'They want something very badly.'
'It couldn't be that strange little pyramid, could it?'
'Brilliant deduction, Miss Parker.'
'But—'
'Let it rest, Gale. Here comes our guide.' The waiter withdrew Gale's chair, and she and Indy followed the waiter through a curtained doorway and down a long corridor, stopping before a door of massive wooden construction. Indy scanned it carefully. He listened as the waiter knocked on the door, judging that sandwiched between heavy wooden panels was a layer of steel. He knew he was right when he saw the effort it took the waiter to push the door open.
A bulletproof door.
Dominic Carboni rose from a deep leather couch to greet them. Their drinks waited for them on a marble table. Gale looked about the room. 'You have exquisite taste,' she told Carboni.
'Thank you. The finest there is. I don't hold back nothin' when it comes to the real goods. Real swell, huh?'
A lout in a marble palace, she judged immediately. He has no more business with Indy than he does with me. He's a front for someone else.
They went through small talk as they drank. 'This your first trip to Dayton, Miss Parker? How does our town hit you?'
'I haven't really seen it,' she parried. She remembered Indy's description of the cover story he'd dropped into the papers. 'Mostly I've seen the bicycle shop of the Wrights, studied their wind tunnel, gone over their notes. It's really quite fascinating.'
'Uhhuh. I guess it's real interesting,' Carboni said. 'If that's what you like, I mean. Me, I'll take the nightclub scene any time. I ain't never seen an airplane that looks better than a great broad.' He guffawed with pleasure at his own remarks.
Gale couldn't miss the change in Indy's demeanor. Even the way he sat had undergone a subtle shift. She had been a huntress long enough to recognize when someone moved from relaxation to being a human coiled spring. He placed his brandy snifter gently on the marble table and again shifted position in the chair.
'Carboni, lay it out.'
In that moment, Carboni too seemed to change to a different person. The expensive suit and furnishings couldn't disguise the lowlife before them.
'I didn't know you were in a hurry, Jones.' There it is. Gale spotted it immediately. No more Professor or Doctor; just Jones.
'My driver is waiting for us at your back entrance,' Indy said. 'And he is a very impatient man.'
Would Indy ever stop catching her by surprise? What driver? They came here in that Packard that Indy drove himself. She forced herself to remain quiet, to watch. She shifted in her own seat so that the .25 automatic nestled against her leg was easier to reach. Somehow she knew the polite chitchat was just about over.
'How'd you know about the back entrance, Jones?' Carboni looked at Indy with suspicion. 'You ain't never been here before.'
'Cut it,' Indy snapped, leaning forward. 'You're just the agent for Mr. Big, whoever and wherever he is.
What's your pitch?'
Carboni smiled like an eel. 'You're real cute, you know that, Jones? Besides, you go out the back door you're going to meet a couple of my yeggs who might not like your leaving here without I say so.'
'What does Mr. Big want?' Indy pushed.
'Hey, how do you know I ain't Mr. Big?' Carboni sneered.
'Look in the mirror,' Indy offered. 'What you'll see is a twobit messenger boy.'
Carboni's face flushed. His hands twitched, and Indy knew he was fighting the urge to reach for a gun. Even a messenger boy can be dangerous, when he's a big frog in a small pond.
But the fact of the matter was that as much as Carboni would have liked to put enough holes into Indiana Jones to make him resemble Swiss cheese, he didn't dare to cross or even interfere with the instructions of his overseer. Indy waited as Carboni swallowed both his anger and his pride.
'Hey, just joking, see?' Carboni said quickly. 'No need to get upset.'
'As a joker, you'd starve to death.'
'I don't getcha,' Carboni said, brow furrowed.
'Forget it. Cut the games, Carboni. What's the message you were told to deliver to me?'
Gale was amazed at Indy. It was incredible the way he could shift from a stereotypical professor to someone who seemed right at home with cheap gangsters.
Carboni lit a cigarette, watched the cloud of smoke he blew away to collect his thoughts, and then dropped his hammer.
'A cool million, Professor.'
'A cool million what?' Indy demanded.
'One million dineros. A million of the long green. You know what I'm talking about. One—million—dollars,' he emphasized.
'That's nice,' Indy replied. 'But what's it for? It's not even Christmas time.'
