days if you didn't want to.'
Tucker said, 'I thought you never wanted to know anything about my business or the people I deal with.'
'I don't,' Norton said, raising both hands, his big palms flat, and pushing them off. 'I wouldn't listen to her even if she tried to tell me, and I'd throw her out the first time she got in a talkative mood. I'm just trying to help her, that's it, that's all.'
She stared hard at the pilot, obviously on the verge of turning him down, then seemed to catch a glimpse of the shyness behind his tough-man front, knew that he hadn't anything in mind but helping her. She said, 'Well, I guess that'd be all right. I need to go to ground for a while and think.'
'It still doesn't answer my question,' Harris said impatiently. 'What will you do when you leave here?'
The woman turned, her face tight, anger boiling up.
Before she could say anything Norton said, 'Well, Mr. Harris, that's a long way off, don't you think? She'll need time to consider that. You can't expect an answer this instant.'
Pete looked at the pilot and knew there would be no arguing with him. He shrugged and said, 'The hell with it. I'm going to use my split to buy into a little business, and I'm retiring. What do I care what she does?' He turned and walked out of the office.
It was 5:29 p.m. on Thursday.
At 9:04 that same evening, his arm in a sling, carrying a small, cheap suitcase and slightly whoozy from pain killers, Tucker entered his tenth-floor Park Avenue apartment. He was dressed in a new black suit which didn't exactly fit him, in a new shirt, new tie, new shoes. Despite his wounds he was feeling well.
He went directly to the closet, opened it, stepped inside, opened the small wall safe. He tossed his Tucker credentials inside and took out his real papers, pocketed those. He opened the cheap suitcase and lifted out a large number of money bricks, depositing them one at a time in the safe. When that was done, he closed the safe, spun the dial, shut the suitcase and shelved that.
In the hallway he stopped and looked at his Edo shield, touched the beaten copper, the flared silver rim, the hand-carved ivory inlays, and the coolness of the materials, their worn edges, calmed him.
In the bedroom he found Elise sitting up watching television, dressed in her favorite old quilted robe, ravishing. She said, 'How'd it go with the bells?'
'I got the seller a price he was satisfied with and the buyer a price he could accept. But it wasn't easy. How'd your pickle commercial go with Plunket?'
'Marvelous,' she said. 'I seemed to have this fantastic talent for it.' Then, as he shrugged out of his suit jacket, she said, 'What's that? What happened to your arm?'
He had already gone over, to himself, the story he would have to tell her. He said, 'I was shot.' When she started up from the bed, he motioned her back and said, 'Don't make me feel like an invalid, because it's only a flesh wound.'
'But how, why?' she asked.
He said, 'It was nothing more serious than an average all-American mugging, when I was on my way to my hotel.'
'A mugging? In Denver?'
'What's so strange about a mugging in Denver?' he asked. 'We're living in dangerous times, honey. The world's full of dangerous men.'
