He stood there. “Aw, don’t look so downcast, kid. You must have sentimental attachments for this car. First one you ever stole or something?” He took another sip of Scotch and leaned against the radiator. He was deep in thought. Then he brightened. “Hey, I just remembered. You can buy brand-new engines for a 1968 Cadillac, this model. They been in stock ever since at General Motors. You got money?”

“I got money,” said Heller.

“I’ll check.” Mike went into his office and got on the phone. He came back beaming. “They still got them! You in a hurry or can this job take a few weeks?”

“I’m in no hurry,” said Heller. “That will fit into my plans just fine.”

Suddenly, I was all adrift. I had been so certain he just wanted the car to bash around in New York with, so certain that this was just more Fleet officer fixation on toys that I had not examined the possibility that he had some diabolical plot in mind. I hastily reviewed his actions so far. He was NOT idly drifting as I had thought! He was working! The (bleepard) was plowing straight ahead on his mission! The horrible idea that he might succeed rose over me like Lombar’s specter. What the Devils was he up to?

“All right,” said Mike. “But what do you want out of this car, really? Speed? If it’s speed, I could put new aluminum alloy pistons in the new engine: they get rid of the heat quicker and the engine is less likely to blow up. And you could get a lot more revs out of it.”

“Would that increase or decrease the gas consumption?” said Heller.

“Oh, possibly increase it.”

“Good,” said Heller. “Do it.”

“All right. I could put special carburetors on it,” said Mike.

“Good,” said Heller.

“But if she is going to go faster, she better have a new radiator core and maybe an oil radiator for cooling.”

“Good,” said Heller.

“There may be some worn parts like axle spindles and such that would have to be replaced.”

“Good,” said Heller.

“She better have some new tires. Racing ones that’ll do a hundred and fifty without blowing out.”

“Good,” said Heller.

“Lighter magnesium wheels?” said Mike.

“Would it make her look different?”

“I should say so. Much more modern.”

“No,” said Heller.

Mike had received his first no. He stood back, had a drink, thinking fast.

Bang-Bang interrupted him. “Ain’t that a Corleone pickup truck?” he said, pointing to a newly repainted and now black Ford.

“Ready to go,” said Mike.

“I’ll take it along when I go,” said Bang-Bang and promptly began to remove his cartons from the Cadillac and load the pickup.

Mike, refreshed, returned to the fray. He picked at a fender. “There are some small dents that need body beating. She could use a sandblast and a new coat of paint. Hey, listen kid, we got some original Cadillac paint: we can never use it because it is too showy! I’ll get a card.” He rushed to the office and came back. “Here you are. It’s called ‘Flameglow Scarlet.’ It makes the car shine even in the dark! Real flashy!”

“Good,” said Heller.

I couldn’t track with him. He had originally chosen gray because it was more invisible. Now he was choosing paint that practically burned my viewscreen! What was he up to?

“But,” said Mike, moving to the front seat and picking at it, “this upholstery — yes, and them back curtains — has had it. Now, it just so happens we have some upholstery that was bought and never used. It’s called ‘Snow Leopard,’ white with black spots. Sparkles! It’ll really show up wild against that red body! We can even get it thick enough for floor rugs, too.”

“Great,” said Heller.

Mike couldn’t think of anything else. “Now, was there something special you wanted in addition?”

“Yes,” said Heller. “I want you to fix the hood so it can be locked down all around with keys. And under the car, I want a very light sheet of metal that will seal the engine absolutely.”

“Oh, you’re talking about bomb jobs and armor,” said Mike. “Now, the reason they built these cars with so much horsepower was so they could carry the weight of armor. I can put you in bulletproof windows, armor plate in the side walls…”

At last, I understood. He was afraid his car would be rigged for a blitz again!

“No,” said Heller. “Just a light sheet underneath and locks on the hood so nobody can get to the engine.”

“Burglar alarms?” said Mike hopefully.

“No,” said Heller.

I gave up. The only explanation was that Heller was crazy!

“That’s all?” said Mike.

“That’s about it” said Heller.

“Well,” said Mike, appearing to be a little apprehensive, “that whole lot we been over will add up to about twenty G’s.”

Bang-Bang had been removing the last of the recorders. He dropped the box. “Jesus!” He came over. “Look, kid, I can steal and get converted fifteen up-to-date Cadillacs for that!”

“I’ll throw in the new license,” said Mike. “And honest, Bang-Bang, it will cost that to tailor rebuild this car.”

“I’ll take it,” said Heller. He reached into his pockets and pulled out a roll. He counted and held out ten thousand.

“This kid just knock off Brinks?” Mike demanded of Bang-Bang.

“It’s honest hit money,” said Heller.

“Oh, well, in that case,” said Mike, “I’ll take it on account.” And he went to his office to write out a receipt. “What name?” he called back. “Not that it matters.”

“Jerome Terrance Wister,” said Heller.

Now I knew he was crazy. Bury could find out he was alive and could trace him! And with a flashy, different car like that…

Bang-Bang had finished loading the pickup. He presented a grateful Mike with the case of Johnny Walker Gold Label. “Get in, kid. Where do I drop you?”

“I’m going over to Manhattan,” said Heller.

“In that event, I’ll take you to the train station. It’s quicker.”

He did so and when Heller got out, Bang-Bang said, “Is that your real name, kid? Jerome Terrance Wister?”

“No,” said Heller. “I’m really Pretty Boy Floyd.”

Bang-Bang laughed uproariously and so did Heller. I was offended. Pretty Boy Floyd was a very famous gangster, too famous to be joked about. Sacred.

“What do I owe you?” said Heller.

“Owe me, kid?” said Bang-Bang. He pointed through the back window at his cargo. “For six months up the river, I been dreaming of a drink of Scotch! Now I’m going to swim in it!” And he drove off singing.

I wasn’t singing. I was in new trouble just when I thought it couldn’t get worse. Heller was going to pull Bury straight back in on him by using that name and I didn’t have the platen. But at the same time, Heller was sailing ahead on his job. I could feel it! He might make it!

The whole thing had me spinny. On the one hand, Heller must NOT get himself killed before I had the means of forging his reports to Captain Tars Roke. On the other hand, a very great danger loomed that he was up to some dastardly plot to succeed in his mission and definitely had to be put away or killed.

I went out and laid down in the yard and buried my face in my hands. I had to be calm. I had to think logically. This was no time to go off my rocker just because I had to keep a man from being killed that would have to be killed. I had to think of something, something to do!

And that (bleeped) wild canary kept trilling at me from a tree. Mockery. Sheer mockery!