Life Expectancy

complication of this subterranean structure. Looking left, right, back, forward, I thought of the stone corridors and torchlit chambers in old movies about a mummy's tomb, and in spite of our perilous circumstances, a thrill of adventure shivered through me.
        Crinkles said, "This way," and turned left.
        Before we followed him, Lorrie put her purse on the floor. She tucked it in shadows close to the wall, in the length of corridor along which we had walked from the library.
        If the nameless grinning feeb saw her with the handbag, the jig would be up-if you're willing to allow that our pathetic nail-file scheme qualified as anything so grand as a jig.
        She seemed reluctant to leave the purse. No doubt she considered it an arsenal of makeshift weapons. We might be able to suffocate Crinkles with a powder puff. If she had a hairbrush, we could spank him severely.
        As we trailed after our guide once more, I said, "Why all the candles?"
        Crinkles grew less patient with me by the minute. "So we can see in the dark, you freaking idiot."
        "But it's not very efficient."
        "This is all they had back in the 1870s, candles and oil lamps, you drooling imbecile."
        Once more Lorrie began signaling me, by fantastical contortions of her face and a mad-horse rolling of the eyes, that the time had come to stab him.
        Crinkles had declined so drastically in my affections that, against my better judgment, I was almost ready to carve him like scrimshaw.
        I said, "Yes, but we aren't in the 1870s. You could use flashlights, battery-powered lanterns, those spark less chemical-tube flares."
        "Don't you think we know that, you brain-dead jackass? But then the ambience wouldn't be authentic."
        We proceeded several steps in silence before I could no longer resist asking: "Why does the ambience need to be authentic?"
        "The boss wants it that way."
        I assumed the boss must be the nameless maniac, unless there was a Mr.
        Big whom we had not yet encountered.
        At some date long after the initial construction, the last ten feet of this corridor had been walled off. They had used a double width of concrete blocks with embedded steel re bar Recently half the blocks had been broken out. The re bar had been cut with an acetylene torch. To one side of the corridor lay a pile of rubble.
        We followed Crinkles through the gap in this partition, into the last portion of the corridor. Another ironbound oak door stood open at the end of the passageway.
        Beyond, electric light from more ceiling fixtures, added decades after the original construction, revealed a large stone-walled room with massive columns and herringbone floor. Two stone staircases with stately ornamental iron railings climbed opposite walls to doors of brushed stainless steel. But for the stainless steel, there was a feeling of an occult temple about the place.
        Half the space stood empty. The other half contained rows of green filing cabinets with aisles between.
        Honker and the killer of librarians stood beside the handcart with its depleted load of explosives, in murmured conversation.
        Concerned that the brighter light would reveal too much, I surreptitiously slipped the nail file into my pants pocket.
        Beaming at the sight of Lorrie and me, as if we were old friends arriving at a cocktail party, our smiley host came to us, indicating the encompassing architecture with a sweep of one arm. "Some place, huh? The institution's historical records are stored on this level."
        "What institution?" I asked.
        "We're under the bank."
        Lorrie said, "I'll be damned. You're going to rob it, aren't you?"
        He shrugged. "Isn't that what banks are for?"
        The Beagle Boys were already planting explosive charges at two of the columns.
        Pleased with himself, the maniac pointed to a hulking piece of equipment in a corner of the room. "Do you know what that is?"
        Lorrie guessed, "A time machine?"
        Having come from a family in which non sequiturs were as common in conversation as adverbs, I had adapted to the young Ms. Hicks's style in short order.
        Although the maniac was intrigued by her, he wasn't always able to dance with her as I could, metaphorically speaking. His green eyes glazed, and his smile slightly rounded into puzzlement.
        "How could it be a time