"We can make sure by adding a little touch or two to what he thinks is his string of bad luck."
"It is unnecessary, Sire. And it would disturb the timing, which is very delicate. We would have to rearrange much."
"Very well. We shall follow the original plan. Check time and start the count-down."
"Four seconds, Sire. Three. Two. One. Now."
"Let him look up from his drink."
In Pete Kowalsky's Palace Bar, Ray Fleck looked up from his drink. And saw the psychopath.
11:17 P.M.
Avaunt, ye demons, and away with imaginary conversations. Let us to a very real, if suddenly conceived, plot for murder.
In Pete Kowalsky's Palace Bar, Ray Fleck looked up from his drink, in which he had found no answer to his problem, and saw the answer walking toward him.
That is, he saw a man walking toward him from the back end of the tavern, undoubtedly coming from the john; he must have been in it when Ray had come in the place a minute or so ago. Ray didn't know the man, but still he looked vaguely familiar. He was medium in height and stocky, probably about Ray's own weight except that he had broad shoulders and a narrow waist, just the opposite of Ray's distribution of weight. He had a somewhat coarse, brutal face—anyway a face that looked as though it could look brutal. And dark intense eyes that looked—well, haunted was probably the best word. For some reason he couldn't name a cold chill went down Ray Fleck's spine. He'd seen that man somewhere before. Where?