Surrounded

this one about forty feet in diameter. It was sided with lavalike stone and low green ferns. Hundreds of jets of water fountained out of hidden nozzles in those stones, made patterns in the air, rained down on the surface of the pool with a soft shushing sound. A colorful free-standing signboard nearby informed the casual shopper that a world-famous novelty diving act would perform in the mall daily during the following week. Apparently, even exclusive shopping centers full of the most expensive shops needed to run an occasional promotional stunt.
        Tucker sat on one of the benches, hands folded on his lap to make sure his coat didn't stretch tight across the outlines of the Skorpion. When they had first come into the building through the east doors, the three men had split up for tactical reasons. Now, as he waited for the proper moment to rejoin Meyers and Bates at their prearranged rendezvous point, he watched the flow of commerce around him.
        Only four places of business were situated so that their fronts faced out on the lounge and the fountain. On the northeast quarter of the circular chamber stood Shen Yang's Orient, an import shop with windows full of handsome ivory and jade art, hand-woven carpets, and hand-carved screens. Nothing in Shen Yang's Orient bore a price tag, which meant it was all very dignified and priced at three times its real retail value. Only a few shoppers were poking around in the oriental shop, and the Japanese proprietor was already beginning to close up for the day. On the northwest side of the lounge Henry's Gaslight Restaurant, a favorite place for luncheons and early dinners in Santa Monica, had served its last desserts and was politely but firmly saying good-by to its customers. On the southwest side the House of Books was still fairly busy, even though the manager had begun to turn out a few of the lights at the back of the store. This was, as far as Tucker had ever seen, the only large bookstore outside of New York that handled no paperbacks, that dealt solely in the more expensive hard covers and higher-priced gift books.
        Behind him, on the southeast corner of the lounge, Young Maiden, a clothing store for the tradition-bound girl, had closed its doors after its last customer.
        Those four stores were indicative of the state of the remaining fifteen. Only a handful of shoppers yet prowled the mall. Shortly, there would be none. The clerks and managers would leave, too. And the job could begin at last.
        It was going to work. The operation had sounded like the ravings of a madman when Frank Meyers first began to talk about it. It was too risky, too dangerous. But it was going to work.
        It had to work.
        Aside from the fact he needed the money, Tucker could not endure failure. He was neurotic about success. He took a job only when he felt he could pull it off. If he failed, even once, he would play into his father's hands, which bothered him more than the idea of spending ten years in federal prison.
        Only one thing marred his cultured optimism. He had seen a room that was not on Meyers's diagram. In the west corridor at the front of the mall there was a dark wood door labeled: oceanview plaza business office. He knew the existence of this office in no way affected their plans, yet he was bothered by Meyers's omission of it on the master white-print. Why overlook this one detail?
        He looked at his wristwatch, decided it was time to move. Rising, adjusting his jacket to be sure that it continued to conceal the Skorpion, he walked back the eastern corridor down which he had come when they had first entered the mall. On the left was a Rolls-Citroën-Maserati-Jaguar dealership, a gleaming showroom full of elegant automobiles. Beyond that was Surf and Subsurface, a tasteful and richly appointed sporting-goods store-surfboards and aqualungs on lush Freeport carpet, shotguns displayed in a blue-velvet-lined case-which made Abercrombie & Fitch appear positively plebeian by comparison. On his right was the Toolbox Lounge, where the help was even now gently but insistently saying good-by to its last high-society drunkard. Beyond the bar was the entrance to the mall warehouse and maintenance center. It was here that Tucker opened a gray door marked employees only and stepped out of the corridor.
        Meyers and Bates were waiting with drawn Skorpions. Tucker said, "Don't shoot."
        "What's it like out there?"