"Shopping center?"
"Hear me out."
"Shopping center?" Bates wrinkled his flat face.
"I know it sounds ridiculous. It isn't."
"Go on then."
"It's a very exclusive mall," Tucker explained quietly, his voice whispering unintelligibly around the long display room. "It doesn't cater to the average citizen. It's as if you were to round up twenty of the best businesses on Fifth Avenue and put them all under one roof. There are a handful of very exclusive dress shops-Markwood and Jame, Sasbury's There's a furrier, an art gallery where the prices start at five hundred dollars a throw, a Rolls Royce dealership, a London-style tailor best of all, there's a savings bank."
"Ahhh," Bates said, nodding and smiling, still looking up at the bird-god.
Tucker also looked at that evil wooden countenance rather than at Bates. From a distance they seemed to be discussing the totem. "We're going to hit the bank. But the vault's probably going to be open."
Bates looked away from the totem, grimaced as if in imitation of the bird-god's face. "Open? You mean you're hitting it during business hours? Then why do you need me?"
"It's an after-hours job," Tucker assured him.
"And the safe will be open?"
"Most likely. I'll explain why in due time. First-"
"But if it's open," Bates said, "why take me along?"
"Just in case it isn't open," Tucker explained. "And we'll also need you to break the safe in the jewelry store next door."
"You're taking jewelry?" Bates asked.
"Unset stones."
Bates shook his head disapprovingly, turned and looked up at the totem pole once more. His face was hard, the Slavic softness gone. His eyes were squeezed half shut, heavy but alert. "Merchandise!" he said, strong on the sarcasm. "You'll have to fence the damned stuff. And you know what a risk that is."
"I know. But-"
"It's almost as big a risk as taking the stuff in the first place," Bates said gruffly. "And what the hell can you get from a fence anyway? One-third the real value? More than likely, only one-fourth."
"I can get a third on this," Tucker said.
"Small potatoes."
"Maybe better than a third."
Bates cleared his throat, would have spat on the floor if this had not been a museum. "It's always best to take cash. Only cash. Never merchandise."
"I agree," Tucker said. "You've worked with me before. You know I usually pull cash jobs. But unset stones are eminently fenceable. And these ought to be worth half a million. Perhaps two hundred thousand to us when we sell them. I'd be surprised if we get more than a hundred thousand out of the bank."
"Half a million in uncut stones tucked away in a little jewelry-store safe?" Bates asked, surprised.
"It's a big, expensive safe," Tucker said, smiling. "I told you this was no ordinary shopping mall. This jewelry store makes rings and necklaces to order. It doesn't sell nineteen-dollar watches, Edgar."
"Tell me more," Bates said.
Tucker told him all of it, the whole layout and every step of the plan. He tried to make it sound especially sweet, for he wanted Edgar Bates more than he did any other jugger. Although he had a reputation as an extremely cool and calm operator, Tucker was routinely frightened and tightly wound when he was in the middle of a heist, regardless of whether the job was going well or disastrously. He always projected an aura of self-assurance, was always quick to lead, a sure commander-all the while seething inside. However, when he worked with men like Edgar Bates, he was considerably more relaxed than when he had to deal strictly with Frank Meyers's type. "If the jeweler's safe isn't too difficult for you, we should be able to pull off the entire operation in less than one hour." He looked sideways at Bates. "Sound reasonable to you?"
"Sure," Bates said. He looked away from the Eskimo artwork. "But what about this Frank Meyers?"
"What about him?" Tucker asked.
"You trust him?"
"Do you know him?" Tucker parried.
"I've heard the name, I think. But I've never worked with the man. Do you think he noticed everything he should have noticed? No guards or alarms that he might have overlooked?"
"He's got every detail," Tucker said, remembering the care put into the diagram of Oceanview Plaza. He did not mention his other reservations about Meyers. If Bates came in on this, the two of them could make up for any boner that Meyers might pull. "Are you with us?"
"You the boss?" Bates asked.
"I always am."
"Just checking." He looked up and down the display room and saw that they were alone except for a thin, bearded young man who was studying a totem twenty yards away. He turned his gaze on the bird-god again, studied the splintered beak and the madly gleaming eyes. A group of thirty or forty screaming schoolchildren raced past one of the doors, filling the chamber with maniacal echoes, remnants of eerie high-pitched laughter. When silence returned like a fog drifting in, the jugger said, "I'm along for the ride, then."
Tucker almost sighed aloud with relief.
"When?" Bates asked.
"Next Wednesday."
"Suits me."
"We'll stay in Los Angeles," Tucker said. "I have a hotel picked out. It has over four hundred rooms, so no one will notice us or remember us later. We'll check in separately and drive out to the mall for the job."
"Will we have a chance to look this Oceanview over firsthand?" Bates asked.
"Of course. We can explore it all afternoon before we hit it at closing time."
"Three men," Bates mused, "doesn't seem like enough."
"It is."
They ironed out the minor details of time and rendezvous in Los Angeles, then left the display room by different exits. The leering, hawk-nosed, painted faces of the monstrous totems stared after them with fierce intent.
"This is only a compromise, not a complete surrender," Albert Littlefield said as he settled into the high-backed leather chair behind his desk. "I want to be certain that you understand this straightaway, Michael. Your father is willing to be generous, but he is not willing to meet all of your demands." They made no small talk. The ice between them was much too thick to break. He sensed Tucker's attitude and knew the briefer the meeting the better for both of them.
"Go on, then," Tucker said, knowing already that it was really useless for Littlefield to continue. A compromise was not going to be good enough.
Littlefield's office seemed to be designed to match the chilly mood that separated the two men. The walls were white, unmarked, like partitions of snow. The ice-blue vinyl furniture looked cold and uncomfortable, all square and sharply angled, harsh and plain. The bindings of the hundreds of legal texts-green, brown, dull red-were matched and sterile, nearly hypnotizing the eye.
The man suited his office, Tucker thought. Littlefield was tall, slender, composed of sharp angles. His face was long and thin, with a fresh but slightly milky complexion. Arrow-straight, his nose was slightly flared around the nostrils, as if he were constantly sniffing some odor that offended him. His colorless lips were taut bow lines. He was clearly well bred, from a background of wealth and position, although he had none of the charm and personal easiness that most often accompanied the strong self-confidence of the aristocrat. Indeed, he was quite reserved and prim enough to fit comfortably the part of an eighteenth-century schoolmaster.
Littlefield folded his hands on the desk, his sticklike fingers pressed together at the tips. "As you know, Michael, your father has established for you a ten-thousand-dollar monthly allowance drawn from the earnings of your trust fund. Thus far, forty-two of these checks have been issued. Since you have consistently refused to accept them, they have been deposited in a special account in your name."
Tucker did not bother to explain why he had summarily rejected this apparent windfall. They both knew that by signing the waiver to be eligible for the dole, he would be endorsing his father's control of his mother's estate even before he spent the first penny. He would be signing away his right to file any further suits in federal court and would be limiting himself to the role of a minor for the remainder of his father's life if not his own.