Edna said, “When I think of the foolish young girl I was then, I could slap my face. And when I think, Myrtle, of the foolish young girl you’ve never been, I could slap both our faces. I know it’s partly my fault for stifling any impulse you ever might have had to fly from the nest, and I know it’s partly Tom Jimson’s fault for turning me into a bitter old woman before my time, but good heavens, girl, don’t you have one single rebellious bone in your body? Whatever happened to heredity? Don’t interrupt when I’m talking. The point is, Tom Jimson may, just may, be doing some good for once in his life, even if he didn’t intend it and doesn’t know about it. If all this hadn’t happened, you and I could have just drifted along the same way, day after day, year after year, all the way to the grave, you just another dim little obedient country spinster taking care of her bad-tempered nasty old mama—now just let me finish, if you don’t mind—but we’ve been shaken out of that, the two of us, and that’s good. That diving fella’s no good for you, Myrtle, and you know it as well as I do. He’s just a paler Tom Jimson, that’s all, less cold-blooded but just as untrustworthy. If you’re going to have your head turned by a pretty face, go right ahead, but please try to reassure yourself that there’s some sort of reliable brain behind it. Which brings me to you, Wallace. I know your type, and don’t think I don’t. I used to see little boys like you all the time when I ran the library at Putkin’s Corners. Intelligent little boys who weren’t any good at sports, boys the other children used to make fun of, and they’d come into the library for a refuge and a fantasy. But you aren’t a child anymore, Wallace. It’s true you’re still funny-looking, but most adults are; it’s time for you to come out of your shell. Fantasy has led you into dangers you can’t possibly deal with, and you know it. Never mind, never mind, there are things that computer of yours doesn’t know, either. I say it’s New York City did it to you, having to lock yourself away for protection all the time, and what you should do is move to a real place, a good small town where you could get to meet people and know people and be part of the real world. Now, we have that spare room upstairs. Myrtle and I have been talking forever about fixing it up and renting it, and—yes, we have, Myrtle, don’t be a goose—and I know Mr. Kempheimer at the bank, I’m sure they could use a computer expert there, he’s always complaining about modern times, you know how men get. Well, you’ll look into that when you make your mind up.”
Murch’s Mom said, “Edna—”
Edna said, “Now about the money. It’s dirty money. I don’t care how long it’s been in the water, it’s still dirty. Myrtle and I don’t want any part of it, and you shouldn’t want it either, Wallace, and you certainly won’t need it if you’re working at the bank, and however would you report it on your income tax? Gladys, I understand your son is a professional in this sort of thing and therefore he would want his share of the money, and I accept it if you say he isn’t a vicious monster like Tom Jimson but simply a very good professional driver, but I’m really afraid he should never have gotten involved in this. Tom Jimson will be going to Mexico, all right, and glad to see the back of him, but he’ll take all that money with him when he goes. Miss Bellamy’s friend John was right when he left, and I think your son Stanley should have gone with him, because there is simply no depth to Tom Jimson’s wickedness. I’m sure, by now, out there on that dark water, he has started doing something terrible.”
Tom went down into the cabin of the Over My Head to have a look around. The curtains had been shut over the windows down here and one dim light over the sink switched on, in which glow he saw they’d put Dortmunder’s hitchhiker, still out cold, on the sofa where Tom had stashed the Ingram Model 10 when he’d left the house briefly and surreptitiously much earlier today. That was all right; when the time came, the hitchhiker could be target number one.
The Ingram Model 10, named for its designer, Gordon Ingram, was manufactured from 1970 in the United States by the Military Armament Corporation. A machine pistol less than a foot long and weighing only 6.5 pounds, the Model 10 fires.45-caliber ammunition from a 30-round magazine that fits into—and juts down from—the pistol grip. It fires in fully automatic mode, using the blowback principle, has fixed sights fore and aft, and the cocking handle, mounted on the top (convenient for both right- and left-handed shooters), is grooved down the middle so as not to interfere with sighting. It is factory-fitted with a suppressor to reduce noise.
Tom had removed from his copy of the weapon its usual retractable metal-pipe shoulder butt that, when extended, just about doubled the weapon’s length. After all, he didn’t expect ever to use it for targets more than a couple of feet away, so he would never have to aim from a shoulder stance. Like tonight, for instance; how far can a target go on a boat?
Tom gave off contemplating the unconscious hitchhiker, and the equalizer concealed beneath his sleeping head, when Doug came bounding down the narrow steps, filling the cabin as much by his energy and sheer physicality as by his simple presence. “Gotta suit up,” he explained.
“I’ll get out of your way then, Popeye,” Tom said.
“Naw, that’s okay, Tom,” Doug said. “It’s miserable up there on deck, not enough room for everybody to get in under the tarp. Sit on the other bunk, why doncha?”
“Good idea,” Tom said, and did so.
Doug frowned at the sleeper. “He’s been out a long time,” he commented. “Tiny doesn’t know his own strength.”
“Oh, I think he does,” Tom said.
“Think he’ll be all right?”
“We’ll all be all right, Popeye. Very soon, now.”
If Doug minded this nickname Tom had recently found for him, naming him after a blowhard comic-strip sailor, he hadn’t yet said so. Of course, it was possible he didn’t get it; Tom had found, in his long life, that an astonishing number of people had just about no sense of humor at all.
Doug was still frowning in worry at Dortmunder’s unconscious friend. “See, the thing is,” he explained, “up till now, we maybe broke a few laws and all, trespassing and stealing this boat and like that, but nothing really major, you know? If we got caught—”
“You won’t get caught,” Tom told him. “I guarantee it.”
“Hope you’re right,” Doug said, and turned his attention to the wetsuit and other gear he had to change into, stowed in the forward storage area beyond the bunks.
Meantime, up on deck, Dortmunder had been left by Doug in charge of the wheel, with somewhat more assistance from Kelp and Tiny than he felt he absolutely needed. “Remember,” Kelp said, for about the thousandth time, “you don’t want to run across that monofilament and bust it.”
“The boat isn’t even moving,” Dortmunder pointed out.
Tiny said, “Well, Dortmunder, it’s not exactly not moving, either. Up and down and side to side count.”
“I’m holding the position,” Dortmunder answered, with just a soupçon of asperity in his voice. “Doug said hold the position, I’m holding the position.”
“We’re only saying,” Kelp said.
Doug came flap-footing in his flippers up from below at that point. He was changed into his diving gear, which made him the only person here properly dressed for the weather. He said, “Holding the position?”
“Yes,” said Dortmunder, in lieu of a lot of other things.
“Good. Might as well get it over with.”
Doug picked up a coil of line, one end of which was knotted to the side rail. Seating himself on that rail next to that knot, he used his free hand to adjust the mask and mouthpiece over his face, waved sideways like Queen Elizabeth, and flipped backward over the side.