The Scheme of Things. Lester Del Rey

was wondering if you had sense enough to realize that.”

      “Look, angel. I’m not quite as helpless as you think. And I’m not as scared of Big Frank as you’d like to believe. I just don’t want trouble for no reason. So why don’t you take your hat box and be on your way?”

      Fay pursed her beautiful lips—thus making them very kissable—and retreated gracefully. That was what it was about her—you could never tell whether you’d get a fistful of snails in your face or a warm purr. “Frank said for you to call him, darling,” she said. Their war was over for the moment. She finished her drink and took the hat box and threw him a kiss as she left.

      Alone, he again checked his watch. There would be time to call Big Frank.

      As he waited for the connection, he had a touch of uneasiness; not about Fay. She wasn’t ready to make any sort of move; about Big Frank himself. He had a bluff, crude, uneducated approach to things. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t clever. His record spoke for him; definitely the man to see; twenty-six arrests with only one conviction and that set aside.

      The phone buzzed twice at the private number before Big Frank’s voice came back.

      “Dion’s Flower Shop.”

      This was a manifestation of Big Frank’s broad sense of humor. Long ago, in the wild Chicago days, there had been a flower shop owned by a man whose first name had been Dion. One day two gunmen had walked in. One held the owner’s hand in a grip of good-fellowship while the other fanned him down with a bouquet of slugs from an automatic. Big Frank seemed to like the historical attachment in the name.

      “I said, Dion’s—”

      “The car was just picked up.”

      “Oh, it’s you. I know. It just got here.”

      “I was supposed to call.”

      “Oh, yeah. I got wind on something. An injustice. I thought about you.”

      “Why me?”

      “I’d hate to see you have to walk up thirty floors to get home nights.”

      It sounded silly—like a lot of double talk. But then, what with bugs and things, it always did. You had to listen between the words.

      “That would be rough.”

      “It sure would—on you and a lot of other joes that live up high.”

      “An elevator strike?”

      “Uh-huh. All that hardship and stuff.”

      “Anything I can do?”

      “Might be. First, have a talk with Sid Garms at the Real Estate Association. That ought to do some good. Then drop in on Bailey at the Union. Tell both of ‘em I sent you. Maybe you can get it stopped.”

      “Okay.”

      “And by the way, I’m putting my house up for sale.”

      “How much?”

      “Fifty grand.”

      “Steep price.”

      “It’s worth it.”

      “If the buyer thinks so.”

      “The buyer will…”

      He broke the connection. The buyer would be the Real Estate Board. They’d pay fifty grand out of their public relations budget to keep their elevators repaired and running without handing anything more to the slobs who did the work—the union rank and file.

      So it was another job for a good in-between man; a fixer. He would contact the principals in this deal, tie them together with an invisible thread of skill and finesse and when it was over, no one would be able to prove that anything had happened.

      He should have received the news with a glow of satisfaction. But he did not. He went out onto the patio again and stared down at the ants. They were still crawling around with satisfactory aimlessness. They were still ripe for many, many lootings.

      But he was uneasy. It seemed that there was something he was supposed to remember. But for the life of him, he couldn’t pull it into his mind.

      The bell sounded. That would be a uniformed messenger after the French poodle. Still frowning, he went to the door.

      But it wasn’t a messenger. It was three men in blue suits. One of them waved a paper.

      “Search warrant. Stand aside. We’re checking over these premises.”

      They pushed in and fanned out like experts. He tightened up inside as he watched in silence. He moved back just inside the living room. Two of the men, iron-faced, stood alert while one of them headed straight for the bedroom. The closet door opened.

      Suddenly, it dawned. This wasn’t law. This was somebody’s muscle! A key rattled in the lock. The door opened and Lorry stood there. Her eyes went wide in fright and surprise. One of the men slipped a gun from where he’d been gripping it in his side pocket.

      The drawer of the desk opened silently and easily. The butt of the automatic lying there was cool and reassuring.

      This was the first time he’d ever been invaded, so there was no previous experience to guide him. Thus, his action was foolish. He realized this, but too late; after the automatic had gone off and the blue-suited man holding the other gun had doubled over and gone to his knees.

      The other man stared at his fallen companion and then looked accusingly at the offending automatic. As he raised his eyes, his companion joined him from the bedroom.

      “You stupid son-of-a-bitch,” the man muttered.

      Lorry was screaming.

      The man on the floor jerked in pain.

      Then the scene did not fade. It just wasn’t there anymore…