"It'll be here," Elise said.
He went down the hall to the den.
Albert Littlefield, his father's most trusted attorney, had a wire-thin, reedy voice that never failed to irritate Tucker. It was not a whine, as it might have been had it come from any other man, but somewhat of a sneer. It went well with Littlefield's lean, cold, patronizing, negatively aristocratic appearance and manner. "Michael, I'm so glad you called back. How have you been?"
They had been on opposite sides of too many courtroom battles for Tucker to feign friendship with Littlefield. He found it difficult to be even minimally polite with the man. "What do you want?"
"I'd like to see you tomorrow," Littlefield said.
"About what?"
"I have a proposition for you, Michael. A very fine offer from your father."
"Give it to me now."
"On the telephone?"
"Why not?"
"Well, it's quite a compromise on your father's part," the attorney said. "I would think the least you could do would be to come around to my office and hear it. Besides, it isn't really suitable stuff for the telephone. We're talking here of quite complicated terms, large sums of money "
"I'm not interested in compromises," Tucker said. "I simply want what is mine, my inheritance. I want the old man to stop interfering with my mother's wishes."
"Have you forgotten, Michael, that it was your mother's last wish that your father maintain control of your estate and use it with his own greater fortune to increase it until such a time as you-"
Tucker almost gritted his teeth. When he spoke, cutting off Littlefield, his voice was strained. "When my mother was dying, delirious, when she didn't know what she was doing, he got her to sign that damned paper, giving him guardianship over the inheritance. You know that isn't what she really wanted."
Littlefield sensed that Tucker was about to hang up on him. "Michael, let's not argue, please. This is old stuff, hashed over too often already."
Tucker did not reply.
"Come around and see me tomorrow," Littlefield said. "You'll like what your father's proposing. You must be as weary of the courtroom as we are. Come see me for lunch, please."
"I'm busy at lunchtime," Tucker said.
"Three o'clock then?"
Tucker thought about it. If he could pry even a fraction of his inheritance out of his father, he would be a millionaire. There would be no need at all to fly out to California, no need to set up this operation at Oceanview Plaza, no need to get inextricably involved with the unstable Frank Meyers, no need to take any more risks. He would be able to devote more of his time to his art interests. Perhaps he could even promote his freelance dealership into a viable business that would help to pay some of the bills. And, most importantly, there would be more time to spend with Elise, more time to keep in touch with her career, to give her the support and confidence she had so often given him "Three o'clock," he agreed at last.
"Wonderful," Littlefield said.
"Just you and me."
"Excuse me?" the lawyer said.
"This meeting," Tucker said. "It's just between the two of us, right?"
"Well, of course. Michael-"
"I would not be at all receptive to a surprise appearance by the old man."
"Just the two of us," Littlefield assured him. "And I'm certain we can come to an agreement tomorrow despite the bitterness of these last few years."
"We'll see," Tucker said. He hung up.
Out in the corridor again, he stood in front of the Edo shield and spear for several minutes, hoping that the sight of them would settle his nerves, as had so often been the case in the past months. This time their beauty did not affect him. Even after he had finished the drink that Elise had waiting for him in the bedroom, he was tense and jumpy. He had trouble getting to sleep. He kept waking from bad dreams, all of which involved his father, Frank Meyers, Oceanview Plaza, and dozens of armed policemen
Ever since Elise had brought him there on a long winter's afternoon last December, the Museum of Natural History had been one of Tucker's favorite places in New York. It had everything from dinosaur skeletons and cross sections of giant redwood trees to insect and rodent exhibits, the enormous and the apparently insignificant all crammed into one great, drafty old building. A tour of the museum provided a breadth of experience and a sense of eons that was more than intellectually stimulating; indeed, it could be an emotional experience, especially for a man who, like Tucker, appreciated the antique and the primitive. Wandering through these rooms and halls, Tucker was always impressed by the fact that he was witnessing millions of years of change that, by this very evidence of its transpiration, proved the meager role of mankind in the greater workings of the universe. An hour here could make his daily problems seem petty, even laughable.
This impact, this realization was especially forceful when he had time to think in a moment of quiet between the screaming packs of undisciplined schoolchildren who roamed like wild creatures through the stone halls and chambers. And one of the best places to find quiet in the museum was the Eskimo totem-pole room. Although all teachers touched on dinosaurs, redwood trees, and other wonders, few ever mentioned the Eskimo culture to their energetic charges. Therefore, the kids ran and screamed and played tag around other exhibits, leaving this place to older and much calmer heads.
As usual there was a strange and mournful silence in the room. It was broken only by the hum of an electric fan that was standing on a platform by one of the doors and raking the totem poles with cool air. The lights were low, as always, the ceiling shrouded in mysterious shadows. One after another the mammoth totems rose, majestic, crude, and yet beautiful, the gnarled faces peering either straight ahead or glaring down at whatever puny men dared to walk beneath them.
Edgar Bates was standing halfway along the main aisle, staring up at a fierce-looking bird-god that was staring right back down at him. "Those damned kids," he said when Tucker stopped beside him, "gave me a splitting headache."
"They seldom come in here," Tucker said.
Their voices, though whispers, shushed around the room and added to the funereal atmosphere.
"Took four Anacins," Bates said. "But I feel like I'm about to lose the top of my scalp."
"How you been?" Tucker asked.
"Fine, until I ran into those kids. Screaming like banshees."
"Doing much work lately?"
"Whenever it looks good."
"I need a jugger."
"And I'm here to listen," Bates said.
He was a solid man, an inch or two shorter than Tucker, at least forty pounds overweight, although he was not fat. With big rounded shoulders, broad chest, and short, thick legs, he might have been a Russian peasant who had spent most of his life in the fields. His face, too, was Slavic, square and well lined, capped with a shock of bushy white hair.
Although he was sixty years old, not much younger than Clitus Felton, Edgar was a long way from retirement. He not only liked what he did, he defined himself almost entirely in terms of his unorthodox profession. He had no wife, no children. His talents meant so much to him not merely because they earned him large sums of money but because they made him valuable as a man, respected and appreciated by his peers. He was good, the best jugger Tucker had ever seen. He was almost an artist. He could break, file, acid-breach, finesse or blow a safe faster than any other man in the business. If he worked another twenty years, he would most likely still be the best safecracker in the country when he checked out of it.
"There's a shopping center in California that was just made to be hit," Tucker said.