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“They’ve got serial numbers.”

“Well,” the Deputy Warden said, “he’s behaved himself here, kept mostly out of trouble, served easy time. Stays out of most folks’ way. I haven’t had much contact with him. No occasion to. The ones I see are mostly the troublemakers. So there’s not a whole lot I can tell you about him.”

The Deputy Warden cocked his head over on one side. “You know, that’s a pretty fair rate of pay — seven hundred thousand dollars for twenty-eight months easy time. Works out to about twenty-five thousand a month, doesn’t it. Good pay, yessirreebob. If he gets to keep it.” The eyes narrowed into a shrewd smile. “You’re fixin’ to see he doesn’t get to keep it.”

Thurston said, “Well, I’m fixing to try. He’s due for release tomorrow morning. I’d appreciate it if you’d point him out to me but not let him see me. I’ve seen his photographs But they’re a few years old and I’d rather have him identified for me in the flesh, just so there’s no possibility of a mistake.”

“And then you aim to shadow him when he leaves here, that it?”

“Every step of the way.”

Thurston sat in the car in a No Parking zone —“Violators will be towed away”— with art angle of view on the Big A. It looked rather like the Reichstag from this angle — the old one, he thought; the one Hitler had burned down in ’33. Thurston took an interest in history, particularly the kind that was told photographically. He had a growing collection of rare old plates even a few Matthew Brady originals. It was the sort of thing you did when you lived alone, and Thurston preferred to live alone.

He wasn’t antisocial. But he’d learned there wasn’t anybody whose face he wanted to look at every night and every morning — or at least he’d thought so until recently.

There was one daughter, now thirteen, the souvenir of his youthful romantic illusion, but she was confined to a home for the severely retarded. She didn’t recognize him on his infrequent visits, so he didn’t feel he had any real ties. He read books, collected his photographic history, played poker quite often, enjoyed his own simple cooking, worked out three times a week in a health club, dated several women most of whom were divorcees; but lately he’d been seeing more of one woman than of the others.

He enjoyed most of all his work. Thurston had been a licensed investigator ever since he’d been discharged from the Military Police in 1968.

He had specialized in insurance cases for seven years now; he had a record of recoveries that no other agent in the company could match, and he took pride in it.

The Ned Marks case had been a special challenge from the beginning. It had come across his desk a year ago; another agent had handled it originally but he’d retired and now it was Thurston’s. The self-confident brashness of the Marks theft had intrigued him from the start, mainly because it appeared that Marks had expected to be caught.

Marks had been neither surprised nor chagrined when they’d arrested him two days after the bearer bonds had disappeared from the vault of the Sherman Oaks bank where he’d worked for eight months as a junior mortgage officer.

Thurston had inherited a thorough dossier on Marks and he’d committed the salient references to memory. It was a personal history of dreary familiarity to Thurston, who had read a thousand such dossiers and long since lost his capacity for surprise.

Marks was thirty-seven. He’d served in Vietnam, but in a clerical capacity in Saigon — not out in the boonies. There was only one prior arrest on the rap sheet. At the age of eighteen he’d stolen the landlord’s typewriter and sold it for $25, which he then lost in a schoolyard crap game. His mother had bought another typewriter for the landlord and the case had been dropped.

After his army service and two years of G.I. Bill attendance at a junior college in Santa Ana, Marks had gone to work for a former Vietnam buddy in a shady scheme to sell cut-rate (and worthless) vitamin pills to minor drugstore chains. When the venture went bankrupt under the threat of F.D.A. scrutiny, Marks had drifted into other jobs, mostly in the sort of selling operations that were next door to frauds but just within the law — mail-order junk, real-estate scams, pest exterminating. According to the dossier, one employer had fired him because she suspected him of having embezzled $3000, but nothing was proved and no charges had been brought against him.

Thurston had dealt with Marks’s kind before: the cruel solipsists, the me-first sharpies with clever brains and the moral convictions of hungry pariah dogs.

Among the confidential reports in the dossier was an interview with a casual chum of Marks’s who’d worked as a bartender in Van Nuys. “He said he’d just got himself a job in some bank over there someplace around Ventura Boulevard. He said it didn’t pay much. So I ask him why he took the job, and he gives me that funny smile, like, you know the way he smiles like he knows something nobody else knows, and he gives me, you know, that old Willie Sutton line about I go to banks because that’s where the money is. You know.”

So he might had had it in mind to rip off the bank even before he applied for the job there. In any case he’d had eight months to study the operations — the bank’s arrangements for the handling of negotiables. On the morning of the theft Marks had gone into the vault to get a deck of traveler’s checks, and according to his confession he’d simply slipped the sheaf of bearer bonds under his shirt and walked out with them.

By the time the theft was discovered that afternoon, he’d been out to lunch for an hour and had had plenty of time to dispose of the bonds, at least temporarily. Like everyone else who’d had access to the vault he was searched thoroughly that evening before leaving the bank; they hadn’t found anything on him then. But within a day or so the F.B.I. and police had built up a strong circumstantial case against Marks — access, opportunity, fingerprints on the bond shelf, and mainly the simple fact that the movements of everyone else were accounted for.

When they arrested Marks he was indignant at first, insisting he was innocent; but apparently his lawyer had persuaded him that the evidence against him was too potent to deny. In a cheerful abrupt switch Marks had confessed and entered a plea of guilty to a relatively minor larceny charge, in a bargaining agreement reached between his lawyer and the prosecutors. The federal judge, in sentencing him, had imposed the maximum penalty because of Marks’s adamant refusal to make restitution; but the maximum punishment was only four years, which meant about two and one-half years of actual prison time, given the parole system. And because he was judged a nonviolent white-collar offender, Marks had been remanded to the Atlanta facility, which was the government’s principal institution for the incarceration of sophisticated or genteel prisoners. Ever since a counterfeiter named Handy Middlebrooks had become Inmate Number One in 1902, the Big A had been the Feds’ hostelry for the quiet ones: Eugene Debs, Rudolph Abel, Earl Carroll, Congressman John Langley, Governor Warren McCray. Cons elsewhere called it The Country Club.

Now, watching the entrance from his illegally parked car, Thurston wondered if even this — the choice of site for his 28-month incarceration — had been part of Ned Marks’s plan. In his confession Marks had said, “I am relieved and glad to have the uncertainty over with. No longer must I be in suspense as to whether I will be apprehended for my crime. I freely confess my wrongdoing but ask for leniency in view of the fact that I did not at any time place anyone’s life or good health in jeopardy.” Marks apparently had been coached by his lawyer to talk like that.

It was transparent self-serving piety but perhaps there was some truth in Marks’s expression of relief. He hadn’t tried very cleverly to destroy evidence. He hadn’t provided an alibi for himself or tried to put the blame on anyone else. He hadn’t even complained when the maximum sentence was passed.