The dark man looked at her and then smiled. He seemed to bow even though he did not. “I’m sorry,” he said to Talent.
“Go on away,” Talent said.
“I said I am sorry. I did not know you were her husband.” He smiled again at Helen. “I did not know she was married.”
“I know what you said. Now get the hell away from us.”
The dark man smiled again, but he did not move.
“It’s all right, Paul,” Helen said.
“It’s not all right,” Talent said, looking at her. “I came back and found this punk trying to pick you up.”
“Punk,” the dark man said.
“You heard me,” Talent said.
The dark man stepped toward him. Talent took out the knife. The blade made a popping sound when it opened.
“Ah, no,” the bartender said.
“Now what?” the dark man said.
“Now you go,” Talent said.
The dark man smiled. “I don’t think so. I think you will go.”
“That’s what you think.”
“You have a knife.”
“Yes.”
The dark man had not moved after that first step. Now he reached into his back pocket and brought out a.gun. He smiled again. “Now
The knife blade was steady for another few seconds before it wavered and dropped. “Come on,” Talent said to Helen.
They walked the length of the room. Someone giggled quietly. Someone laughed out loud. By the time they reached the door, everyone was laughing. He turned, wanting to say something, but Helen took his hand. “Come on.”
They took a cab to the subway station at Times Square. While he was in the cab, Talent slipped the
knife from his pocket and stuffed it into the crack of the seat. He tried to hide what he was doing from Helen, but he thought she noticed it. She looked away and did not say anything.
When they got out of the cab, the wind was cold down Broadway and it burned his skin.
Retribution
by Michael Zuroy
“You’re quite sure?” The president of the Chowder Falls National Bank stared unwaveringly at the auditor, his face expressionless. He was a large man whose features and bald head seemed formed out of one solid chunk of stone, unsoftened by the rigidly brushed and trimmed hair at the sides. The neat nameplate on the desk before him said in black and gold letters: Augustus Prescott, President.
“Quite sure,” said Mr. Tunney, the auditor, matching Prescott’s unemotional tone.
“Your figures show that something over forty thousand dollars is missing?”
“Exactly forty-thousand, two hundred and eleven dollars,” said Tunney, as though reading from a balance sheet Tunney was a crisp, spare man with cool eyes behind rimless glasses. One could not picture him in anything but rimless glasses.
There was a silence. When Prescott spoke again, it was with a heavy deliberateness, as though he intended to make absolutely certain of one point before going on to the next. “Your audit also proves that one of our tellers, Robert Dorp took the money?”
“That’s right.”
“There’s no question about it?”
“None.”
“Seems to me,” said Prescott, “a difficult thing for an audit to pinpoint the crook. Is that evidence conclusive enough to stand up in a court of law?”
“Absolutely.” Tunney left his seat alongside Prescott’s desk and strode to a long table, on which were spread out ledgers, balance sheets and work sheets. “These figures prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that the shortage originated with Dorp. Any C.P.A. in the country would agree with that.”
“I don’t want to prosecute the man unless we’re certain.”
“I repeat, this evidence is indisputable.”
Prescott let out a weighty sigh, crossed the office and opened the door slightly so that the two men could look out at the banking floor. Dorp was at his cage several windows down, serving a woman depositor, smiling pleasantly. He was tall and lean with dark hair that held a trace of a curl.
“Fine looking man,” said Prescott.
“Yes. Attractive to the ladies.”
Prescott and Tunney exchanged glances. “Too damn attractive,” said Prescott.
Both men fell silent, wrapped up in their own thoughts. After a while, Tunney asked, “How’s your daughter?”
“Eh? Oh, coming along, thanks.”
“She still doesn’t realize that you know?”
“She doesn’t and never will, if I can help it. They call me a hard man, Tunney, but I’m soft when it comes to my daughter. I’d never hurt her — and I’d make anyone who tried to hurt her sorry.”
“I’m sure,” said Tunney. “By the way, how did you find out?”
“She confided in a girl-friend of hers. The friend thought I ought to know.”
“You are not one to advertise your feelings,” said Tunney, “but I know how you felt. I know that you worship the child.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” said Prescott savagely. “I wouldn’t stand in her way when the proper time comes and the proper person. I don’t go for this father antagonism towards the lover, and I don’t expect her to remain a virgin child forever. But she’s barely sixteen now, and not ready for life. What happened to her was just a rotten seduction.”