitors in a bank along the far wall. Below the monitors was a twoway radio rig, and three telephones.
