Metzger's Dog

22 The Deputy Director paced near the door of the conference room, a distant, solitary figure dwarfed by the vast maps on the walls above him.

At the end of the table Goldschmidt whispered to Porterfield, “We both said it wouldn’t work. Do you think it would be more polite to be somewhere far away while they go through with it and he finds out for himself?”

Porterfield shook his head slowly and watched the Deputy Director. “We might learn something by accident if we pay attention.”

“You mean from watching Generalissimo Pines pacing in his bunker?”

“Of course not. From the reports of the field people.”

“Then we might as well make it interesting. I say they never show up at the drop. Is a hundred dollars okay with you?”

“My hundred says they show up at the drop and get away clean with the sacks.”

“All right. What happens if Pines and the Director get lucky and pick up one or two of them?”

“Fair is fair. We give all the money to Pines.”

Kearns leaned forward from across the table. “Do you mind if I get in on this?”

“Not at all,” said Goldschmidt. “What’s your pleasure?”

“I say the Los Angeles police arrest somebody in the field crew and Racine has to go bail for him.”

“Very likely,” Goldschmidt snorted. “I wish I’d taken that possibility myself. You know, of course, that if anything in this farcical operation works, Pines will win a handsome sum without betting anything?”

Porterfield yawned. “That’s the best part of the game. If he doesn’t get all of them and every copy of the papers, he’ll lose his job—”

“Not relevant,” Kearns interrupted. “He’ll go back to the Mister Food Corporation and make five times as much.”

Porterfield continued, “No, I don’t think he’ll go back there. If he loses his job, he’ll also lose his bodyguards.”

KEPLER POPPED THE TOP of a beer can and took a gulp. “There’s not a whole lot of point to doing this.”

“I suppose not,” Margaret said, shrugging. “I’m a little bit curious, though, aren’t you? We did go to an awful lot of trouble.”

“So did they, and they’ve been at this a lot longer than we have. It’s probably four bags full of rabid weasels.”

Chinese Gordon said, “We have to open them, and it has to be now. If there’s a transmitter inside, we can’t take the bags home.”

“Agreed,” said Immelmann. “Let’s get to it and then out of here.” He kicked one of the bags and then took a folding knife out of his pocket and began to slit the stitching on the bag’s lower seam carefully, squinting to see that the blade didn’t penetrate too deeply.

Kepler swallowed more beer and said, “It’s a strange fact of life that there are people who look intelligent, and others who don’t.” He stared at the green hillside across the road.

Immelmann peered into the bag, then reached inside. “Hello. What have we here?” He handed the bag to Chinese Gordon and began to work on the second bag.

Chinese Gordon disappeared into the back of the van. When he didn’t return, Margaret followed. “Well? What is it? Will it blow up?” she asked.

Chinese Gordon sat cross-legged inside, the empty bag beside him. He was frowning, but he shook his head.

“Then what is it?”

Immelmann was staring into the second bag. “There’s some money. Hundred-dollar bills.”

“What else?”

“Newspaper. More cut-up newspaper than we’ll ever need.”

WHEN MARGARET AWOKE IN THE MORNING, Chinese Gordon was sitting in his bathrobe at the kitchen table with his hands folded. He appeared to be studying Doctor Henry Metzger, who was lying on the table beside Chinese Gordon’s coffee cup. Margaret walked up behind Chinese Gordon and kissed the top of his head.

“Nice,” he said. She petted Doctor Henry Metzger’s head, and the cat’s eyes narrowed slightly in acknowledgment. At Chinese Gordon’s feet the huge dog lay on its side, the long, pink tongue draped along its jowl.

“How long have you been up?”

“Don’t know. A long time.”

“All three of you?”

“More or less.”

“Please don’t be cranky.”

“We’re not cranky.”

Two hours later Margaret left for the market. When she returned, Chinese Gordon was in exactly the same position. The dog raised its head for a moment and stared at her, then lowered it. When Margaret crossed Chinese Gordon’s field of vision, he smiled.

Margaret spent the afternoon in the bedroom. For a time she read three magazines she’d bought in the supermarket, and then she fell asleep. When consciousness returned, the first thing she saw was Chinese Gordon, still in the kitchen, staring at his cat, the weak, yellow light of the waning sun falling across the table.

Margaret got up and walked into the kitchen. She put her hands on Chinese Gordon’s hunched shoulders and said, “Chinese, why are you doing this? It’s okay to be disappointed, but you can’t become a catatonic.”

Chinese Gordon shook his head. “I’m not.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m thinking.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve thought it.”

“Can’t I help you?”

“Sure.”

Margaret sat down across the kitchen table and waited. Beneath the table the dog shifted his ponderous body and lay across her bare feet. His fur was warm, and she could feel his heart beating.

Margaret watched the electric clock on the wall behind Chinese Gordon. After ten minutes she said, “It would help if I knew what we were thinking about.”

He reached across the table and held her hand. “I’m trying to decide what to do next.”

“You could forget the whole thing. We don’t really need the money. With what you got from Grijalvas we can do pretty well. We’re probably lucky. We even got another ten thousand they had to wrap the newspapers in.”

“The problem is that I am not finished. I feel a strong urge to get these people for what they tried to do to us. I’m not satisfied.”

“Then you could go through with the threat. Publish the papers.”

“It doesn’t feel right, somehow.”

“It does have the distinct advantage that we can do it without getting killed.”

“That’s not enough. It has to feel right.”

“Then read the Donahue papers.”

“What about them?”

“Read Appendix Twenty-three.”