Chapter 3

“He wants to be a partner in this business,” said Brink without
emotion. “He’s been saying that things will happen to it otherwise. I
don’t believe it. Anyhow nothing’s happened so far.”

* * * * *

Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald tried at one and the same time to roar and
to swallow. He accomplished neither. He put his finger in the bowl of
his pipe. He jerked it out, scorched.

“Look!” he said almost hoarsely, “I was tellin’ you when the phone rang!
We got a police force here in town! This’s what we’ve been tryin’ to
get! You come along with me to Headquarters an’ swear to a complaint–“

Brink said interestedly: “Why?”

“That guy Big Jake Connors!” raged the detective. “That’s why! Tryin’ to
threaten you into givin’ him a share in your business! Tryin’ to burn it
down or blow it up when you won’t! He was just a small-town crook, once.
He went to the big town an’ came back with ideas. He’s usin’ ’em!”

Brink looked at him expectantly.

“He started a beer business,” said the detective bitterly. “Simultaneous
other beer dealers started havin’ trouble. Empty kegs smashed. Trucks
broke down. Drivers in fights. They hadda go outta business!”

“What did the cops do?” asked Brink.

“They listened to their wives!” snarled Fitzgerald. “They begun to find
little grabbag packages in the mail an’ with the milk. Fancy perfume.
Tricky stockin’s. Fancy underwear they shoulda been ashamed for anybody
to know they had it on underneath. The cops weren’t bribed, but their
wives liked openin’ the door of a mornin’ an’ findin’ charmin’ little
surprises.”

“Ah,” said Brink.

“Then there were juke boxes,” went on the detective. “He went in that
business–an’ trouble started. People’d drive up to a beer joint, go in,
get in a scuffle an’–bingo! The juke box smashed. Always the juke box.
Always a out-of-town customer. Half the juke boxes in town weren’t
workin’, on an average. But the ones that were workin’ were always Big
Jake’s. Presently he had the juke-box business to himself.”

Brink nodded, somehow appreciatively.

“Then it was cabs,” said Fitzgerald. “A lot of cops felt bad about that.
But their wives wouldn’t be happy if anything happened to dear Mr. Big
Jake who denied that he gave anybody anything, so it was all right to
use that lovely perfume…. Cabs got holes in their radiators. They got
sand in their oil systems. They had blowouts an’ leaks in brake-fluid
lines. Cops’ wives were afraid Big Jake would get caught. But he didn’t.
He started insurin’ cabs against that kinda accident. Now every
cab-driver pays protection-money for what they call insurance–or else.
An’ cops’ wives get up early, bright-eyed, to see what Santa Claus left
with the milk.”

“You seem,” said Brink with a grin, “to hint that this Big Jake
is … well … dishonest.”

“Dishonest!” Fitzgerald’s face was purplish, from many memories of
wrongs. “There was a guy named Burdock who owned this business before
you. Y’know what happened to him?”

“Yes,” said Brink. “He’s my brother-in-law. Connors or somebody insisted
on having a share of the business and threatened dreadful things if he
didn’t. He didn’t. So acid got spilled on clothes. Machinery got
smashed. Once a whole delivery-truck load of clothes disappeared and my
brother-in-law had to pay for any number of suits and dresses. It
got him down. He’s recovering from the nervous strain now, and my
sister … eh, asked me to help out. So I offered to take over. He warned
me I’d have the same trouble.”

“And you’ve got it!” fumed the detective. “But anyhow you’ll make a
complaint. We’ll get out some warrants, and we’ll have somethin’ to go
on–“

“But nothing’s happened to complain about,” said Brink, quite
reasonably. “One broken window’s not worth a fuss.”

“But somethin’s goin’ to happen!” insisted the detective. “That guy Big
Jake is poison! He’s takin’ over the whole town, bit by bit! You’ve been
lucky so far, but your luck could run out–“

Brink shook his head.

“No-o-o,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m grateful to you, Mr.
Fitzgerald, but I have a special kind of luck. I won’t tell you about it
because you wouldn’t believe but–but I can give you some of it. If you
don’t mind, I will.”

He went to the slightly dusty, partly-plastic machine. On its shelf were
some parts of metal, and some of transparent plastic, and some grayish,
granular substance it was hard to identify. There was an elaborate
diagram of something like an electronic circuit inside, but it might
have been a molecular diagram from organic chemistry. Brink made an
adjustment and pressed firmly on a special part of the machine, which
did not yield at all. Then he took a slip of plastic out of a slot in
the bottom.

“You can call this a good-luck charm,” he said pleasantly, “or a
talisman. Actually it’s a psionic unit. One like it works very well, for
me. Anyhow there’s no harm in it. Just one thing. If your eyelids start
to twitch, you’ll be headed for danger or trouble or something
unpleasant. So if they do twitch, stop and be very, very careful.
Please!”

He handed the bit of plastic to Fitzgerald, who took it without
conscious volition.

Then Brink said briskly: “If there isn’t anything else–“

“You won’t swear out a warrant against Big Jake?” demanded Fitzgerald
bitterly.

“I haven’t any reason to,” said Brink amiably. “I’m doing all right. He
hasn’t harmed me. I don’t think he will.”

“O.K.!” said the detective bitterly. “Have it your way! But he’s got it
in for you an’ he’s goin’ to keep tryin’ until he gets you! An’ whether
you like it or not, you’re goin’ to have some police protection as soon
as I can set it up.”