"Did you get the things I asked you for?"

Izzy handed him a bulky sack. "It's the last thing I can get out. About a minute after I finished collecting these, they'd padlocked your office. Two patrolmen are waiting in the hall in case you show up. There's a warrant out, Mr. Jet. Criminal charges. Bigamy. Look, Mr. Jet, Bang-Bang says they'll be watching all the airports and bus and train terminals but he can steal a helicopter and pick you up anyplace you say. We can land you on a freighter for Brazil. You should go, Mr. Jet. I can't stand the thought of you being in jail for years on some phony charge!"

"I've got to find my girl," said Heller.

Izzy sighed deeply. "Then take this," said Izzy, and pushed another thick roll of thousand-dollar bills in his hand. "Please don't shoot anybody. It's cheaper to buy them in the long run."

"Thank you," said Heller. "You're a true friend, Izzy."

"It's really your money," said Izzy. "I made that wad just this morning with the future device machine. Cotton went up. I wish I could help more."

"Keep the projects going," said Heller. "We'll come out of this."

"Oy, I wish I had your confidence. This legal system was designed only for bad-intentioned men so I'm afraid

we haven't got a chance. Please take care of yourself, Mr. Jet."

Izzy walked swiftly away.

Heller walked toward the financial district. Shortly he was into the crowds. He began to go quite fast.

He drew up before a very ratty-looking bar, the Stockbroker. He went in. The place was papered with old issues of shares and the cash register was a ticker-tape-Jooking thing. He sat down at the bar. Big signs said:

Crash Pick-Me-Up for Those Dow-Jones Blues

Suicide Special:

Why Throw Yourself Out of Windows When Our Potion Can Do It Quicker?

His reflection in the mirror looked awful: hollow-eyed.

"Give me a Seven Up," said Heller.

"The market is down this morning, sir," said the barkeep. "More like a Suicide Special."

"Can you change a thousand-dollar bill?"

"Seven Up it is, sir; you must be selling them short."

"Somebody will wish he'd been sold short when I get through with him," said Heller. "Can I use your washroom?"

"Help yourself, sir. Anybody with a thousand-dollar bill could buy the place."

Heller went into the washroom. It was a dingy lavatory. Not even scraps remained of the mirrors. Heller hung his coat up on a hook. He opened the big sack Izzy had given him. I couldn't tell what was in it.

Heller muttered, "Blast, what's this?" He was holding up a triple-blade razor that Izzy must have bought.

Then he looked into the sack again and apparently decided he would have to use the thing in lieu of his own spin razor.

He tried to shave. He cut himself. He tried again and cut himself again. He finished somehow.

He found a small Voltar vial of lotion. He put it on his face. Then he got out a little light that I had seen used in cellology. He beamed that at his face. Then he got out some bandages and put them on his face.

He spinbrushed his teeth.

But I had seen enough.

I phoned Grafferty's office again.

"The man he wants is at the Stockbroker Bar!" and I gave him the number on Church Street.

"I relayed the data to Grafferty," his office man said. "He is on a case but he is taking care of it. Public cooperation is always appreciated in criminal matters, sir."

I rang off, satisfied. New York's finest was on the job.

Heller folded up his coat, put it in the bag and then took out a dark blue, engineer's coverall suit, like a workman's. He put it on. Then he put on a plain blue workman's cap. He looked deeper in the bag. "Blast!" he said in Voltarian. "No engineer gloves. Only these cotton things." But he put them on. Then he found a redstar engineer rag and put it dangling out of his hip pocket.

He tidied up and went back out into the bar.

The place was still deserted except for the barman, and that worthy had put the Seven Up at a side table with a sandwich. "That Seven Up is awful stuff," said the barman. "No alcohol in it. So I give you a pastrami cushion. What else can I do for you?"

"You can show me where the phone is."

The barman dragged a long-corded phone over to the table. "I see you got some son of a system for sneaking up on the market. Going to make another thou­sand?"

"I've got an idea I can hit the jackpot," said Heller.

"Yes, SIR! I promise not to listen much."

Heller dialled a number. The other end said, "Really Red Cab Company."

"Listen," said Heller. "Is Mortie Massacurovitch back on the job yet?"

"Oh, I wouldn't advise it, sir. The doctor said..."

"I know all about his eye infection," said Heller. "I've been told about nothing else for two days! Can you connect me?"

"Not directly. But he is back on duty."

"You tell him to dump any fare he has and get down to the Stockbroker Bar on Church Street. Tell him Clyde Barrow needs him bad and right now!"

The dispatcher said he would and rang off.

Clyde Barrow? He was a notorious gangster of the thirties! Then I recalled that that was the name Mortie Massacurovitch knew him by.

"I get it," said the barkeep. "You're going to do a bag job on some broker's office for the insider infor­mation. Smart."

"Yeah," said Heller. "I'm going to make a killing."

I chilled. That was three times now he had threatened vengeance. It was not like him to be that way. I knew pretty well what I had felt all along. Heller was going to go gunning for ME!

Hurry up, Grafferty!

Heller drank his Seven Up and ate his pastrami.

The door burst open and Mortie Massacurovitch came in, hit a table, bounced off, hit the bar.

"Over here," said Heller.

Mortie had bandages over his eyes, just looking through a slit. "Hello, kid," he said, looking in another direction.

Heller got his change and gave the barkeep twenty bucks for his trouble. He steered Mortie outside. The cab was parked with two wheels on the sidewalk. Heller got him into the passenger side of the front seat.

"Mortie, I'm in trouble," said Heller, settling himself under the wheel.

"Ain't we all," said Mortie. "I'm going broke. A dumb spick hit me in the face with a load of mace and I been off for a week."

"I know. I been trying to reach you for two days."

"They disconnected my phone for nonpayment," said Mortie. "The (bleeped) company wouldn't even let me have a cab this morning until I gave the dispatcher a black eye. I ain't never blind enough not to be able to hit what I aim at! So who you driving for now, kid?"

"Right now, you," said Heller. He shot the red cab away from the curb. I cursed. He had not looked at the number and the city swarmed with red cabs. I listened closely to pick up their destination.

Heller stopped. All I could see was poles and cobblestones. Where the Hells was he?

"Now, Mortie," said Heller. "A string of cabs was ordered." And he gave him the exact time and place they were ordered from. "I've got to locate what company and where those cabs went."

"Oh, hell, kid, that's easy." Mortie began to fumble around under the panel. "I always bring this little device. I hook it into the company radio. I can get every

dispatcher of every cab company in New York. Helps to pick up the juicy, long-run fares before their own cabs can get there."

He started talking to dispatchers, giving fictitious cab numbers of their own fleets. The story was the same, "I got an old-lady fare here that was so pleased with some service that she wants regular service. She's forgotten the company. Was it ours?" And he would give the time and departure point and the dispatchers would look on their logs.

Suddenly, on his fifth call, Mortie stiffened and nodded at Heller. "Thank YOU!" he said and clicked off. To Heller, he said, "Smeller Cabs. Whole bunch of baggage. Took five cabs. They went to the 79th Street Boat Basin, Hudson Harbor."