"There's a doctor I know," Brock told her. "Get me a phone, I'll call him, he'll take care of things."
The pity she felt was as much for herself as for him. Unwillingly, she said, "I could call an ambulance."
"No! That means police, jail, I'll never see Matt again in my life! This doctor, he'll help."
At the head of the stairs, she turned into the dining room, dropped the mail on the table there, turned toward the kitchen at the front of the house. From the bedroom at the back she could hear the television, Matt watching his soap operas. After she put the ice cream and milk away, she went back there, pushed open the door, saw Matt asleep in his wheelchair in front of the set.
Matt slept a lot these days, increasingly so over the years, never adapting himself to the reality of his paralysis, never trying to fight back, to become somebody new. Now he was a poor bloated creature, like something deep in a cave, so bitter and so sorry for himself there was no room for anyone else to feel sorry for him.
Pam's hatred for Matt, her desire for revenge, had faded a long time ago, but she would never be able to feel anything but repugnance for him as he was now. She knew that only the paralysis kept him from being the same cruel arrogant bastard he'd been years ago, when he'd first broken into her house. The only good thing about Matt Rosenstein, now or in the past or ever, was Paul Brock, and they all knew it.
She left Matt there asleep in front of his soap opera, and went on upstairs. The top floor was Paul's, his living room and bedroom and workshop, but the floor between was hers. Since the kids had gone off to college, one of their former bedrooms had become a sitting room for her, with her own TV, which she rarely watched. She listened to music there now, and read an English novel, and waited for dinnertime.
The man's name was Parker.
Dinner was usually the only part of the day when all three were together. Pam cooked and Paul came home from his shop to wheel Matt out to his place at the table. Matt could move his arms, though nothing below them, so he could feed himself. Usually he glowered at his plate and ate sloppily and had little to say, while Paul and Pam kept up the conversation. Paul was a slight man, under medium height, very thin, with a kind of friendly Ichabod Crane face. He wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses that made his eyes look huge.
Tonight, Pam had to tell them both about that strange meeting on the street. Once all three were at the table, she said, not looking at either of them in particular, 'The man who came into my house that time, the man who shot you, I saw him today."
That drew an astounded silence. Paul stared at her, and even Matt roused himself to blink in her direction. And finally, Paul said, "You saw him? Where?"
"Out front. He was walking up the street, he turned onto Bank."
Paul took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The hand holding the glasses shook. "He's here," he said. "He found us."
"This is you, goddamit," Matt told him. His voice rumbled now, and wheezed, from all the extra weight. Glaring at Paul, he said, "You fucked it up again, god-damit!"
"Charov was supposed to—"
"Charov!" Matt pounded his wheelchair arm. "Fucking Russian wasn't as good as he thought he was! None of you fucking people— If /could do something!"
"I have to call them," Paul said, and jumped up, and ran upstairs to make the call where Pam wouldn't hear it-
There were always things Paul had to keep from her, both in how he made his money and how he spent his evenings when he dressed up and went out smelling of cologne, and she was happy to be kept in the dark. She didn't want to know. His electronics shop on Fourteenth Street made a profit, but she knew that wasn't his real income, that wouldn't pay for this house or all the money he'd spent on her and her family over the years.
Matt turned his heavy glower in her direction, while she listened to the murmur of Paul on the phone upstairs. "A fat lot of help you'll be, he grumbled.
"I've been of help in the past," she told him. "I've been of help to you" She didn't have to put up with his bad temper.
Matt had nothing more to say, and neither did she. Picking up her fork, she tried to eat, listening to the sounds of Paul from upstairs, then his footsteps hurrying back down.
He was white when he came into the room. He didn't sit at his place at the table, but just stood there, barely beyond the doorway^ staring with a horrified expression at Matt. "They cut us off."
Matt lifted his head. "What? They can't do that!"
'They did it." Paul seemed distracted, despairing, bewildered. "He went to them, he did something, I don't know what. They won't help any more. They told Parker they were out of it!"
"Told him!" Matt pounded the wheelchair arm. "Get me a gun! This time it's my turn, goddamit! Get me a gun!"
"Matt—"
Pam said, quietly, "Paul. If you give Matt a gun, I'm leaving."
"Goddam bitch!"
'That's all right, Matt," Paul said, and started to pat his shoulder, then realized this wasn't the time to get within arm's reach. Standing just far enough away, he said, "You don't need a gun, Matt. We'll figure this out. Don't worry, baby, he won't get in here. We'll figure it out."
3
At home, Frank Elkins and Ralph Wiss were completely different from the roles they played on the road. At home, they were family men, living not far from each other in the same Chicago suburb, involving themselves with their families and their community. They both had large extended families, several children each, and cousins and in-laws in all directions, but not one of those people knew what Elkins and Wiss really did for a living, except their wives. The two were known to work together, to travel a lot, and to bring home enough for a comfortable income, but that was all. "We do specialty promotions," Elkins would say, if pressed, as they rarely were, and Wiss would nod. They did specialty promotions.
Elkins considered himself very lucky, both in his family and in his partner. A lot of the guys he knew were loners, and didn't have much joy in their lives;
that wasn't him. As for the partner, it was Ralph Wiss who had the expertise, the craft. Elkins was just along to do the heavy lifting. Wiss was the one who knew safes and vaults, how they were locked, how they could be opened. Wiss did the brain work; once the door was breached, all Elkins had to do was pick up the contents and carry it home.
The Montana job had seemed made to order for them. There were clever locks for Wiss to play with, and a lot of heavy lifting. Too much for just the two of them, which was why they'd brought in Corbett and Dolan. Harry Corbett and Bob Dolan were younger than Elkins and Wiss, but both had been inside and had learned caution. Elkins and Wiss had worked with them in the past, and there'd never been any problem.
Now, there was a problem. Corbett and Dolan were ready to skip, start again with new names and new faces, but that took money. And they, too, had families, and it was their families who had put up the heavy bail money. If Corbett and Dolan couldn't make their families whole again on the bail, with enough left over for themselves, they'd have no choice but to stay and do the time. But that meant they'd also have no choice but to trade Elkins and Wiss for a shortening of that time.
It put a pressure on Elkins that he didn't like, but he couldn't see any way around it. If he were in Corbett and Dolan's shoes, he'd make the same offer. Nothing personal, just the physics of the situation.