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Authors: Robert Adams
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in garrison and in combat—were conveyed in that steely stare, in the suddenly unequivocal tone that demanded an answer—a thoroughly truthful answer.
"Gus," said Fitz, "you have my solemn word of honor that each and every one of the gold coins I've entrusted to you have been a part of the legacy of a man long dead that passed to me and that, so far as I know, my possession of them was and is entirely legal."
Tolliver showed every yellowed tooth in a wide grin then, and unclasped his powerful hands from Fitz's shirt. "That's all I needs to hear, Fitz, boy. Let them sticky-fingered Guvamint mammyjammers pry 'round all they wants to, then, if that's what it takes to help the frigging bastards to get their rocks offl
"G'night, Fitz."
The coin dealer had sounded more than mollified, but Fitz himself slept little and poorly the rest of that night, and on many a succeeding night. His mind churned through the hours of darkness with scores of discomfiting "What ifs?" Were someone to really pin him down on the
identity and death date of the "uncle" from whom he supposedly had inherited the golden coins, he knew that he would be deep in the shit, for he had had no uncles . . . not so far as he knew, at least.
Although neither his mother or his father ever had even once broached upon the subject, Fitz—who always had differed in so very many ways, both physically and emotionally, from his parents and from all his siblings, as well—-had for most of his life felt certain that die man and the woman who had reared him as their own, firstborn son had actually, in truth, been his adoptive parents, had both lived and died hiding that truth from him ... for whatever reasons.
"Hell!" he muttered, savagely pounding a pillow into a shape hopefully comfortable, then sinking bade upon it. "I could have, could conceivably have umpteen zillion uncles and aunts, if only I knew, could ever find a way to find out for sure just who I really am. But I've just got to face it: I started out lying to Gus ToUiver and I have no way of ever proving that falsehood true, now or ever.
"As for trying to back up, at this late date, and tell them all—Gus, his lawyer, those Government types, the folks whove bought pieces of the gold—the real, unvarnished truth . . .? Nobody, not a one of them, would ever believe it, because, hell, I don't believe it myself, sometimes. So I'd be well advised to start getting myself a bolt hole ready for the day that will certainly come—the day that those eager-beaver, bloodsucking, Government busybodies finally run me to ground, for keeps."
But affairs proceeded very tranquilly for the next six weeks. No more break-ins were attempted or accomplished, either at his house or Gus's or the coin shop, nor did Gus's banker friend report any further government inquiries on his level. However,
Gus took the elementary precaution of moving the bulk of their profits—by now grown to quite a considerable sum—out of the United States of America, informing Fitz well after the fact.
"Switzerland?" asked Fitz.
"Aw, naw." Gus shook his head. "Fellers I talked to said the Swiss ain't too reliable no more, these days. Not for the kind of game we're having to play here, they're not. Naw, Fitz, boy, all the smart money's either going to the West Indies or to South Africa, anymore. We, you and me, got some in both places now, mostly thanks to one of our bestest customers, feller what goes by the name of Piet Bijl. . . though I got some reasons to suspect that's not the name he was christened with ... if you get my drift."
With a raised eyebrow and a tilted head, Fitz eyed Gus Tolliver as the paunchy old soldier sat and swigged his beer. "Question, Gus: just how many of our local merchants are likely to honor a check drawn against an account in a South African bank, do you think; or a West Indian one even, for that matter?"
The older man grinned expansively, chiding, "Aw, now don't you fret yourself none, Fitz, boy. I made damn
"Gus," said Fitz, "you have my solemn word of honor that each and every one of the gold coins I've entrusted to you have been a part of the legacy of a man long dead that passed to me and that, so far as I know, my possession of them was and is entirely legal."
Tolliver showed every yellowed tooth in a wide grin then, and unclasped his powerful hands from Fitz's shirt. "That's all I needs to hear, Fitz, boy. Let them sticky-fingered Guvamint mammyjammers pry 'round all they wants to, then, if that's what it takes to help the frigging bastards to get their rocks offl
"G'night, Fitz."
The coin dealer had sounded more than mollified, but Fitz himself slept little and poorly the rest of that night, and on many a succeeding night. His mind churned through the hours of darkness with scores of discomfiting "What ifs?" Were someone to really pin him down on the
identity and death date of the "uncle" from whom he supposedly had inherited the golden coins, he knew that he would be deep in the shit, for he had had no uncles . . . not so far as he knew, at least.
Although neither his mother or his father ever had even once broached upon the subject, Fitz—who always had differed in so very many ways, both physically and emotionally, from his parents and from all his siblings, as well—-had for most of his life felt certain that die man and the woman who had reared him as their own, firstborn son had actually, in truth, been his adoptive parents, had both lived and died hiding that truth from him ... for whatever reasons.
"Hell!" he muttered, savagely pounding a pillow into a shape hopefully comfortable, then sinking bade upon it. "I could have, could conceivably have umpteen zillion uncles and aunts, if only I knew, could ever find a way to find out for sure just who I really am. But I've just got to face it: I started out lying to Gus ToUiver and I have no way of ever proving that falsehood true, now or ever.
"As for trying to back up, at this late date, and tell them all—Gus, his lawyer, those Government types, the folks whove bought pieces of the gold—the real, unvarnished truth . . .? Nobody, not a one of them, would ever believe it, because, hell, I don't believe it myself, sometimes. So I'd be well advised to start getting myself a bolt hole ready for the day that will certainly come—the day that those eager-beaver, bloodsucking, Government busybodies finally run me to ground, for keeps."
But affairs proceeded very tranquilly for the next six weeks. No more break-ins were attempted or accomplished, either at his house or Gus's or the coin shop, nor did Gus's banker friend report any further government inquiries on his level. However,
Gus took the elementary precaution of moving the bulk of their profits—by now grown to quite a considerable sum—out of the United States of America, informing Fitz well after the fact.
"Switzerland?" asked Fitz.
"Aw, naw." Gus shook his head. "Fellers I talked to said the Swiss ain't too reliable no more, these days. Not for the kind of game we're having to play here, they're not. Naw, Fitz, boy, all the smart money's either going to the West Indies or to South Africa, anymore. We, you and me, got some in both places now, mostly thanks to one of our bestest customers, feller what goes by the name of Piet Bijl. . . though I got some reasons to suspect that's not the name he was christened with ... if you get my drift."
With a raised eyebrow and a tilted head, Fitz eyed Gus Tolliver as the paunchy old soldier sat and swigged his beer. "Question, Gus: just how many of our local merchants are likely to honor a check drawn against an account in a South African bank, do you think; or a West Indian one even, for that matter?"
The older man grinned expansively, chiding, "Aw, now don't you fret yourself none, Fitz, boy. I made damn
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