“So what’s different from the old safe about it?” I asked after examining it.
“A couple of things. First, it’s bolted down from inside. Mr. Rubin was lucky his was never carried away. Second, it’s a combination safe.”
After thinking this over without seeing what advantage this had over a safe that required a key, I said, “So?”
“There’s no key to produce,” he explained. “If I simply refused to open it, what could a robber do?”
I stared at him wonderingly. I could think of a number of things, such as holding lighted matches to the soles of his feet.
Then I decided that such thoughts mast have occurred to him, too. With his broad background of experience all over the world, he must have encountered enough violence during his life to be aware of the unpleasant possibilities that might ensue if he refused some bandit’s order to open his safe.
Examining him more closely, I realized that beneath his formal but rather amiable reserve there was a hard core of stubbornness. Perhaps he couldn’t be forced to open it; I suspected that in his quiet way he could become as immovable as a stalled tank.
The trouble was that the courage to endure torture probably wasn’t enough to beat the average modern hoodlum. The widespread use of drugs made it at least an even bet that anyone who stuck up a store would be hyped to the eyebrows, and a gunnie riding high on smack was quite capable of pumping bullets into a stubborn victim out of spite, even though that would kill all chance of learning a safe’s combination.
I said, “Well, let’s just hope you never get stuck up.”
As we went back into the kitchen, I noticed that a long, wide net made of tough-looking cord completely covered a side wall. On wooden pegs protruding through various places in the net were hung a variety of odd items that looked as though they might more appropriately have been displayed in a museum.
Halting when he saw me looking that way, Mr. Olem emitted a self-deprecating little laugh. “The visual record of my ill-spent life,” he said. “That rope and branding iron are souvenirs of my cattle-punching youth, and also that broad-brimmed hat. That shoulder pack is called a tucker-bag, and I carried it in the Australian bush. That short-handled pick dates back to my gold-prospecting days in New Guinea. About all I salvaged from that venture, incidentally. What little gold I mined I had to use to ransom my life when I was captured by headhunters.”
I looked at him wide-eyed. “That must have been some experience.”
“It was,” he assured me. “I also lived with a friendlier native tribe for a time, in a Negrito village. The headhunters were Papuans. Sometime when we both have more time, I’ll tell you more about it.”
“You’ll have a willing listener,” I told him. “You’ve certainly led a fascinating life.” I looked more closely at the huge net. “Is that a fishing net? The holes seem too big.”
“It’s what’s known as a gill net,” he said. “The way you use it is to attach lead weights at intervals to the lower edge, then hook buoys to the top edge. That makes it set in the water vertically, sort of like a tennis net. Fish attempting to swim through it get their gills entangled in it. It’s quite effective, except that it grabs everything that comes along, without distinguishing between fish and inanimate objects. I’ve pulled up everything from beer cans to tree stumps, even a full keg of nails once. When it grabs hold of something, it doesn’t let go.”
“It makes an interesting wall decoration,” I said.
“Well, I really hung it there because it will rot unless it’s stored wide open like that, and I didn’t know where else to put it. I don’t know why I’m saving it. I’ll probably never use it again, and I can’t sell it because they’re a glut on the market. Commercial fishing on the Great Lakes is rapidly coming to an end. Lake Erie is already dead from pollution, and the rest of the lakes are dying.”
From the front of the store the musical chime that signaled the entrance of customers sounded three times. He pushed open the swinging door and I followed after him.
The customers who had come in turned out to be three members of the Street Tigers, a juvenile gang whose members ranged in age from about sixteen into the early twenties. I had known all three since they were born, and they were now all approaching twenty.
Joe Ramirez was a thin, swarthy boy with dark hair just long enough to cover his ears. Tommy Coster was a burly youth with an Afro haircut. Jimmy Elias, whose father had recently kicked him out of the house because the boy was busted for marijuana possession, was tall and lean and wore his hair to his shoulders. All three wore the hip-hugger, bell-bottomed slacks, black leather jackets and yellow-lensed sunglasses that were the uniform of the Street Tigers.
I happened to know that all three also were on probation for various offenses ranging from pushing to assault. They seemed surprised and a trifle disconcerted to see me.
Jimmy Elias, the customary spokesman for the group, said with a touch of diffidence, “Hi, Mr. Martinez.”
“Hello, boys,” I said. “What’s on your minds?”
“We just come in to look around, sort of,” Jimmy said with a curious air of defensiveness. “To see if Mr. Olem was stocking anything different from old man Rubin.”
I let my eyes narrow. “If that’s all you want, why are you acting like I caught you with your hand in the till?”
“Well, geez, you’re looking at us like we’re ax murderers or something.”
Mr. Olem said equably, “Customers are welcome just to look, Mr. Martinez. I don’t have any new items in stock yet, boys, but I plan to offer a few of my personal specialties as soon as I have time to make them up.”
“Like what?” Joe Ramirez asked.
“Well, I make a pretty good hot potato salad and some tasty homemade sausage, just to mention a couple of my specialties. I also have my own recipe for Boston baked beans.”
“Are you still going to handle some kosher stuff like old man Rubin did? I always liked his kosher corned beef,” Tommy said.
“I’ll have kosher-type food. It won’t be real kosher.”
“You mean it won’t be blessed by a rabbi?” the youth asked with a grin. “I don’t think old man Rubin’s was either. There aren’t any orthodox Jews around here, so all his customers cared about was the taste.”
Jimmy Elias, who had been gazing around contemplatively, suddenly seemed to tire of the conversation. Abruptly he said, “Come on, you guys, let’s split out of here.”
When they were gone, Mr. Olem asked, “Do you know those boys well, Mr. Martinez?”
“I used to tan their bottoms for cutting up on my bus when they were in grammar school,” I said. “They’re pretty wild kids. They didn’t come in just to see what changes you’ve made.”
“You think they planned to rob me, and your presence discouraged them?” he asked with raised brows.
I shook my head. “They’re probably not above armed robbery, but they’re too well-known in the neighborhood to risk it so close to home. They may have planned to bully you into offering them a free treat. They sometimes came in and smarted off to Sol until he’d make them free corned beef sandwiches or something just to get rid of them. They always played it cool enough so that they couldn’t be charged with extortion. They just hung around and got in Sol’s way and made wisecracks until he voluntarily paid off with a snack.”
“I see,” Mr. Olem said. “The way the long-haired boy was gazing around, it occurred to me they might have come in to case the layout with the idea of later trying a little burglary.”
“That’s a possibility,” I conceded. “They’re probably not above burglary either. I’ll have a private word with them the next time I see them.”
“About what?”
“Burglary. I’ll let them know that if any of the protected businesses in the neighborhood are knocked over, I’ll suggest to the cops that they look their way first. They’ll listen to me. The memory of those tannings I gave them as kids still lingers.”