Pure excitement swept him. He could do anything! Move into the really spectacular. He could—could even rob a bank!
Thus when the armored truck pulled up across the street his mind was conditioned for its arrival. Through the window he saw the rear door open. Then two armed guards emerged. Bored by the routine, one of them actually yawned as a third guard appeared from the theatre entrance in front of which they were parked. He was carrying a satchel.
As he handed it into the truck Paul's mind worked automatically. Then he watched as the guards vanished inside the truck and closed the door. The truck spouted a white exhaust and pulled away.
Paul was trembling now, suddenly aghast at what he had done. This wasn't a parlor game anymore, and he told himself it hadn't happened; told himself this in quick desperation; that this whole thing had been nothing more than an idle daydream, a moment's relaxation along with a few drinks.
Like hell it was! Regardless of how he figured it he was now a bigtime thief. Bigtime? How much is bigtime? How much money was now stuffed in the briefcase beside his stool? He reached down surreptitiously and hefted the bag for weight. Plenty!
He ordered another drink and gave it no chance to play tricks, snatching the glass firmly by the stem and lifting it the old fashioned way. It didn't help much.
Then real panic welled up as a heavy hand dropped on his shoulder, and he turned and saw the goggle eyes of the little fat man; saw a pudgy finger pointed accusingly.
"I tell 'ya officers this is the guy. And he's nuts. Stark raving nuts, I'm telling 'ya. He gets his drinks without even lifting them. They bounce right off the bar."
There were two policemen, a rather bored oldster with signs of breakfast on the front of his uniform and a spruced up young patrolman not yet disillusioned.