Life Expectancy

machine?" he asked.
        "At the fantastic pace science is progressing," she said, "space shuttles and CAT scans, heart transplants and computerized toaster ovens, now cell phones you can carry anywhere and lipstick that won't smear… Well, I mean, at this rate, sooner than later there's going to be a time machine, so if there has to be one, why not here and now?"
        He stared at Lorrie for a moment, then looked at the equipment in the corner as though wondering whether he had misidentified it and whether it might in fact be a time machine.
        Had I made that same speech, he would have decided that I was either a head case or a mocking smart-ass. Annoyed or offended, he would have shot me.
        A beautiful woman, on the other hand, can say just about any damn thing, and men will seriously consider it.
        Her guileless face, pellucid eyes, and sincere smile prevented me from determining whether the time-machine comment-or any other off-the-wall business that came out of her-was offered with total sincerity or in a spirit of fun.
        Most people don't have fun while being held hostage and being threatened with death by the likes of Crinkles. I suspected, however, that Lorrie Lynn Hicks might be capable of it.
        I couldn't wait for her to meet my family.
        A lot of people don't actually have fun even when they're at a party having fun. That's because they don't have a sense of humor. Everyone claims to have a sense of humor, but some of them are lying and a significant number are fooling themselves.
        This explains the success of most TV sitcoms and movie comedies. These shows can be entirely humorless, but scads of people will laugh uproariously at them because they come with a label that says funny.
        The congenitally humor-challenged audience knows it's safe to laugh, that it's even expected.
        This part of the entertainment business serves the community of the humorless in much the way that a manufacturer of prosthetic limbs serves those unfortunates who have lost arms or legs. Their work maybe more important than feeding the poor.
        My family has always insisted on fun not only during the sunny times of life but also during times of adversity, even in the face of loss and tragedy (though right now they must be sick with worry regarding my whereabouts). Maybe we inherited an acutely sensitive funny-recognition gene. Or maybe we're just on a permanent sugar high from all the baked goods we eat.
        "No," said the nameless maniac, "it's not a time machine. It's the bank's emergency generator."
        "Too bad," Lorrie lamented. "I'd rather it had been a time machine."
        Gazing wistfully at the generator, the maniac sighed. "Yeah. I know what you mean."
        "So you've disabled the bank's emergency generator," I said.
        My statement harried him out of his time-travel fantasy. "How did you know?"
        I pointed. "The parts scattered there on the floor were a clue."
        "You're quick," he said with admiration.
        "In my line of work, we have to be."
        He didn't ask what job I held. As I've learned over the past ten years, psychopaths are routinely self-absorbed.
        "The bank closed an hour ago," he said, clearly proud of his elaborate plan and gratified to have an opportunity to share it. "The tellers' drawers have been reconciled, and they've gone home. The vault will have been closed ten minutes ago. By routine, the manager and the two security guards were the last to leave."
        "Somewhere," Lorrie guessed, "you've rigged a power-company transformer to blow, cutting electrical service to the town square."
        "When the power goes," I said, "the generator won't cut in, and the vault will be vulnerable."
        "You're both very quick," he said approvingly. "What's the story with you two? Have you planned a heist before?"
        "Not in this reincarnation," Lorrie replied. "But that's another story."
        He indicated the farther staircase. "That leads to the half of the bank's upper basement where they fill coin rolls, bundle cash, verify incoming money shipments, and prepare outgoing transfers. The front door to the vault is also in that area."
        "The vault has a back door?" I asked with a note of disbelief that amused him.
        He grinned, nodded, and pointed to the nearer staircase. "The door at the top goes directly into the vault."
        This detail seemed to