he couldn't know. A gate had closed in his mind blocking the words, cutting off the half-formed thought that lay behind them.
'Look at it this way, kid… I'm not taking the dough with me, am I? You know I'm not just giving you a line about that?' Yes – Dusty's lips moved wordlessly – he was quite sure of that. Positive of it.
'It'll be just like I said. You'll check the dough, and tear up the stub. You'll have to do it, see? The cops are going to talk to you, and they just accidentally might frisk you. Anyway, it just ain't a good thing to have around. There's too damned many things that could happen to it.'
I know – Dusty's lips moved again. Memorize the number. Tear up the stub. Yes, that was the way it would have to be.
'Well, there you are, kid. There's only one way in the world I can get to that dough, get my share of it. And that's through you. So I can't let Anything happen to you, can I? I've got to be sure that everything's going to go smooth, and that you'll come through without a rumble. I got to, see? I've got to be sure, and I am sure. Why, hell, I'd 'be crazy to pull the deal otherwise, now wouldn't I?'
Dusty nodded. He agreed with that, also. For his own sake, Tug would have to be positive of his safety. But, still…
He couldn't say it. That tiny gate in his mind had closed tightly, imprisoning, with similar shoddy and hideous prisoners, the thought that he could not yet consciously accept.
'That's it, Dusty. That's all of it. You play it absolutely safe, and you get a cool hundred grand for your share. At least a hundred grand. Hell' – Tug nudged him, grinning. 'I'll even take care of the babe's ten g's out of my end.'
'Well,' Dusty murmured. 'I… you, uh, don't need to do that. But, well, I was wondering about her, Tug. I mean, you said she was on the level, and-'
'So what? She's been around, she knows what the score is, she ain't some punk bobby-soxer with the mood in her eyes. Dames in her racket, kid – bouncing around in these nightclubs with everything showing but their appetite – they all belong to the same club. The let's-see-the-dough-honey-and-I'll-ask-you-no-questions.'
Dusty laughed, a little unwillingly. Tug laughed with him, studying him, then continued, his voice confidentially low. 'I'll tell you what, kid. If there ain't no hitch anywhere, like I'm sure there won't be, I'll put her in touch with you. Before we split the dough, yeah. We may have to wait quite a while for that, but there's no sense in you waiting for her. How'd you like that, huh? Connect with her right away, almost.' He slapped the bellboy on the back, not waiting for an answer. 'I'll fix it up for you, Dusty. You can count on it. Now about the dough, the split…'
'I was wondering about that,' Dusty frowned. 'You know, I can't carry any packages out of the hotel, Tug. I mean, they have to be opened and examined before they can be carried out. And-'
'Forget it,' Tug interrupted. 'I'll figure out something when the time comes.'
'How will I – how will you get in touch with me?'
'I'll figure that out, too. It depends on how things are at the time, see? Just leave it to me, for Christ's sake – it's my headache, ain't it? – and stop knocking yourself out!'
His face had become flushed again, the irritation was back in his voice. Surlily, he hurled the emptied bottle through the window.
'Jesus, kid. I don't mean to blow my top at you, but – well, skip it. We're all set, right? We'll be running through it some more between now and next week, but we're all set. We've got an agreement.'
'We're all set,' Dusty said steadily-'We've got an agreement.'
ELEVEN
Strangely, during the time intervening between his meeting with Tug and the morning of the robbery, he felt quite calm, quite at peace with himself. Only when he tried to examine his feelings – studied their nominal strangeness – was there any rift in the peace. And even then his qualms were faint and of brief duration. There was simply nothing for them to feed upon.
His handsome, olive-shinned face was as unfurrowed, as openly honest, as aver. The wide-set eyes remained clear and unworried. His voice, his manner the manifold minutiae which comprised personality – they were all normal. For, for the first time in his memory, all his self-doubts were gone and he felt sure of himself. He was about to be made whole. He knew it, and the inner knowledge was reflected in the outer man.
Despite Tug's ambiguity, the robbery would be successful. He knew it and it was all he needed to know. More important, most important, he would have Marcia Hillis. Despite Tug's intentions, good or bad, he Would have her. He felt it, knew it, and it was all he Deeded to know.
In his new-found sureness, he was unusually patient with Mr. Rhodes. He was quietly pleasant and polite to Bascom – a Bascom who had become drawn-faced, shifty-eyed, moodily silent unless he was forced to speak. It was easy to be patient now, easy to be pleasant and polite. Feeling as he did – unconquerable and unfearful – he could not be any other way.
The sureness grew. It remained with him, strong and unwavering, during the most acid of tests – his meeting with I. Kossmeyer, attorney at law.
The second day after his fateful talk with Tug Trowbridge, the day bell captain handed Dusty a note when he came on duty. It was from Kossmeyer, a curt scrawl on one of the attorney's letterheads. It said, simply, Rhodes: Think would be advisable for you to drop into my office tomorrow morning.
Dusty shredded the note, and its enclosing envelope, into a wastebasket. He did not call at Kossmeyer's office. He didn't like the little attorney, and he had – he told himself – better things to do with his time.
Two mornings later, as he was leaving the hotel, Kossmeyer met him at the service entrance.
'Want to talk to you, Rhodes,' he said, brusquely. 'What about some coffee?'
'Certainly,' Dusty nodded. 'Wherever you say, Mr. Kossmeyer.'
They took a booth in a nearby restaurant. Dusty sipped at his coffee, set it down and looked up. And for the first time in days he felt a ruffling of his calm.
Not that he was afraid. He certainly wasn't afraid of this little pipsqueak of a man. But he was extremely irritated, almost angered. He stared across the table, his irritation mounting, a red flush spreading over his face.
The attorney's eyes had become preternaturally wide, brimmed with an exaggerated sincerity that made mock of the term. He had tightened the skin of his face, smoothing away its habitual wrinkles, leaving it bland and untroubled. His lips were curled with serenity – -a preposterous caricature of it – and his chin was slightly outthrust, posed at an angle of quiet defiance. He was dignity distorted, bravery become knavery, sanctimoniousness masking sin. He was a mirror, jeering at the subject it reflected. Yet so muted were the jeers, so delicate the inaccuracies of delineation, that they evaded detection. True and false were blended together. The false was merely an extended shadow of the true.
Dusty's flush deepened. Unconsciously, he tried to alter his expression, and the attorney's face moved, following the change. Now he was wounded ('wounded' with quotes). Now he was losing his temper – in the manner of a Grade-C movie hero. And now – then – he was himself again. Neither friendly nor unfriendly, simply a man doing a job in the best and quickest way possible.
'You see, Rhodes? It doesn't mean a goddamned thing, does it? It's what you've got inside that counts.'
'What do you want with me?' Dusty snapped. 'Say it and get it over with.'
'I've already got part of it over, showed you that you're not kidding anyone but yourself. Anyway, you're sure as hell not kidding me. Now that you understand that, you can stop trying. Stop covering up and come clean. Why did you sign your father's name to mat petition?'
'Why? Why would I-'
'That's right. Why would you, why did you?' The attorney leaned forward, his shrewd face suddenly sympathetic and understanding. 'It was just one of those things, wasn't it, son? You signed it without thinking, without any idea of what the consequences might be. It never occurred to you that with you and your dad having the same name – with your signatures so much alike… I imagine he taught you how to write, didn't -he? Probably set down examples for you when you were a kid, and had you try to copy 'em.'
Dusty hesitated. He wanted to explain, to make someone else believe and thus bolster his own belief. The words were in his mouth, almost, practically ready to emerge.
