short, silver, ugly. It fit well in the palm of Johnson’s hand. Marge showed him how to load it: pull the hammer back halfway, flip the portal, drop in the cartridges, keep the first chamber empty. Five shots in a six-shot gun.
“That way if it drops, it won’t go off.”
No safety. You pulled the hammer back all the way, heard the click, squeezed the trigger— bang . Simple.
Wallets had taken the poster of Miss Liquid Wrench outside and nailed her to the side of a rotting truck. Now at about ten yards Johnson tried to hit the poor girl. Bang again. Nope. Not even a bullet hole in the driver’s side door. Where the hell were the bullets going?
“Try a little closer,” Wallets suggested. Five yards. Bang, bang . Nope. “Closer.” Seven feet. Johnson pointed at her head. The last bullet, bang —a hole appeared in her forehead.
“Now you know,” Wallets remarked dryly, “with a gun like that, that’s how close you have to be. Maybe closer. With a hollow-point bullet it’ll come out the back in a chunk the size of your fist. When we’re through, you’ll be able to take the thing apart in the dark and load it with your eyes closed.”
Johnson stared at the coy poster of Miss Liquid Wrench still smiling. She didn’t seem to mind too much.
“Stand aside!” This from Large Marge, seventy-five yards back in the trees. Wallets and Johnson moved out of the line of fire. Three quick bangs from her .22 caliber pump rifle. Two holes appeared in each of Miss Liquid Wrench’s breasts and one in her navel.
“Show off,” Wallets exclaimed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Within the Range of Plausibility
T he fieldwork came to an end as suddenly as it started. Johnson woke up alone one morning; first thing he noticed: Wallets’ hammock and other gear were stowed back in the locker. Realizing shrewdly that Large Marge and Wallets had departed for good, he took it on himself to walk his way back to town. A passing glance at his reflection in the Dobbs Machine & Diesel glass window showed his suit jacket split at the shoulders, his white shirt a lovely shade of gray. Pants open at both knees, rags about his feet. A few days of scruff and uncombed hair. The wild man of Borneo. Then as if to add pedantry to abandonment, he found a note scribbled on a scrap of paper in the office.
All you have to do is walk back to town during daylight hours, purchase a bus ticket and get on a bus. We’ll be waiting for you in New York.
Another test.
Shortly before leaving for the Middle East, Johnson headed again to Rockefeller Center. Instead of the usual routine, Banquo and Wallets
brought him to a room in a different part of the Banquo & Duncan suite, adjoining the conference area by another set of double doors.
“We sometimes use this as a stage set,” Wallets explained to him. “It helps us get a feel for how things can turn out.” Johnson followed the two men through the doors and stopped dead cold.
A little bearded middle-aged fellow sat at a desk, behind him a bookshelf with what appeared to be mathematics and physics journals, a blackboard along one wall with formulas chalked in long incomprehensible rows. He was paunchy and wore glasses. Johnson recalled him at once as the “taxi driver” the night Banquo & Duncan made their move on him. The little fellow glanced incuriously at the three intruders, then went back to his work, some notes and figures on a legal pad. Banquo and Wallets each took chairs, the double doors closed. An armed guard locked the door from inside and went back to his post, leaving Johnson standing in the center of the Persian rug looking lost.
The guard made an impression.
The man looked like one of those Turkish wrestlers you saw in the summer Olympics when they’re broadcasting at 3 AM: coffee complexion, broad, balding, about 220 pounds, height five foot eight, and 100 percent solid beef. He wore his sidearm on a web belt. The rest of his outfit was like a hospital’s physical therapist—white
“That way if it drops, it won’t go off.”
No safety. You pulled the hammer back all the way, heard the click, squeezed the trigger— bang . Simple.
Wallets had taken the poster of Miss Liquid Wrench outside and nailed her to the side of a rotting truck. Now at about ten yards Johnson tried to hit the poor girl. Bang again. Nope. Not even a bullet hole in the driver’s side door. Where the hell were the bullets going?
“Try a little closer,” Wallets suggested. Five yards. Bang, bang . Nope. “Closer.” Seven feet. Johnson pointed at her head. The last bullet, bang —a hole appeared in her forehead.
“Now you know,” Wallets remarked dryly, “with a gun like that, that’s how close you have to be. Maybe closer. With a hollow-point bullet it’ll come out the back in a chunk the size of your fist. When we’re through, you’ll be able to take the thing apart in the dark and load it with your eyes closed.”
Johnson stared at the coy poster of Miss Liquid Wrench still smiling. She didn’t seem to mind too much.
“Stand aside!” This from Large Marge, seventy-five yards back in the trees. Wallets and Johnson moved out of the line of fire. Three quick bangs from her .22 caliber pump rifle. Two holes appeared in each of Miss Liquid Wrench’s breasts and one in her navel.
“Show off,” Wallets exclaimed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Within the Range of Plausibility
T he fieldwork came to an end as suddenly as it started. Johnson woke up alone one morning; first thing he noticed: Wallets’ hammock and other gear were stowed back in the locker. Realizing shrewdly that Large Marge and Wallets had departed for good, he took it on himself to walk his way back to town. A passing glance at his reflection in the Dobbs Machine & Diesel glass window showed his suit jacket split at the shoulders, his white shirt a lovely shade of gray. Pants open at both knees, rags about his feet. A few days of scruff and uncombed hair. The wild man of Borneo. Then as if to add pedantry to abandonment, he found a note scribbled on a scrap of paper in the office.
All you have to do is walk back to town during daylight hours, purchase a bus ticket and get on a bus. We’ll be waiting for you in New York.
Another test.
Shortly before leaving for the Middle East, Johnson headed again to Rockefeller Center. Instead of the usual routine, Banquo and Wallets
brought him to a room in a different part of the Banquo & Duncan suite, adjoining the conference area by another set of double doors.
“We sometimes use this as a stage set,” Wallets explained to him. “It helps us get a feel for how things can turn out.” Johnson followed the two men through the doors and stopped dead cold.
A little bearded middle-aged fellow sat at a desk, behind him a bookshelf with what appeared to be mathematics and physics journals, a blackboard along one wall with formulas chalked in long incomprehensible rows. He was paunchy and wore glasses. Johnson recalled him at once as the “taxi driver” the night Banquo & Duncan made their move on him. The little fellow glanced incuriously at the three intruders, then went back to his work, some notes and figures on a legal pad. Banquo and Wallets each took chairs, the double doors closed. An armed guard locked the door from inside and went back to his post, leaving Johnson standing in the center of the Persian rug looking lost.
The guard made an impression.
The man looked like one of those Turkish wrestlers you saw in the summer Olympics when they’re broadcasting at 3 AM: coffee complexion, broad, balding, about 220 pounds, height five foot eight, and 100 percent solid beef. He wore his sidearm on a web belt. The rest of his outfit was like a hospital’s physical therapist—white
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