The Name of the Game is Death by Dan Marlowe Page B

it isn't, it's insured.
    Human nature being what it is, the script isn't always followed. Bank guards suddenly acquire hero complexes. So do bank customers. It's a rare banker who hasn't testified at an inquest or two concerning the final moments of such a paths-of-glory candidate.
    The only real edge a pro has is in how he plans his getaway. The amateur is more likely than not to run straight into the arms of the beat patrolman outside the bank front entrance. Once on the sidewalk, the pro's three-in-ten chances of getting that far blossom into three-in-four of going the rest of the way.
    The amounts of cash even branch banks carry today make anything over a job or two a year an unnecessary risk. A job or two leaves time to study an operation. Most bankers tend to become rigid in their defensive thinking. A little probing for the soft underbelly will usually—
    "Mr. Arnold?"
    I looked up. The big man was standing at a gate in the low railing, my card in his hand. I picked up my toolchest and followed him to his desk. Up close, his color was flat white, and pain lines were at the corners of his mouth. He had a big, lionlike head with shaggy gray hair. He was still looking at the ax, so before he sat down I slipped it from its loops and handed it to him.
    He swung it lightly in his left hand, his right unbuttoning his jacket before he remembered where he was. He re-buttoned it. "Nice balance," he said. "Feels a bit light, though."
    "You're a big man, Mr. Craig."
    His mouth twisted wryly. "I was a big man." He sat down, running a fingertip along the helve. I hadn't made any mistake coming here; this man had seen an ax or two before. "Make your own handles?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "I used to, too. Except for boning and polishing them." He handed me the ax. "What's your business with me, Mr. Arnold?"
    "I'd like to clean up the trees on your place on Golden Hill Lane, Mr. Craig. They need it."
    He nodded. "References?"
    "Nothing local. I've been working up around Bellingham, Washington, but I ducked out ahead of the rainy season. I'd be glad to meet you at your place at your convenience and show you what I can do. You were in lumber. I couldn't kid you for three minutes."
    He nodded again. "Per diem or flat contract?"
    "Write your own ticket, Mr. Craig," I said earnestly. "I'll do a job for you, because with your recommendation there's more work in the area I should be able to get. Like tin-Landscombe estate."
    "Be out at my place at eight tomorrow morning," he said, rising to his feet. "When did you get into town, Arnold?"
    "Yesterday afternoon." His calling me Arnold with no Mr. in front of it was the best sign yet. I had a foot well inside the door.
    "I like your style. You've rounded up your information and boarded ship here this morning before the sun's over The yardarm. We've got a breed around here that doesn't move that fast. Eight o'clock," he repeated.
    "I'll be there, Mr. Craig. And thanks."
    "Don't thank me yet." His eyes had already returned to the papers on his desk. "If you can't cut the mustard, you don't get the job. And you're right about one thing: you won't be able to fool me. See you in the morning."
    "With bells on," I promised. I slipped the ax back into its straps while I walked away from his desk. Outside the executive enclosure, I walked to a window, caught a fat lady's eye, and opened up a checking account with eighteen hundred dollars in cash.
    On the way out I glanced at Craig's desk. I was sure he'd know about that deposit by the time I saw him in the morning. I wanted him to know. I wanted to look like something more than a fly-by-night county-jumper.
    Around Hudson, Florida, Roger Craig's good will could be as sharp a tool as any I had in my kit.
    That afternoon I called Jed Raymond's real estate office from the Lazy Susan. "Chet Arnold, the tree man, Jed," I said when I had his molasses drawl on the line "Where do you recommend I do my drinking in town?"
    "There's a place a little north of town on 19, Chet.