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other thirty-two-caliber piece ever made."
        As gently as if he were handling a mean-tempered poisonous snake, Tucker turned the pistol over in his hands, examining it from every angle. Heavy, well defined, cast with many rich planes, the piece looked especially wicked and even alien, almost like something from the lurid cover of an old science-fiction magazine. Though inanimate, it radiated a chilling animal malevolence, a tangible and exciting evil. Because he was basically a non-violent man who operated in a violent business, Tucker was able to assess the weapon from the viewpoints of both the professional and the victim. From either perspective the Skorpion passed muster.
        "Nice work," Imrie said.
        "Yes."
        "They were proud of their product."
        Tucker held up the pistol, sighted along the barrel through the framework of the collapsed wire stock. "It's ugly enough. But how accurate is it?"
        "When it's a pistol, it's about as accurate as anything you've ever carried. At least it will be when I get finished with it."
        "And as a submachine gun?"
        "Only half as good. But a submachine gun doesn't need to be as precise as a pistol, right?"
        "Right."
        "And if you use it, you'll probably only want it as a pistol," Imrie said.
        "How much work do they need?"
        Imrie looked at the three pistols, at the tools on his workbench, sucked on a tooth while he thought about it. "Oh… I suppose I could have them ready for you around noon on Monday. How would that be?"
        "Fine," Tucker said. "Ammunition?"
        "I already have that," Imrie said. "It's all my own stuff, hand packed and guaranteed."
        Tucker put down the Skorpion he had been examining. "How much do you want for them?"
        "Remember," Imrie said, "I've got a lot of work to do to get them in shape. And I-"
        "How much?"
        "Don't forget, none of these pieces has a history, Tucker. They're all as clean as a baby's ass. You get nailed on this job, you won't have to worry that maybe you're carrying a gun that was used in a big heist or a murder or something."
        Tucker smiled. "How much, Imrie?"
        Imrie told him.
        "Too much."
        They haggled for several minutes, exchanged tales of poverty and want, finally settled on a thousand dollars for the pistols and ammunition.
        "When you come back on Monday," Imrie said, "we'll go down to the basement and use one of the Skorpions on the shooting range."
        Tucker frowned. "Doesn't it handle about like any ordinary automatic?"
        "Pretty much," Imrie said. "But it never hurts to know a gun, what it can and can't do for you."
        "Even when you don't expect to use it?"
        "Especially then," Imrie said.
        Thinking about Oceanview Plaza, about the curiously agitated movements of Frank Meyers, Tucker nodded. "I guess you're right."
        

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        At three-thirty that afternoon, on the bottom floor of the Americana Hotel once again, Tucker pumped coins into the pay phone until the operator was satisfied. On the far end of the line another telephone rang, and Clitus Felton answered it.
        "It's Mike," Tucker said. "You busy?"
        "Pretty busy, yeah," Felton said.
        Tucker gave him the number of the phone he was using and hung up.
        The hotel corridor remained deserted. Dishes clanked, silverware clattered, and voices rose in a sealike susurration from the coffee shop around the corner. The floor had recently been mopped down, for the hall smelled of pine and detergent; but the maintenance crew was nowhere in sight.
        Each of the next five minutes felt like an hour, partly because Tucker was worried about getting unwanted company and being overheard on the line with Clitus-and partly because he was beginning to wonder if he had made a serious mistake by involving himself in this operation. The whole thing was a