that phone.” He thought for a moment, then began to stab at the dial. They could hear the signal burping at the other end, then a voice answered. Ritzy leaned back in his chair: “That you, Dim? ... Ritzy ... How ya bin? ... Look, Dim, ya remember ya fixed me up with a little pet way back, when was it? Oh, couple of years back ... Yea, that’s it, boy, you remember good ... You got another of them things? ... Huhn hu ... Huhn hu ... Yea, that’s it. OK, I’ll collect it personally myself ... And Dim, I’ll need your help tucking it away. Same like last time.” He laughed and, after an exchange of what passed among Ritzy’s friends for courtesies, put the phone down and turned back to Cirio. “Now, you’re goin’ ta learn something. I’m goin’ ta show youse guys a real professional job. A real live circus act. And our friend in the New Weston Hotel just ain’t goin’ ta know what hit him. You got the list of the guy’s closest friends comin’ out on the boat?” Cirio nodded.
“ Yea, there was one in particular.” continued Ritzy. “Babe with a fancy English name…”
Once more they were interrupted by the telephone. “OK, bring him right up,” said Cirio, after listening to the brief message. Then, looking at Ritzy: “He’s arrived.”
When the visitor was shown into the room, the two hoodlums stopped picking and staring. Their mouths dropped open.
“ But, that’s the guy ...” said one.
“ That’s him. The guy we was supposed to . .”
“ Come in, friend. Welcome to the United States.” Ritzy and Cirio had risen to their feet. “No, gentlemen,” said Ritzy. “This is not the guy. This one is ... Well, like a duplicate: a twin soul.”
Vladimir Solev, tired and a mite nervous, smiled at his new companions. The left side of his mouth turned up more sharply than ever. The likeness to Boysie Oakes was staggering.
3 — ... AND LEAVE THE DRIVING TO US
The door of the bus slid open. The driver was smiling down at a young couple waiting to greet their aunt, or mother, or whoever she was. The elderly lady appeared in the doorway, looking fresh and neat. A porter—flashing a twenty-five-cent beam—stepped forward to help her down. The young couple embraced the lady, who seemed to be the incarnation of all nice American aunts and mothers, commenting on how well and refreshed she looked.
“ Oh, but it’s great travelling Greyhound!” enthused the elderly lady.
A quartet of songsters started up the jingle: “Go Greyhound ... And leave the driving to us.” The television screen cut to the next commercial.
“ And that’s how we go, Boysie honey,” purred Chicory, sitting curled in an armchair, clasping her glass of Old Hickory to her glorious left breast. “They say the first hundred miles are the worst. No, it’ll be great. With you it’ll be great.”
Boysie folded a pair of denim beach slacks, and placed them tenderly on top of the clothes already stacked into the Revelation. That completed his packing. He turned and gave the girl a long, sizzling look. Chicory was all set for the journey, claret skin-tight stretch pants and a plain white light sweater appeared to be the only clothes she was wearing. At any rate, one could detect no ridge or bump of undergarments. Pondering on the possibility of there being none at all, Boysie strolled into the bathroom and went through his routine check of the automatic pistol—his third since the affair with the two heavies on the previous evening—slipping it back into the patent holster stitched inside the hip pocket of his charcoal casual slacks.
It was exactly ten-thirty when he returned to the bedroom to snap the Revelation shut. They had an hour and a half to go before the bus was due to leave the Port Authority Bus Terminal to carry them West over the slaving miles of hot road. Boysie swallowed the last of his drink and decided that now was the time to put in a little more work on softening up the ornamental Miss
“ Yea, there was one in particular.” continued Ritzy. “Babe with a fancy English name…”
Once more they were interrupted by the telephone. “OK, bring him right up,” said Cirio, after listening to the brief message. Then, looking at Ritzy: “He’s arrived.”
When the visitor was shown into the room, the two hoodlums stopped picking and staring. Their mouths dropped open.
“ But, that’s the guy ...” said one.
“ That’s him. The guy we was supposed to . .”
“ Come in, friend. Welcome to the United States.” Ritzy and Cirio had risen to their feet. “No, gentlemen,” said Ritzy. “This is not the guy. This one is ... Well, like a duplicate: a twin soul.”
Vladimir Solev, tired and a mite nervous, smiled at his new companions. The left side of his mouth turned up more sharply than ever. The likeness to Boysie Oakes was staggering.
3 — ... AND LEAVE THE DRIVING TO US
The door of the bus slid open. The driver was smiling down at a young couple waiting to greet their aunt, or mother, or whoever she was. The elderly lady appeared in the doorway, looking fresh and neat. A porter—flashing a twenty-five-cent beam—stepped forward to help her down. The young couple embraced the lady, who seemed to be the incarnation of all nice American aunts and mothers, commenting on how well and refreshed she looked.
“ Oh, but it’s great travelling Greyhound!” enthused the elderly lady.
A quartet of songsters started up the jingle: “Go Greyhound ... And leave the driving to us.” The television screen cut to the next commercial.
“ And that’s how we go, Boysie honey,” purred Chicory, sitting curled in an armchair, clasping her glass of Old Hickory to her glorious left breast. “They say the first hundred miles are the worst. No, it’ll be great. With you it’ll be great.”
Boysie folded a pair of denim beach slacks, and placed them tenderly on top of the clothes already stacked into the Revelation. That completed his packing. He turned and gave the girl a long, sizzling look. Chicory was all set for the journey, claret skin-tight stretch pants and a plain white light sweater appeared to be the only clothes she was wearing. At any rate, one could detect no ridge or bump of undergarments. Pondering on the possibility of there being none at all, Boysie strolled into the bathroom and went through his routine check of the automatic pistol—his third since the affair with the two heavies on the previous evening—slipping it back into the patent holster stitched inside the hip pocket of his charcoal casual slacks.
It was exactly ten-thirty when he returned to the bedroom to snap the Revelation shut. They had an hour and a half to go before the bus was due to leave the Port Authority Bus Terminal to carry them West over the slaving miles of hot road. Boysie swallowed the last of his drink and decided that now was the time to put in a little more work on softening up the ornamental Miss
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