It was even farther away than it had appeared from the Street, and he had an uneasy feeling of being watched from the dark interior behind the rusted screen door. But, hell, what was there to be nervy about? He wasn't giving the police any trouble and they weren't giving him any. And what else was there besides a slammed door or a dog? If he was starting to let things like that bother him, he might as well do a high brody right now. He and Elaine together.
He stepped lightly across the porch, splattered with green segments from the cedars, and raised his hand to knock. He jerked it back, startled.
"Yes?" said a man's sharp-soft voice. "What is it? You are selling something, please?"
The man must have been standing right in the door, hidden by the rusted screen and the shadowed room inside. Toddy blinked his eyes, trying to get the daylight out of them, but he still couldn't see the guy. All he knew about him was his voice-a Spanish-sounding voice.
"Not at all, sir," said Toddy, with energetic joviality. "I'm not selling a thing. A friend of yours suggested that I call on you. If I can give you my card…"
The screen opened and a bony, hair-tufted hand emerged. Deftly, it plucked the card from his fingers and disappeared. Toddy shifted uncomfortably.
This was all wrong, he knew. The spiel was off-key here, the gimmick was out of place. He had learned to use the card as a door- opener-to get 'em curious. To force them outside, or to get him in. He had learned to mention a neighbor, or, better still, a "friend." If they fell for it-and why shouldn't some neighbor or friend have suggested a call?-it was all to the good. If they got funny or sharp, he could have the "wrong house," lie out of it some way.
You had to do those things.
Toddy wished that he hadn't done them here.
He looked behind him, down the long inviting walk. He gave a slight hitch to his trousers and snuggled the box firmly under his arm. He'd give some excuse and beat it out of here. Or just beat it without saying anything. After all, he-he-
The screen door swung open, wide.
Through it, with stately but threatening grace, stalked the biggest dog Toddy had ever seen. He did not realize just how big it was until a moment later.
He knew very little about dogs, but he recognized this one as a Doberman. Slowly, it lowered its great pear-shaped head to his feet and examined each in turn. With awful deliberation, the animal sniffed each leg. It looked up at him thoughtfully, appraising him.
Silently, it reared up on its hind legs.
The front paws came down on Toddy's shoulders. The black muzzle almost rested against his nose.
Toddy stared into the beast's eyes. He stared unwinkingly, afraid to move or speak. He stopped breathing and was too fear-stricken to know it.
The screen door closed, slammed at last by its aged spring. As from a great distance, Toddy heard the man's amused chuckle, a seemingly unending chuckle; then, a sharp "Perrito!"-Spanish for "little dog."
The dog's ears pricked to attention. "Ssor-ree," the dog said courteously. "Ssss ssor-ree."
"D-don't m-mention it," Toddy stammered. "A mistake. I m-mean-"
The dog dropped back down to the porch and took up a position behind him. The screen door opened again.
"Please to come in," said the man.
"I don't-that d-dog," said Toddy. Dammit, was he dreaming this? "Won't he… will he hurt anyone?"
"On the contrary," the man said, and, helplessly, Toddy stepped inside. "He kills quite painlessly."
2
Todd Kent (the more was phony) had been born with a gizmo. That-the GI term for the unidentifiable-was the way he had come to think of something that changed in value from day to day, that was too whimsical in its influence to be bracketed as a gift, talent, aptitude or trait.
For most of the thirty years of his life, the gizmo had pushed him into the smelly caverns where the easy money lay. All his life-and always without warning-it had hustled him out through soul-skinning, nerve-searing exits.
A runaway from a broken home, Todd had first hit the big dough when he was sixteen. He had landed as a bellboy in a big hotel. From that he advanced to bell captain, and he was in; the gizmo went to work. Before it was all over the job of bellboy in that hotel was priced at one thousand dollars-a sum which the purchasers grimly went about recovering (along with considerably more!) in various shady ways. Before it was all over-when the beefs flowed over Toddy's young head and those of the minor executives he had fixed-many of the bellboys were in jail and the hotel had a thoroughly bad name.
Toddy was too young to prosecute on a job-selling rap. But there was such a thing as a juvenile authority which could take charge of him until he was twenty-one. Not at all pleased with this prospect, he had a confidential talk with the hotel's lawyers. The result was that he left town… but without his spanking new Cadillac, his diamond rings and the contents of his safety deposit box.
In a trackside jungle, he watched an ancient and brow-beaten bum toss dice from a rusted can. The bum put the dice in the can, shook them vigorously and threw a point. Then he reshook them, rolled them again, and there was his point. Not immediately-it usually took several throws-and not always. But almost always. Often enough.
Toddy's gizmo swung into action.
Yeah, the flattered bum agreed, it was quite a trick. Any hustler could throw hot dice from his hand, but who'd ever seen it done from a cup? Many big gambling houses insisted on cup shots, particularly where there was heavy money down. They were supposed to be hustler- proof.
No, he'd never got a chance to put the shot to work; stumbled onto it too late for that. But if a guy had the front, the dough, this was how it was done…
You held one die on your point. You didn't put it inside the cup. You palmed it and held it outside, pressed against the cup in your shooting hand. Say you were shooting for Phoebe, little five. You held onto three of it, then you rolled, letting the held die spin down at the exact moment the other shot came from the cup. Yeah, sure; maybe fever didn't make. Maybe the free die came out on four and you'd crapped. But you'd lowered the odds against yourself, see, kid? You'd knocked hell out of 'em. And how you could murder them big joints on come and field bets!
Months later… but this episode shall be cut short. Months later, in the secluded parlor of a Reno gambling house, a lean taffy-haired young man sat watching a slow motion picture of himself. The picture had been shot, apparently, from a concealed camera above the crap table, and it showed little but the movements of his hands. But that was enough. That was more than enough. Before the film was half- unwound, Toddy was drawing out his wallet, his bank passbook, and-oh, yes-the keys to a spanking new Cadillac.
He moved into the con games as naturally as a blonde moving into a mink coat. He rode them through Dallas, Houston, Oklahoma City, St. Louis, Omaha, Cleveland, New Orleans, Memphis… He rode them and was ridden, to use a police term. The gizmo was fickle, and he was ridden, rousted and floated.
Since he shunned working with others, he was confined to playing the "small con"-the hype and the smack and the tat. Those, however, with the new twists he added to them, were more than sufficient to provide him with a number of pleasant possessions, not the least of which was a substantial equity in another Cad.