bags the Super Drugstore had in the back room.
And then he thought that Super Drugstore was really a misnomer. There was a place where one presumably could have a prescription filled, way in the back of the place, and there were rows of patent medicines, but he would have guessed that at least eighty percent of the available space in the Super Drugstore was given over to nonpharmaceutical items.
It was more of a Woolworth’s Five and Dime, he thought, than a Super Drugstore. They really should not be allowed to call it a drugstore; it was deceptive, if not downright dishonest.
He had almost reached the entrance when he saw a display of flashlight batteries, under a flamboyant SALE ! sign. He knew all that meant, of course, was that the items were available for sale, not on sale at a reduced price. But he headed for the display anyway, and saw that he was wrong.
The Eveready Battery Corporation, as opposed to the Super Drugstore itself, was having a promotional sale. He could tell that, because there were point-of-purchase promotional materials from Eveready, reading “As Advertised On TV!”
The philosophy behind the promotion, rather clever, he thought, was “Are you sure your batteries are fresh? Be Sure With Eveready!”
This was tied in, Marion noticed, with a pricing policy that reduced the individual price of batteries in a sliding scale tied to how many total batteries one bought.
This triggered another thought. Certainly, there would be nothing suspicious if he acted as if he were someone taken in by Eveready’s advertising and bought all the batteries he was going to need.
And then he had a sudden, entirely pleasing insight. There was more to his having come across this display than mere happenstance. The Lord had arranged for him to pass by this display. He had, of course, planned to Be Sure his batteries were fresh. But he had planned to buy four batteries here, and four batteries there, not all twenty-four at once.
The Lord had made it possible for him to buy everything he needed to Be Sure With Eveready at one place, and in such a manner that no one would wonder what he was doing with all those batteries.
He paid for the batteries, and then put them in the Souvenir of Asbury Park, N. J. AWOL bag, and then folded that and put it in the Souvenir of Panama City Beach, Fla. AWOL bag, and then asked the girl at the cashier’s counter for a bag to put everything in.
He didn’t want to walk back to the office, much less into the office, carrying a bag with Souvenir of Panama City Beach, Fla. painted on it.
When he got back to the office, he got out the telephone book, and a map of Philadelphia, and carefully marked on the map the location of all hardware stores that could reasonably be expected to sell chain, which were located within a reasonable walking distance of the house.
He would, he decided, hurry home after work, leave the lunch-time purchases just inside the door, and see how much chain he could acquire before he really got hungry, and the headaches would come back, and he would have to eat.
At twenty-five minutes past one o’clock, Mrs. Antoinette Marie Wolinski Schermer telephoned to Mr. Ricco Baltazari at the Ristorante Alfredo and informed him that Corporal Vito Lanza had just left her apartment.
“Jesus Christ! I told you to keep him there!”
“Don’t snap at me, Ricco, I did everything I could. He said he had to go by his house and see the plumbers.”
“I didn’t mean to snap at you, baby,” Mr. Baltazari said, sounding very contrite. “But this was important. This was business. You sure he went to his house?”
“I’m not sure, that’s what he said.”
“Okay, I’ll get back to you.”
Mr. Baltazari was thoughtfully drumming his fingers on his desk, trying to phrase how he could most safely report this latest development to Mr. S. when there was a knock at the door.
“What?”
“Mr. Baltazari, it’s Tommy Dolbare.”
Mr. Baltazari jumped up and went to the door and jerked it open.
“I got this envelope for you,” Tommy said.
Mr. Baltazari snatched the extended envelope from Mr. Dolbare’s hand and looked into it.
“Where the fuck have you been, asshole?” he inquired.
“I had a wreck. I got forced off the road,” Tommy said, hoping that he sounded sincere and credible.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Mr. Baltazari said, and closed the door in Mr. Dolbare’s face.
Mr. Baltazari then telephoned Mr. S.’s home. Mr. Gian-Carlo Rosselli