A Calculated Risk by Katherine Neville (most difficult books to read txt) 📕

one shoe off, he noticed the man standing there watching him. Duke Jimmy glanced up; there was something odd about the chap. Then he realized it was the color of his eyes—Jimmy had never seen eyes like that except on an alley cat.

“Top of the morning to you, sir,” said Jimmy pleasantly.

“Hello,” said Tor. “It’s a much colder morning than the weatherman reported. You must be chilly in that outfit.”

“Right you are,” said Jimmy. “I was just thinking to myself that a nice bottle of red wine would warm my old bones.”

“I wonder,” said Tor, “if you would mind standing up for a moment?”

“I hope you’re not planning to rob me,” said Jimmy, putting on his shoe and standing up before Tor. “If so, you’ve certainly picked the wrong chappie.”

Tor walked slowly around the old bum, looking him up and down.

“I think you’ll do,” he said. “How would you like to make some money?”

“That depends,” said Duke Jimmy cautiously.

“You seem to be about the same size as I. How would you like to sell me those clothes you’re wearing? Just the toppers—I’m not interested in the undergarments,” Tor added quickly. He’d gotten a good whiff of the old wino, and wondered how much disinfectant it would take to rid the clothes of lice.

“How much are you talking about?” asked Jimmy. “These clothes are practically family heirlooms, you know. They don’t go cheap.”

“Fifty dollars,” said Tor.

“Sounds fair to me,” Jimmy agreed. “But what am I going to wear if I sell my last suit of clothes?”

Tor hadn’t thought of that. Nor did he want to get into a shopping expedition to outfit the fellow.

“How about that suit you’re wearing?” Jimmy suggested. “If my clothes fit you, your clothes ought to fit me.”

“This suit is rather expensive,” said Tor.

“That’s fine with me,” replied Jimmy. “That’s why they call me Duke Jimmy—because I knows quality when I sees it.”

The courier office in midtown Manhattan was crowded with sweaty bodies. The steady buzz of voices, like the droning of a fan, would cease for a moment each time someone’s number was called by the clerk up front.

Tor rose from the back of the room when his number came up. He was conscious of the strong smell of dry-cleaning fluid and disinfectant that accompanied him as he moved through the room, and an aroma beneath it that seemed slightly stronger. But no one seemed to notice.

He followed the clerk into a large back room with many desks.

“Mr. Duke?” said the interviewer, who barely glanced up as Tor entered the cubicle.

“Yes—Jimmy Duke,” said Tor, suppressing a small smile.

“I’ll just put James down here—shall I? Is that your given name?”

“People call me Jimmy,” said Tor.

“Fine,” said the interviewer, printing James in the blank space. “May I see the questionnaire you’ve completed?” When Tor handed it to him, he asked, “Have you ever done work like this before?”

“I’ve delivered for grocery stores,” said Tor.

“Ah yes, so I see,” said the interviewer. “All right, let me explain the job. We get a call from a brokerage firm, or perhaps from the stock exchange. If you’re called, you go to the address indicated. The securities will be held there for you in a satchel. You pick up the securities and check them to make certain they’re all there, then you initial for them and give the brokerage a receipt. Get them to sign your pink slip so we can bill them properly.”

“Then what do I do?” asked Tor.

“Take them to the Depository Trust, where they’ll be logged in. They’ll check all the forms against the securities and give you a receipt. We charge them ten dollars for a delivery, and you get paid eight dollars an hour. Most deliveries will take you very little time, since the offices are almost all in the financial district. We supply the bicycle. That’s all there is to it.”

“Fine,” said Tor. “When do I start?”

“It’ll take about two weeks to get you bonded. But I see here on your form that you don’t have any arrests or a criminal record, and we’re short of staff just now—so you can begin at once. We’ll send you your papers when your bonding comes through in a few weeks. Report to the courier office on Broad Street tomorrow morning at eight.”

“Fine,” said Tor, taking his departure.

He wouldn’t have to wait for his bonding papers. In two weeks, the entire theft would be completed.

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 9

At nine o’clock the morning of December 9, a man in a frayed tweed jacket and burgundy sweater entered the doors of Merrill Lynch. He was wearing mud-spattered sneakers with bicycle clips around the calves of his trousers, and carrying a clipboard with sheets of scribbled paper attached. He went up to the receptionist’s desk.

“Pickup for Depository,” he said.

“Are you a courier?” she asked, and Tor nodded. “Next floor up,” she told him.

Tor came off the elevator on the next floor. There was a long hallway with a door at the end that said DELIVERY. He went down and pushed the buzzer, and the door unlocked with a click.

“Pickup for Depository?” Tor said to the man at the window.

“Okay, he’s here!” yelled the man over his shoulder. “Come on, step on it—we haven’t got all day. Anything else for A through G? I haven’t got H through M yet. S through Zed, you’re okay.…”

He was glancing through the piles on his desk as he ticked off securities on a ticket before him.

“Okay, I guess that’s it,” he told Tor.

They both went through the securities and checked off the numbers. Tor dropped the securities into the canvas satchel the man handed him. He gave the man a receipt and the man initialed his clipboard. Tor picked up the satchel.

“You handle these securities alphabetically?” asked Tor.

“Yeah, what’s it to you?” said the man behind the window.

“If I have to drop some off here, should I bring them to you?”

“Nope. Those go to receiving—next floor up.”

“Thanks,” said Tor. As he turned