Mainzer spread his hands. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, “I’ll work with anybody. Just so they know their job, that’s all.”
“That’s the way to be,” Parker said.
“I was just wondering, that’s all.”
“Wonder next week.”
Mainzer laughed. “That’s what I’ll do,” he said. “See you Saturday.”
“Right.”
Mainzer left, and Parker waited a few more minutes and then followed him. He went down the stairs, and stopped off at the mezzanine to open the ballroom door and take a look inside. It looked the same as before, with nothing to show it had been breached.
PART THREE
One
TERRY ATKINS of Terry-Kerry Coin Company drove into Indianapolis from Chicago Thursday afternoon in his Pontiac station wagon and arrived at the Clayborn Hotel at about six-thirty. A short dark man of twenty-nine, he and his partner Kerry Christiansen had operated a dealership together for the last five years, clearing between eight and eleven thousand dollars a year apiece. Most of their business was mail order, supplemented almost every weekend by coin conventions such as this one, which they took turns attending.
Crossing the lobby on his way to the desk, Atkins saw three other dealers he knew, got into a brief conversation, and arranged to meet them all in the bar a little later. He went on to the desk, picked up his key, and took the stairs up to the mezzanine to register for the convention at the table that had been set up there by the local coin club. He got his convention badge, attached it to his lapel, and went back downstairs to arrange for a bellboy to bring his things up from the car, now in the basement garage. He had one small suitcase with clothing and such in it, and two large heavy coin cases, the contents of which had a current market value of around thirty- five thousand dollars. These went directly to the Lake Room on the mezzanine, now being used as the security room, where a blue-uniformed Pinkerton guard gave him a claim check which he tucked away in his wallet. He then stopped off at the West Room, down the hall, looking for a friend of his who was in charge of a display of military scrip that would be shown here, but the friend wasn’t around so he went on up to his room, showered, changed, and went down to meet the other dealers in the bar.
Thursday at these conventions was always slow and relaxed. The tables wouldn’t be set up until tomorrow, so there was very little business to be transacted, except in a desultory way among the dealers themselves. Mostly there was shop talk and drinking and intramural gossip. Atkins had dinner at a downtown restaurant with the other three dealers, made a tentative arrangement to sell one of them a pair of Mexican gold coins tomorrow, and bar- hopped around Indianapolis with them till midnight.
He was up at seven Friday morning, had a quick breakfast in the hotel coffee shop, made his mandatory call to his wife in Chicago, got his coin cases out of the security room, went to his assigned table in the bourse room— number 58, midway along the drape-covered rear wall—and set up his display, stopping from time to time to chat with convention acquaintances who wandered by. There were perhaps two hundred people in the world that he knew fairly well and had never seen anywhere other than at coin conventions; in no other way did they impinge on his private life nor he on theirs.
The bourse opened at ten, but was slow at first. During the morning there was barely a sprinkling of local hobbyists, window-shopping, renewing acquaintances, looking at what was available, but not doing much buying.
Atkins went to lunch at one o’clock with two other dealers. He draped a white cloth over his display table before going, secure in the knowledge that the Pinkerton men and the local coin club’s security detail and the dealers at the adjacent tables would among them see to it his table wasn’t rifled while he was gone.
In the afternoon he could have spent some time looking at the exhibits in the display rooms, or at the cost of a dollar and a half he could have joined a club-sponsored tour of the city to include the Indianapolis Speedway and its Museum, but a coin convention was primarily business to him, so he went back to the bourse and spent the afternoon sitting in a folding chair behind his assigned table.
Business grew gradually brisker during the afternoon, but there was still plenty of time for small talk with people who mm came wandering by. These included his friend who had the display of military scrip, and also a local coin dealer named Billy Lebatard. Atkins had no use for Lebatard socially, considering him a bore, but he was a somewhat important dealer, having been able on more than one occasion to fill a specific oddball order from one of Atkins’ customers. This time, with no specific business to transact, they chatted together somewhat hesitantly, and Atkins was pleased when they were interrupted by a teenage boy interested in half-cents from the eighteen- thirties.
Around five, as the local people began getting out of work, business picked up fast, and from then till after nine, Atkins almost always had at least one customer browsing at his table. The bourse was to remain open till ten, but by nine-fifteen Atkins was too hungry to stick around any longer, so he draped the cloth over his table, joined three other dealers, and they went out to a restaurant, followed by another night of bar-hopping.
The others seemed ready to go all night, but Atkins had had enough by twelve-thirty, and went back to the hotel by himself. He rang for the elevator, but nothing happened for quite a while, so he went up the stairs. There was a Pinkerton man sitting at a card table near the staircase on the mezzanine floor. The ballroom and security room and display room doors were all closed. A second Pinkerton man was walking around the open mezzanine, strolling along, looking over the railing down at the lobby.
Halfway up the next flight, Atkins came across Billy Lebatard again, this time with a short, thin, older man who carried that inevitable symbol of the tourist, a camera hanging from a thong around his neck. The older man also carried a small sketch pad and a pencil, and had apparently been making some kind of drawing. The two of them hadn’t been going anywhere, just standing in the corner of the landing between the mezzanine and the second floor. When Atkins came into view, Lebatard acted very flustered, but the older man paid no attention to Atkins at all. Atkins said hello to Lebatard and went on upstairs, wondering vaguely at Lebatard’s reaction. He wondered idly if Lebatard might after all be homosexual, and had picked up—or been picked up by—an older man of the same type. Lebatard definitely wasn’t very masculine in his looks or actions. But it was none of Atkins’ business, and by the time he’d reached his room he’d forgotten about it.
Saturday was much busier than Friday. Atkins took a short fast lunch at two o’clock, but otherwise stayed at his table from ten o’clock opening till the bourse closed at eight o’clock for the banquet.
The Saturday banquet was an integral part of these conventions, where the social and hobby aspects reached their peak. Awards were given at the banquet for the best exhibits in the display rooms. Speeches were made, and
