The Complete Stories, Vol. 1: Final Reckonings

  "I've heard enough," Dr. Prager broke in. "Much as I hate to employ the phrase, this is sheer lunacy."

  The professor shrugged. "Call it what you wish," he said. "You psychiatrists are good at pinning labels on things. But Miss Eden here has had sufficient proof through her own experience. Isn't that so?"

  Eve Eden nodded, then broke her silence. "I believe you," she said. "Even if Doc here thinks we're both batty. And I'm willing to give you the fifty grand for a permanent trip."

  Dr. Prager grabbed for his goatee. He was clutching at straws now. "But you can't," he cried. "This doesn't make sense."

  "Maybe not your kind of sense," Eve answered. "But that's just the trouble. You don't seem to understand there's more than one kind. That crazy dream I had, the one you say Lewis Carroll had first and wrote up into a book— it makes sense to you if you really live it. More sense than Hollywood, than this. More sense than a little kid named Wilma Kozmowski growing up to live in a half-million-dollar palace and trying to kill herself because she can't be a little kid any more and never had a chance to be one when she was small. The professor here, he understands. He knows everybody has a right to dream. For the first time in my life I know what it is to be happy."

  "That's right," Professor Laroc added. "I recognized her as a kindred spirit. I saw the child beneath, the child of the pure unclouded brow, as Lewis Carroll put it. She deserved this dream."

  "Don't try and stop me," Eve cut in. "You can't, you know. You'll never drag me back to your world, and you've got no reason to try—except that you like the idea of making a steady living off me. And so does Dennis, with his lousy ten percent, and so does the studio with its big profits. I never met anyone who really liked me as a person except Professor Laroc here. He's the only one who ever gave me anything worth having. The dream. So quit trying to argue me into it, Doc. I'm not going to be Eve any more or Wilma either. I'm going to be Alice."

  Dr. Prager scowled, then smiled. What was the matter with him? Why was he bothering to argue like this? After all, it was so unnecessary. Let the poor child write out a check for fifty thousand dollars — payment could always be stopped. Just as this charlatan could be stopped if he actually attempted hypnosis. There were laws and regulations. Really, Dr. Prager reminded himself, he was behaving like a child himself: taking part in this silly argument just as if there actually was something to it besides nonsense words.

  What was really at stake, he realized, was professional pride. To think that this old mountebank could actually carry more authority with Eve Eden than he did himself!

  And what was the imposter saying now, with that sickening, condescending smile on his face?

  "I'm sorry you cannot subscribe to my theories, Doctor. But at least I am grateful for one thing, and that is that you didn't see fit to put them to the test."

  "Test? What do you mean?"

  Professor Laroc pointed his finger at the little bottle labeled "Drink Me" which now rested on the table before him. "I'm happy you merely analyzed the contents of that vial without attempting to drink them."

  "But it's nothing but water."

  "Perhaps. What you forget is that water may have very different properties in other worlds. And this water came from the world of Alice."

  "You planted that," Dr. Prager snapped. "Don't deny it."

  "I do deny it. Miss Eden knows the truth."

  "Oh, does she?" Dr. Prager suddenly found his solution. He raised the bottle, turning to Eve with a commanding gesture. "Listen to me now. Professor Laroc claims, and you believe, that this liquid was somehow transported from the dream world of ALICE IN WONDERLAND. If that is the case, then a drink out of this bottle would cause me either to grow or to shrink. Correct?"

  "Yes," Eve murmured.

  "Now wait — " the professor began, but Dr. Prager shook his head impatiently.

  "Let me finish," he insisted. "All right. By the same token, if I took a drink from this bottle and nothing happened, wouldn't it prove that the dream-world story is a fake?"

  "Yes, but — "

  "No 'buts.' I'm asking you a direct question. Would it or wouldn't it?"

  "Y-yes. I guess so. Yes."

  "Very well, then." Dramatically, Dr. Prager uncorked the little bottle and raised it to his lips. "Watch me," he said.

  Professor Laroc stepped forward. "Please!" he shouted. "I implore you — don't — "

  He made a grab for the bottle, but he was too late. Dr. Prager downed the half ounce of colorless fluid.

  7

  Mickey Dennis waited and waited until he couldn't stand it any longer. There hadn't been any loud sounds from upstairs at all, and this only made it worse.

  Finally he got the old urge so bad he just had to go on up there and see for himself what was going on.

  As he walked down the hall he could hear them talking inside the bedroom. At least he recognized Professor Laroc's voice. He was saying something about, "There, there, I know it's quite a shock. Perhaps you'd feel better if you didn't wait — do you want to go now?"

  That didn't make too much sense to Mickey, and neither did Eve's reply. She said, "Yes, but don't I have to go to sleep first?"

  And then the professor answered, "No, as I explained to him, it's just a question of the proper formulae. If I recite them we can go together. Er — you might bring your checkbook along."

  Eve seemed to be giggling. "You too?" she asked.

  "Yes. I've always loved this dream, my dear. It's a sequel to the first one, as you'll discover. Now if you'll just face the mirror with me — "

  And then the professor mumbled something in a very low voice, and Mickey bent down with his head close to the door but he couldn't quite catch it. Instead his shoulder pushed the door open.

  The bedroom was empty.

  That's right, empty.

  Founding Fathers

  1

  EARLY ON THE MORNING of July 4th, 1776, Thomas Jefferson poked his peruked head into the deserted chamber of what was to be known as Independence Hall and yelled, "Come on, you guys, the coast is clear!"

  As he stepped into the big room he was followed by John Hancock, who puffed nervously on a cigarette.

  "All right," Jefferson said. "Ditch the butt, will ya? You wanna louse us up, creep?"

  "Sorry, boss." Hancock glanced around the place, then addressed a third man who entered behind him. "Dig this," he murmured. "Not an ashtray in the joint. What kind of a setup we got here anyway, Nunzio?"

  The third man scowled. "Don't call me Nunzio," he growled. "The name's Charles Thomson, remember?"

  "Okay, Chuck."

  "Charles!" The third man dug John Hancock in the ribs. "Straighten that wig of yours. Ya look like somethin out of a Boy Scout pageant yet."

  John Hancock shrugged. "Well, whaddya expeck? Guy can't even smoke, and these here britches are so tight I'm scared to sit down in 'em."

  Thomas Jefferson turned and confronted him. "You ain't gonna sit down," he said. "All you gotta do is sign and keep your yap shut. Let Ben do the talking, remember?"

  "Ben?"

  "Benjamin Franklin, schmoe," said Thomas Jefferson.

  "Somebody mention my name?" The short, fat, balding man hurried into the room, carefully adjusting square-lensed spectacles to the bridge of his nose.

  "What took you so long?" Thomas Jefferson demanded. "You run into trouble back there?"

  "No trouble," Benjamin Franklin replied. "They're out cold, and the gags are holding. Its just these glasses — the lenses distort my vision. I'd forgotten I'd have to wear them."

  "Can't you ditch em?"

  "No. Somebody might get suspicious." Franklin peered at his companions over the tops of the spectacles. "They're likely to get suspicious anyway, if you don't do what I told you." He glanced around the room. "What time is it?"

  Thomas Jefferson fumbled with the ruffles at his sleeves and gazed down at the face of his wristwatch. "Seven-thirty," he announced.

  "You're sure?"

  "Check
ed it with Western Union."

  "Never mind that Western Union talk. And take off that thing—put it in your pocket. It's stuff like that can get us into trouble."

  "Trouble." John Hancock groaned. "These here shoes are killin' me. They ain't nearly my size."

  "Well, wear them and be quiet," Benjamin Franklin told him. "I wish to God you'd remembered to shave, too. Fine thing—the President of the Continental Congress on the most important day of our history, coming in without shaving."

  "I forgot. Also they was no place to plug in an electric shaver."

  "Well, never mind now. The main thing is just to be quiet and remember what you're supposed to do. Mr. Jefferson, do you have the Declaration?"

  Nobody answered. Franklin strode up to the tall man in the peruke. "Jefferson, that's you I'm talking to."

  "I forgot." The big man smiled sheepishly.

  "You'd better not forget. Now, where is it?"

  "Right here in my pocket."

  "Well, get it out. We've got to sign right away, before anybody else shows up. I expect they'll start drifting in around eight at the latest."

  "Eight?" Jefferson sighed. "Do you mean to tell me they go to work that early here?"

  "Our friends in the back room looked as if they'd been working all night," Franklin reminded him.

  "Ain't they never heard of union hours?"

  "No, and don't you mention it, either." Franklin surveyed his companions earnestly. "That goes for all of you. Watch your tongues. We can't afford a slip-up."

  "Telling me?" Charles Thomson took the parchment from Thomas Jefferson and unfolded it.

  "Careful with that," Franklin warned.

  "Pipe down, will ya? I just wanna take a look at it," Thomson replied. "I ain't never seen that there thing." He glanced at the manuscript curiously. "Hey, dig this crazy hanwriting. It's all lettering, like."

  He spread the Declaration on a table and squinted down at it, mumbling aloud.

  "When inna course a human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connecked them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth the separate—hey, what kinda double-talk is this, anyway? Whyn't these guys write English, huh?"

  "Never mind." Ben Franklin took the parchment from him and strode to a desk. "I'm going to revise it right now." He rummaged around in the drawer, finding fresh parchment and a quill pen. "I'm not up to copying the lettering style, I'm afraid, but I can explain that to the Congress easily enough. I'll tell them that Jefferson here made his last-minute changes in a hurry. The hurry part of it is no lie."

  He bent over the blank parchment and studied the Declaration as it rested alongside. "Got to keep the style," he said. "Very important. But the main thing is to add the provisions at the end."

  "Provisions?" John Hancock brightened. "We gonna have some grub, hey? I'm starved."

  "That can wait," Jefferson snapped. "Now keep still and let the guy work. This is the most important part of the whole caper, understand?"

  Then there was silence in the room — silence except for the busy scratching of the quill pen as Benjamin Franklin wrote.

  Jefferson stood over his shoulder, nodding from time to time. "Don't forget to put in that part about me being temporary boss," he said. "And stick in that we need a treasurer."

  Franklin nodded impatiently. "I've got it all down here," he answered. "Nothing to worry about."

  "Think they'll sign?"

  "Sure they'll sign. It's only logical. Right after the part about being free and independent states there should be a mention of a temporary governing arrangement. They can't object to that. Wonder why it was left out in the first place."

  "Search me." Jefferson shrugged. "How would I know?"

  "Well, you're supposed to have written it."

  "Oh, yeah, that's right."

  Franklin finished, sat back, and poked at Jefferson's chest with his quill. "Cough," he said. Jefferson coughed.

  "Again. Louder."

  "What's the big idea?"

  "You've got laryngitis," Franklin told him. "A bad case. That's why you're not talking. Anybody asks you any questions, you just cough. Right?"

  "Okay. I didn't want to talk anyway."

  Franklin gazed at Hancock and Thomson. "You two better sign and disappear. When the gang arrives, you go in the back room and keep an eye on our buddies there. I'll make up some excuse why you're not around — can't take the risk of having you cornered and questioned. Got it?"

  The two men nodded. Franklin extended the quill pen. "Here. You two are supposed to sign first." As John Hancock reached for the pen, Franklin chuckled. "Just put your John Hancock right here."

  Hancock signed with a flourish. He gave the pen to Charles Thomson.

  "Remember, you're the secretary," Franklin said, as Thomson dipped the quill in the inkwell. "What's the matter, that quill too clumsy for you?"

  "Sure it's clumsy," Thomson said. "And these clothes are murder, and none of us guys knows how to talk. We can't get away with this, Thinker. We're gonna make mistakes."

  Benjamin Franklin stood up. "We're going to make history," he declared. "Just follow orders and everything will be all right." He paused and lifted his hand. "In the immortal words of myself—Benjamin Franklin—we must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately."

  2

  They had hung together for a long time in Philly — Sammy, Nunzio, Mush and Thinker Tomaszewski. They shoved a little queer, peddled a few decks, but mostly they made book.

  It was a nice setup for all of them, particularly since the Thinker came into the deal. The Thinker was a genuine shyster, with a degree and an office and everything, and he fronted for the outfit. The funny part of it was, Thinker Tomaszewski had a regular law practice too, and he could have made a pretty nice piece of change without cutting corners.

  But he worked with them for kicks, at first.

  "The only way I can explain it," he told them, "is that I don't seem to have a superego." Always with the two-dollar words, that was the Thinker.

  And it was his two-dollar words that finally got them into trouble. In the beginning, everything was fine. Using his law office as a front, he had no difficulty in getting acquainted with a better class of mark — not the two-bucks-on-the-nose working stiff, but heavy bettors. He steered them to Sammy or Nunzio or Mush, and they made a big book.

  They made a big buck, too. So big that they just had to place a few bets of their own, with some of the top wheels like Mickey Tarantino. Playing it smart, of course, and working only on inside tips, when they were sure of a horse getting the needle.

  Came an afternoon when the needle stuck. And they were stuck for twenty grand. Mickey Tarantino held out his hand and smiled. But the smile vanished when Sammy went to him and said he needed time to pay up.

  "Whaddya mean?" Mr. Tarantino had inquired. "You guys are loaded. Look at all the rich suckers you make book with."

  "All we got to show for it is markers," Sammy confessed. "It's like your old man's delicatessen. The poor guys pay and the high-class trade puts it on the cuff. You know how those big operators work. Well it's the same in our line. You can't collect from them."

  "You damn well better collect," Mr. Tarantino advised. "Because you got until tomorrow morning. Or else you wind up in Plotter's Field, or wherever."

  So Sammy went away and called a meeting at Thinker Tomaszewski's office and broke the news.

  Thinker had news for them too. "Tarantino isn't the only one who thinks we're rolling in the stuff," he announced. "Uncle Sam is looking down our throats for a little matter of back income taxes."

  "Great!" Sammy groaned. "Tarantino's hoods in front of us and the Federal finks behind us. Which way do we turn?"

  "I suggest you turn to our clients," Thinker answered. "Call on some of our investors and ask them to redeem their markers."

  So Sammy and Nunzio and Mush called. And early that evening they assembled and pooled resu
lts.

  "Three grand!" Sammy snorted. "Three lousy grand!"

  "Is that all?" The Thinker was genuinely mystified. "I should have thought you'd get more than that."

  "Sure we got more. Excuses we got, promises we got, brush-offs we got. But here's the moola. Three grand, period."

  "How about Cobbett?" Thinker asked.

  "Professor Cobbett? He's your baby, isn't he?"

  The Thinker nodded. Professor Cobbett was indeed his baby. One of the upper crust.

  "What's he into us for?" Sammy demanded. "About eight, I think."

  "Eight and three is eleven. Not so hot. But if we could get it fast, maybe Tarantino would hold off for a while."

  "Let's get it fast," Mush suggested. "Let's go out and see old Cobbett right now."

  So they all piled into Sammy's car and went out to see old Cobbett. The Professor had a country place — a nice layout for a man who lived all alone — and he was cordial and pleasant when he greeted the Thinker on the front porch.

  He was not quite so cordial or pleasant when he learned what the Thinker wanted, and he was downright inhospitable when the Thinker beckoned and his three companions appeared out of the darkness.

  They had to stick their feet in the door and they had to stick their heaters in his ribs.

  "No foolin'," Nunzio told him. "We want our loot."

  "Oh dear!" said Professor Cobbett, as they marched him backwards into his own parlor. "But I have no money."

  "Don't con us," Mush told him. "Look at this joint, all. this fancy furniture."

  "Mortgaged," the Professor sighed. "Mortgaged to the hilt, and past it."

  "What about this here school where you teach at?" Mush asked. "You could maybe brace them for some advance dough on your salary, huh?"