a careful stance and a slow aim.

“Hey, Catell, here it comes!”

Catell wished he had never come out of that trance. Even the harsh pain in his head no longer distracted him from the clear, real thing before him.

“Here it comes, Catell!” and the shot whipped out.

Spraying sand stung the back of Catell’s neck before the true panic of the situation hit him. He wanted to scream, but there was no air in his lungs. He wanted to move, but his muscles were like glass, hard, near breaking.

“Guess I missed that time, eh, Catell?”

Never having finished—or even started—the scream of fear that choked him, that pushed his eyeballs from behind, he stiffened again when the gun moved up.

Again Topper shot.

“Seems I’m not doing so good, Catell, ha?”

The gun went down and Catell saw Topper change his stance. Time. Time to scream, to unwind, to melt like jelly in the heat. But nothing like that happened. The grip on Catell’s control was frozen like ice. And then he began to tremble. The trembling hurt his head, his muscles, above all his head, but there was nothing to be done about it.

Topper laughed and shot again. The bullet hit close before Catell’s feet. The trembling turned into a jagged, spastic horror of uncontrolled jerks, more intense each time a shot rang out.

Then there were no more shots.

“Catell, you can stop dancing. Hey, Nick, look at him. Christ! Hey, Catell, you can stop now. Take a rest while I load this gun. Catell, hey, look. Catell, I’m ready!

But Catell didn’t respond. As his trembling died down his eyes became dull, and he stood, mouth open, breathing hard and deep.

“Come here, Catell. Come here!”

When Topper came up, cursing, Catell had gained a strange sense of detachment. He saw everything, he felt everything, but it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that Topper was still around, and that the time would come when Topper would be at the other end. Topper was just playing. There wasn’t going to be any end yet. There was going to be time for Topper at the other end, because right now Topper was just playing.

The fist crashed into Catell’s neck, making him fall to the ground. He could hear Nick’s voice: “Don’t muss him up, Topper. Remember about Smith.” Catell knew he was getting a beating, but it didn’t matter to him any more.

Later he woke on the beach, cold and sore, and the moon was up. He remembered everything, but it didn’t really get to him. When he got back to the Turtle’s room, he still felt the same about it: Topper had shot his bolt. Next it was going to be Catell’s turn.

Chapter Thirteen

At four in the afternoon Catell was back in shape and ready to leave for Smith’s place. First he had slept, then he’d gone to the Turkish bath, and then, after a hot meal, he hadn’t felt so bad. His muscles were sore, but there was hardly a mark on him. Topper must have been using a newspaper. The cut on his head was tender, and a round burn on his neck looked an angry red, chafing under his collar. Only his hand worried him. The pulpy hole in the skin had puffed up, dripping a little, and the edges had turned dark. There was no real pain to it, just that strange ache.

The Turtle hadn’t come home yet.

Catell picked up the gun he had taken from Topper in Lily’s dressing room and checked it. There were six short bullets in the cylinder. The gun looked clean, had an easy action, and it fitted the hand well. There was no extra ammunition around, but Catell didn’t figure he’d need it. He rarely carried a gun. If he had to use this one, six bullets were going to be plenty.

Catell went out, flagged a taxi, and gave an address in the Valley. Then he sat back and went over the whole thing again.

Meet at Smith’s for last briefing. That would be at five. Drive to San Pedro with the team of three. Cruise Ruttger Road, where the Maxim Loan Company office was. Do that twice, and then stop two blocks down. That would be at eight P.M. Drop off Smiley, the guy who was going to help him. Drive another block and at eight-oh-five drop off the lookout. At eight-ten Catell would get out, carrying his suitcase, and walk the four blocks to the loan office. The driver was going to blow. At eight-twenty-five