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''No。''
〃The ex…FBI man？ I never told you about him？〃
Dortmunder looked at him。 〃You have a nephew who's an FBI man？〃
〃Ex…FBI man。 He quit。〃
〃He quit；〃 Dortmunder echoed。
〃Or maybe they fired him；〃 Kelp said。 〃It was some argument about a secret handshake。〃
〃Kelp； I'm gonna miss my train。〃
〃I'm not making this up；〃 Kelp said。 〃Don't blame me； for Christ's sake。 Victor kept sending in these memos how the FBI ought to have a secret handshake； so the agents could tell each other at parties and like that； and they never went for it。 So either he quit or they fired him； something like that。〃
〃This is the guy that came up with the caper？〃
〃Look； he was in the FBI； he passed the tests and everything； he isn't a nut。 He's got a college education and everything。〃
〃But he wanted them to have a secret handshake。〃
〃Nobody's perfect；〃 Kelp said reasonably。 〃Hey； listen； will you e meet him； listen to him？ You'll like Victor。 He's a nice guy。 And I tell you the score is guaranteed beautiful。〃
〃May's waiting for me to e home；〃 Dortmunder said。 He could feel himself weakening。
〃I'll give you the dime；〃 Kelp said。 〃e on； whadaya say？〃
〃I'm making a mistake；〃 Dortmunder said； 〃that's what I say。〃 He turned around and started walking back。 After a second； Kelp caught up with him again； smiling cheerfully； and they walked back together。
The Toronado had a ticket on it。
4
〃EVERYBODY FREEZE；〃 Victor snarled。 〃This is a stickup。〃
He pushed the stop button on the cassette recorder； rewound； and played it back。 〃Everybody freeze；〃 the cassette snarled。 〃This is a stickup。〃
Victor smiled； put the recorder down on his work table； and picked up both other recorders。 All three were small； about the size of a tourist's camera。 Into one of them Victor said； in a high…pitched voice； 〃You can't do this！〃 Then he played that from one recorder into the other； at the same time giving a falsetto 〃Eeek！〃 The scream and the high…pitched remark were then played back from recorder number three to recorder number two； while in a deep voice Victor said； 〃Look out； boys； they've got guns！〃 Gradually； working back and forth between the recorders； he built up an agitated crowd response to the stickup announcement； and when he was satisfied with it he recorded it onto the first Cassette。
The room Victor was in had started life as a garage but had veered。 It was now a cross between a den and a radio repair shop； plus some Batcave。 Victor's work table； littered with recording equipment； old magazines and odds and ends； was against the rear wall； which was pletely papered with covers from old pulp magazines； pasted on and then shellacked。 At the top of the wall was a rolled…up motion…picture screen； which could be pulled down and hooked to a gizmo at the back of the work table。
The wall to Victor's left was lined with bookcases； filled with pulp magazines； paperback books； Big Little Books； ic books； and elderly hardcover boys' books…Dave Dawson； Bomba； the Boy Allies。 The wall to his right was also lined with shelves； these containing stereo ponents and records； mostly old sixteen…inch transcription records of radio shows like 〃The Lone Ranger〃 and 〃Terry and the Pirates。〃 On a small shelf at the bottom were a line of new cassettes； identified in neat lettering in red ink with such titles as The Scarlet Avenger Meets Lynxman and 〃Rat〃 Duffy's Mob Breaks Out。
The last wall； where the garage doors had once been； was now given over to motion pictures。 There were two projectors； an eight…millimeter and a sixteen…； and shelf after shelf of canned film。 Stray bits of unused wall around the room sported posters for old movie serials…Flash Gordon Conquers the Universe…and box tops from old cereals… Kellogg's Pep； Quaker Puffed Rice； Post Toasties。
There were no doors or windows visible anywhere in the room； and most of the central floor space was taken up by fifteen old movie seats； in three rows of five； all facing the rear wall； the rolled…up screen； the littered work table； and Victor。
Being just thirty years of age； Victor hadn't yet been born when most of the material in the room had first appeared。 He'd discovered the pulps by accident when he was in high school； had started collecting； and had gradually spread out to all the sources of adventure in the decades before World War Two。 It was history to him； and a hobby； but not nostalgia。 His own youth had been highlighted by Howdy Doody and John Cameron Swayze； and he had as yet discovered no twinge of nostalgia within him for either。
Maybe it was his hobby that kept him young。 Whatever it was； he didn't look his age。 At the most； he might be taken for twenty； but generally the people he met assumed he was a teenager； and he was still routinely asked for proof of age whenever he went into a bar。 It had frequently been embarrassing； back when he was with the Bureau； to identify himself to some pinko as an FBI man and have the pinko fall on the floor laughing。 His looks had hampered his Bureau activities in other ways； too； for instance； he couldn't infiltrate a college campus because he didn't look old enough to go to college。 Nor could he grow a beard； except some straggling thing that made him look as though he was suffering from radiation sickness。 And when he let his hair grow long； the best he could look like was the Three Musketeers' mascot。
He sometimes thought the reason the Bureau had let him go was just as much his appearance as the business about the handshake。 Once； when he'd been assigned to the Omaha office； he'd heard Chief Agent Flanagan say to Agent Goodwin； 〃We want our men to look clean…cut； but that's ridiculous；〃 and he'd known they were talking about him。
But the Bureau hadn't been the right place for him anyway。 It wasn't …anything like The FBI in Peace and War； or C…Men； or the rest of the literature。 They didn't even call themselves G…men； they called themselves Agents。 Every time he d called himself Agent； Victor had gotten the mental image of himself as an undercover humanoid from another planet； part of the advance guard sent to enslave mankind and turn Earth over to the Green Goks from Alpha Centauri II。 It had been a disturbing mental image and had played havoc with his interrogation technique。
Also； consider： Victor had been with the Bureau twenty…three months； and not once had he held in his hands a submachine gun。 He hadn't even seen one。 He'd never broken down a door。 He'd never held a loud…hailer to his mouth and bawled； 〃All right； Muggsy； we've got the house surrounded。〃 What he'd mostly done was call Army deserters' parents on the telephone and ask them if they'd seen their son recently。 And he'd also done a lot of filing…really； one hell of a lot of filing。
No； the Bureau hadn't been the right place for him at all。 But where…other than this garage…was the right place？ He had his law degree； but he'd never taken the bar exam and had no particular desire to bee an attorney。 He made a small living these days as a dealer in old books and magazines； pletely mail order； but it wasn't a really satisfying existence。
Well； maybe this busin