High-Tech’s owner/operator, a skinny man with hornrimmed specs and long-fingered hands and his hair in Laurie Anderson spikes, was at his workbench when the phone rang. On the bench was a black box the size of a cigarette pack, with a magnet at one side and two small antennae extending out not more than an inch from the other side. He picked up the phone, listened for a moment, then handed it to his client, Moyers.
Sharples’s voice, high-pitched with tension, said, “Runyan was in and said he was going camping in the Sierra for a week before he started to look for work. He wanted permission—”
“I told you I expected that,” snapped Moyers impatiently.
“So I did what you... ah... suggested. I dated his permission letter tomorrow instead of today. But that means he can leave any time after midnight tonight...”
“I know what it means,” said Moyers. “It means I’ll have the son of a bitch when he makes his move.”
The sparkling display windows faced Grant Avenue with tasteful arrangements of rings, necklaces, stones and earrings. Beside the inset entranceway was a discreet brass plaque:
As Runyan entered, he thought that Gatian had done well for himself since the robbery eight years ago. Everyone seemed to have done well except Runyan. And maybe Tenconi.
Gatian was frightened; he paced up and down his private office just barely controlling an impulse to wring his hands. Delarty, at the window, wore a sour look mixed with not a little impatience. On the desk was the same newspaper Runyan had seen, with the same headline visible.
“Take it easy, will you?” said Delarty. “Tenconi had a lot of enemies besides Runyan. Half the wops in North Beach probably are holding a candlelight parade now that he’s—”
The door burst open and Runyan stormed in past Gatian’s protesting secretary. His shirt was open halfway to his navel; there was a twitch to his hips and a lisp in his voice.
“Gatian sold me the ring for five thousand dollars last week,” he exclaimed, “but my friend says it isn’t worth a penny over three thousand, and I’m not going to be taken advantage of just because Gatian and I had a moment together...”
Delarty took his hand unobtrusively out from under his jacket. The flustered Gatian caught the movement. “Ah, Brenna, I’ll... ah... take care of... um...”
He herded the distraught secretary out of the room as Runyan plunked himself down in the big impressive padded executive’s swivel chair. He grabbed the edge of the big impressive executive’s desk and spun himself around and around in the swivel chair as a kid might have done. He stopped himself by slamming a flattened palm down on the newspaper headline.
“You’ve got a problem, Gatian. Tenconi was a shit and Delarty here is a shit. But he steps into Tenconi’s percentage so you two are partners.” He gave an amused laugh. “Bambi and Godzilla.” He tipped back in the swivel chair, and said to Delarty, “Your problem is stupidity. I’d like you for the hit on your partner, except that you aren’t really smart enough to come up with that peephole idea...”
Blood suffused Delarty’s already slightly choleric face. He took two steps forward and threw a roundhouse right at Runyan’s jaw. Runyan snapped up a cocked leg so the fist thudded into the sole of his shoe. Delarty did a little dance about, nursing his skinned knuckles and breathing through his nose.
Runyan laughed. “You are smart enough,” he said to Gatian, “but no guts.” He came out from behind the desk. He looked from one to the other. “Which perhaps leaves Bambi and Godzilla together again, ridding the world of poor old Tenconi — and his claim to a percentage of the take.”
“You could have worked it,” said Delarty stubbornly.
“Sure I could have. But... kill me before I can recover the stones, you get nothing.” He laughed aloud again. “Leave me alone, maybe you get dead.”
Gatian, still nervous, began, “I’m sure we can work—”
“Or maybe it was Cardwell,” suggested Runyan. “Maybe something snapped inside his head and he went after Tenconi.” He grasped the doorknob and turned it, not quite pulling the door open. “Or maybe it was one of you, working independently, not telling the other how you were going to do in old Tenconi. I’d keep an eye on each other if I were you.”
Then he opened the door and slipped through, closing it firmly behind him. Delarty glanced almost accusingly across the room at Gatian — and was startled to meet an equally hostile glare from him.
From Gatian’s, Runyan went to the nearest medical office in the phone book and waited until a doctor could see him. He explained that he was involved in a complicated business deal that he found impossible to put out of his mind, so he was having difficulty getting to sleep at night. The doctor gave him a prescription.
Forcing himself to consider only the necessity Louise’s phone call seemed to dictate, he had the prescription filled at the drugstore on the corner. Then he went in search of Louise, feeling guilty but more secure.
Chapter 20
The day was an education for Louise. She was seeing a new Runyan, perhaps Runyan as he had been before the destructive years in San Quentin. He was funny and loose and a little reckless, turning up at the hotel and kissing her in the lobby where she’d been waiting for his arrival.
“Let’s go spend some money,” he said.
They spent it in a mountaineering shop, renting or buying boots, jackets, a two-man tent, a Coleman pressure lantern and fold-up stove, Gold Line rope, pitons, chocks, and a pair of odd-looking clamplike things which he called Jumar ascenders. Louise reached for her credit card, but Runyan said he had money from his brother.
She turned away, looking almost embarrassed, as the clerk tallied up the charges. He was a husky kid wearing a T-shirt which showed the tracks of climbing boots on his chest, one foot going each way, with the legend underneath, JUST A LITTLE BIT CRAZY.
“Where are you climbing?” he asked.
“Yosemite.”
“It’s great this time of year.” Louise returned to stand close with an arm around Runyan as he counted out the money. “Which climbs are you doing?”
“I thought we’d warm up on Monday Morning Slab, then try the Royal Arches,” said Runyan.
“Which ascent?”
Runyan grinned. “The easiest one.”
As they piled the back seat of Louise’s car high with their gear, she kept looking for Moyers. And kept not seeing him. She finally mentioned it to Runyan.
“He’s got other things to do.”
“How does he know we won’t ditch him again?”
“He knows where you’re staying, and Sharples dated my permission letter to go camping in the Sierra for tomorrow instead of today. What does that tell you?”
“Nothing,” said Louise promptly.
“That Moyers told him to postdate it. Because Moyers knows we aren’t just going to go camping—”
“I don’t know that,” said Louise suspiciously.
“Well, we aren’t. So Moyers will make sure we don’t ditch him at the vital moment.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He must have been an excellent thief, she thought scrutinizing this new Runyan. His mind was always moving, leaping ahead, figuring angles, foreseeing contingencies. Except he hadn’t foreseen the unexpected arrival of a guard.
“Well, are you going to tell me about it?”