The thought turned about and it strengthened him. Still, as Howland hurried to the back door through the dark plant his lungs labored and his heart punched away at his Adam’s apple.

But his head held trueblue to his plans. They did not include Sherrie-Ann. They did not even include Marie Griggs, the twitch-britches night countergirl at Elwood’s Diner.

He was not sure what they did include. Except $6,000.

A year’s pay practically, tax-free.

Howland unlocked the door.

Hinch was at the wheel. My wheelman, Furia called him. Hinch drove into the empty parking lot behind the plant and stopped the car on the tarmacadam ten feet from the rear entrance. It was a Chrysler New Yorker with a powerful purr, like Hinch. Black satin under the dust and not a dent.

Furia had picked it out personally on the main drag in Newton Center, Mass. in broad daylight. They had switched plates on a back road near Lexington and Hinch crowed. It was a sweet bus, the neatest they had ever copped. It even had a police band on the radio. Furia was sitting up front with Hinch. Goldie was in the back seat flipping one of her Lady Vere de Vere cigarets, goldtipped what else.

Furia got out.

He had a stiff’s skin, tight and yellow, and Mickey Mouse ears. Goldie, who was gone on Star Trek and Leonard Nimoy, had once called him Mr. Spock for a gag, but only once. Furia wore an executive three-button Brooks, a no-iron white shirt, a bleak gray silk tie, a two-inch Knox, black gloves, built-up heels, and amber goggles, the latest type, that made him look like a frogman. His London Fog he had left on the front seat.

He stood there like a spinning top, motionless to the eye. He looked around.

“No.” He had a spinning sort of voice, too, so hard and tight it practically sang.