Callahan's was filled with well-dressed, prosperous-looking people, most of them crowded three deep around the horseshoe-shaped bar. The general depression and malaise that seemed to grip so much of America didn't operate here. Here, things were booming.
Stan could see people sitting in the adjoining dining room, eating as though there were no food shortages. It looked like they were eating real steaks, too. From beyond the dining room he could hear the excited sounds of people betting. The gaming rooms would be right down there, and that was where Julie led him.
“What game are you going to play?” he asked.
“I'll try Whorgle,” she said.
She pushed her way into the circle, and they made way for her. There were a dozen men and three women betting on the action. They waited while she set out her cash. Then the game went on.
Stan found he couldn't figure out how Whorgle was played. There were cards, of course, and a small ivory marker, and something made it spin and jump between the numbers painted on the table. How long it resided in a square seemed to decide who won, but the cards had something to do with it, too. There were also disk-shaped markers with odd symbols on one side. The money, thrown down on the painted stake lines, passed back and forth too quickly for Stan to figure out what was happening. He knew he could work it all out if he just applied his mind, but right now he was feeling light-headed. It had been quite a while since his last shot of Xeno-Zip. The artificial fire that had enlivened his nerves and dulled his senses was fading out of his system. He was beginning to feel very bad. The pain was simply too hard to handle without something to help it like essence of royal jelly.
At last the pain became too much for him. He had to go into a nearby room and lie down on a couch.
After a while he fell into a troubled sleep and dreamed of grinning skulls dancing and bobbing in front of him.
After a while Julie came and woke him. She was smiling.
“How did you do?” Stan asked her.
“Nobody beats me at Whorgle,” she said, riffling through a stack of greenbacks. “Let's go home and get some sleep. Then I need to see Gibberman.”
8
Gibberman was a small man who wore a tweed cap pulled low on his forehead and crouched behind his Plexiglas-protected desk in his Canal Street pawnbroker's office, looking for all the world like an inflated toad. He wore a jeweler's loupe on a black ribbon around his neck and spoke with some indefinable Eastern European accent.
“Julie! Good to see you, darling.”
“I told you I'd come,” Julie said. “I'd like you to meet a friend of mine.”
“Delighted,” said Gibberman. “But no names, please.” He shook Stan's hand, then offered Julie a drink from a half-empty bottle of bourbon beside him.
“No, nothing,” she said. “Look, I'm going to get right to the point. I need plans for a job, and I need them quickly.”
“Everybody's always in a hurry,” Gibberman said.
“I've got places to go and things to do,” Julie said.
“Rushing around is the curse of this modem age.”
“Sure,” Julie said. “You got anything for me or not?”
Gibberman smiled. “A good job is going to cost, you know.”
“Of course,” Julie said. “Here, check this out.”
She took an envelope from her purse and put it down on the desk in front of Gibberman. He opened it, looked inside, riffled the bills, then closed the envelope again.
“You got it there, Julie. All you've got, that's the price.”
“Fine,” Julie said. “Now what do you have?”
“A piece of luck for you,” Gibberman said. “Not only have I got a first-class job, probably worth a million or more, but you could do it tonight if you want to move that fast.”
“Fast is just what I want,” Julie said. “You're sure this is a good one?”
“Of course I'm sure,” Gibberman said. “There's an element of risk in all these matters, as you well know. But with your well-known talents, you should have no particular difficulty.”
Gibberman twirled around in his chair and pushed a wall painting out of the way. Behind it was a small safe set into the wall. He twirled the combination, blocking Julie and Stan's view with his body. Reaching in, he pulled out half a dozen envelopes, looked through them rapidly, selected one, put the rest back, then closed the safe.
“Here's the job, my dear. Set for New York, and on a street not too far from where we are just now.”
“This had better be good,” Julie said. “That's every cent we've got in the world.”
“You know how reliable I am,” Gibberman said. “Together with my accuracy goes my well-known discretion.”
9
“What is this?” Stan asked. They had gone back home and had opened the manila envelope that Gibberman had given her. Inside was a map, a floor plan of an apartment, several keys, and a half-dozen pages of notes neatly printed in a tiny handwriting.
“This, my dear, is what any successful thief needs — a plan.”
“That's what you got from Gibberman?”
“I've used his plans for several years,” Julie said. “He's very thorough.”
“So who are you going to rob?” Stan asked.
“A wealthy Saudi oilman named Khalil. He arrived in New York two days ago. He's going to the Metropolitan Opera tomorrow night to watch a special performance of The Desert Song. While he's away I'll relieve him of certain items he usually keeps in his apartment.”
“Where is this to take place?”
“He's staying at the Plaza.”
“Wow,” Stan said. “I never thought I'd be doing this.”
“You're not,” Julie said. “I am. You'll have to wait for me at home. I always work alone.”
“But we're partners now. We do everything together.”
He looked so crestfallen that Julie felt a pang of sorrow for him.
“Stan,” she said, “you know that robot you've built? Would you trust me to do micro-soldering on his interior circuits?”
“Of course not,” Stan said. “You haven't had the training…. Oh, I see what you mean. But it's not really the same thing.”
“It's the exact same thing,” Julie said.
“I just hate to see you going into this alone.”
“Don't worry about me. Nothing ever goes wrong with my plans. And if it does, I can take care of it.”
10
The Plaza Hotel had suffered some damage during the recent time of the aliens, but had since regained at least a semblance of its former elegance. Julie went there that evening wearing a stunning red cocktail dress. She looked, if not exactly like a celebrity, then definitely like a celebrity's girlfriend. The doorman opened the door for her, bowing deeply. She entered the big, brilliantly lit lobby. The reception desk was straight ahead. She didn't want to get too close to it yet. She glanced at her watch as if she was expecting to meet somebody. All the time she was taking in the details.
People were very well dressed. This was a place where money was in very good supply.
To one side a small orchestra was playing a quaint song from olden times called “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” People were coming in and out of the bar with its glowing mahogany paneling and its soft indirect lighting. She would have liked a drink now, but she had an unbreakable rule: no alcohol or any other kind of drug while she was on a job.
She looked around the bar and then the lobby. Her practiced eye picked out the security men, two of them near the potted palms. She could always tell who they were. They just didn't look like the guests, no matter how well they dressed. She counted five of them. They gave her admiring glances but there was nothing suspicious in their looks. So far so good.
The big hotel was in full swing. There were lights everywhere, and elegant people, and the accoutrements of success. You could smell it in the five-dollar cigars and the expensive perfume on the white shoulders of the women; in the aroma of roast beef, the real thing, wafting out from under silver servers as black-coated waiters brought the well-laden plates around; in the very carpet, permeated with expensive preservatives and subtle-smelling oils.