Surrounded

high-powered stock brokerage.
        "You talked to each of them?"
        "To Lindsay and Pierce," Felton said. "I couldn't get hold of the other two."
        "What did Lindsay and Pierce have to say?"
        "I already told you, Mike. Nothing. They think Frank's a fine man, a real pro."
        Tucker leaned back away from the phone box, looking at the booth's ceiling now instead of at the filthy floor. "Dammit, I know there's something wrong with him!"
        "Listen," Clitus said, "there is one thing-"
        The long-distance operator interrupted, asking for more money. Felton grumbled, fumbled noisily with a pile of change, fed the machine what she said he must.
        "What one thing?" Tucker asked when the operator cut out of the line.
        "You notice the way Frank talks?" the old man asked.
        "Like a frog."
        "He was treated very badly about two-and-a-half years back. Got mixed up with the wrong crowd-the organized group. You know who I mean?"
        "Italian fellows," Tucker said.
        "Most of them," Felton agreed. "Anyway, he was hurt badly. He was in the hospital more than eight weeks, couldn't talk again for six months. That kind of thing can change a man. It can put some fear into him."
        "This is more than fear," Tucker said.
        "Maybe not," Felton said. "And even if Frank's a little more nervous than he used to be, he's a good man."
        "I guess I'll have to hope you're right," Tucker said.
        Felton said, "If you aren't sure of this, why don't you just; forget it?"
        "Because I'm desperate," Tucker said.
        "Sorry to hear that."
        "It's not your fault," Tucker said. "Good-by, Clitus." He hung up and pushed open the booth door.
        Out on the street again, he flagged down a taxi and gave the driver a Queens' address that was only a few blocks away from his real destination-Imrie's place.
        "I don't like to go out to Queens," the driver said. He was a big, good-looking man with neatly clipped salt-and-pepper hair. He bore a strong resemblance to Peter Lawford, looked more like an executive who had escaped from the corporate grind than like a cabby.
        "You'll get a fifty per cent tip," Tucker said.
        The driver smiled. "Well, that's mighty decent of you. It's about impossible to pick up a return fare from out there. And every minute I ride around empty, I'm losing money."
        "Sure," Tucker said. When they had pulled into the traffic flow, he said, "You always been a cab driver?"
        "About a year now," the driver said, smiling into the rear-view mirror.
        "I'll bet you were a corporation executive."
        "Wrong," the driver said. "I was a physicist with NASA. But everyone stopped caring about the future."
        "Isn't that the truth," Tucker agreed.
        In Queens, when he had paid the driver and watched the cab pull out of sight, Tucker looked at his watch: 12:01. He was anxious to pick up the Skorpions. Once he had those, once he was taking the risk of possessing illegal weaponry, he knew that he would feel more committed to the operation and more sure of himself.
        By 12:45 he had tested the guns in Imrie's basement range and had paid for them. Imrie packed the three Skorpions in an old, battered Samsonite suitcase, added several boxes of ammunition and cushioned everything with old newspapers. Tucker took the suitcase outside, walked four blocks to the bus stop, and caught a bus into Manhattan. In Penn Station he fished a quarter from his pocket and rented a locker, slid the case inside, closed the double-strength door and tested it, then pocketed the red key.
        Shortly after three o'clock, back at the apartment on Park Avenue, he packed a second bag, this one full of his own clothes and toiletries. When he was satisfied that he had not forgotten anything, he sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, a notepad and a pen. He wrote a short note to Elise:
        
        A sudden business deal has come up. I'm flying out to San Francisco this afternoon to negotiate the sale of a twelfth-century jade figurine. Northern Sung Dynasty. Should fetch a good price. Should be back in a few days. If not, I'll call.
        
        Love,
        Mike
        
        Displeased by the need to lie, Tucker got up, picked up his suitcase, and left the apartment. Outside, the doorman got a cab for him, and he went back down to Penn Station. He