The first year of working with him went by fast. He was still the same old Wally Hunter in most respects, entertaining to be around for his total cynicism, but a little more scary than I remembered. He'd become much more intense in his att.i.tudes toward the world around us, and the fact that it owed us a living. His cynicism could at times become almost incendiary.

Since we were no longer both living in the same small Southern town where there wasn't much to do, the "Sat.u.r.day-morning adventures" were ancient history. All of that small-town stuff was behind us. We were out of the sticks and into upscale areas in the civilized world, living in widely separated Connecticut towns within commuting distance of the plant.

But, occasionally, when on the road together, we'd do things I considered a little strange. One night in Chicago he insisted we go to a notorious gay bar and have a couple of drinks so we could observe how "that other ten percent" lives. In offhand comments about his own s.e.xuality once, he'd suggested that he was into "limited," or "mild," sadomasochism, from the sado side, of course. I'd still never met his wife.

At the end of my first year at Met'n'Mat Tech, he called me into his office one day for my "annual review," and rather sternly asked me, as an opening remark, how much salary increase I felt I deserved. I was hesitant. "Whatever you can get me, Wally. Seven, eight percent, hopefully something over five. I'd feel very good about ten."

He broke into a broad grin and said, "I got you fifteen."

And that was the end of our so-called annual review, a type of corporate activity he considered to be total bulls.h.i.t. One of his favorite forms of larceny was getting me, and I suppose others in our small section, as much money from the corporation as he could manage. He signed my expense accounts, and when we traveled together, he'd often say, "You lie and I'll swear to it." It was these att.i.tudes toward company funds which probably explain the strong sense of loyalty we all had to him...

...When we arrived in front of the Manchester Store, he didn't pull into the store's private lot, but parked instead on the street, around the corner from the store's main entrance. I asked him why.

"I like this better," he said in a familiar tone of voice he used once in a while when he didn't want to be questioned further about something. We got along well, but on the occasions he used this tone, I'd learned to just cool it.

Before getting out of the car, he opened his briefcase and took out his cell phone, dropping it into his jacket pocket.

"Just curious, Wally, what do you need with that?"

"Why not take it with us? The company pays for it. If I decide I want to make a call, I'll have it handy. I don't want to have to use a public phone or go through the store's switchboard."

Knowing Wally, that somehow had a little bit of a scary sound to it. What call would we want to make some fifteen minutes before the store was closing? Why were we even going in there when all the clerks would be anxious to leave? But what the h.e.l.l? This was Wally.

The Manchester Store was unique. It was large and complete, with huge, tasteful spreads of just about everything a department store could offer. In addition to extensive, major-name-brand departments for clothing and footwear, and of course, perfumes and cosmetics, it also specialized in furniture, appliances, fine jewelry, toys, and sporting goods of every description, including a widely respected department of everything needed for hunting and fishing, and finally, a rather nice restaurant.

But it wasn't its size and completeness that made the Manchester Store unusual. It was its style and character. The Manchester Store was an old, long-established family business, and the Manchester family was dedicated to preserving the store's venerability, maintaining the special charm and ambience of earlier years. Only recently had its management made such radical changes as installing escalators, while still maintaining those ornate old elevators with the filigreed silverish doors. The store had even finally started accepting credit cards other than those issued exclusively for use in the store. The Manchester Store, an ageless example of period architecture among other things, stood alone in all respects, including location. It was a very popular alternative to the fancy New York chain department stores and the gigantic malls where they were usually found.

We walked around the first floor for a minute or two, among other customers still milling around, and then went to the fancy jewelry department, where Wally shopped for an expensive string of cultured pearls, presumably for his wife. A very proper elderly lady waited on us, unlocking the gla.s.s case and taking out the one he pointed to, and it became quite clear that he knew more about pearls than she. But this didn't surprise me. He knew more about most things than most people.

As he discussed them with her, I glanced at my watch and saw the store was to be closing in a matter of minutes. The saleslady was growing impatient. He asked her about gift cases and she hurriedly pulled one out of a drawer and showed it to him.

Finally, he told her he'd think about it, and led me away. "Let's go up to the fifth floor, to furniture," he said.

"Wally, the store's closing in a couple of minutes."

"Come on."

"For what?"

"Because I want to go up there. And I'm driving. Come on. We'll have a ball."

A ball, now? What the h.e.l.l kind of a ball? It was no use. It had been a long time, but once again, I sensed that I was being sucked into one of Wally's things. And this time I had no idea what the h.e.l.l it was. But this one clearly smelled of trouble, serious trouble, and I was beginning to feel more than a little damp around the collar.

We took the escalator to the top floor, strode toward the furniture and bedding area, and as we arrived there, the earsplitting bell rang for some twenty to thirty seconds, announcing that the store was officially closed. We looked around and there wasn't a salesperson in sight.

"Wally, they're closed. We've got to get the h.e.l.l out of here, now, or we're going to get in trouble."

"Relax, for Christ's sake. Follow me. There's a men's room right over here, and I've got to go bad."

"Can't we just leave? Can't you wait until you get home?"

"No way. Come on!"

I followed him. We went into the men's room and I stood there while he calmly pulled a paperback from his jacket pocket, went into a stall, hung up his jacket, dropped his pants, and sat down. The paperback was a spy novel he'd been reading on the plane. He consumed paperback spy stuff. But was this the time to be doing it? I looked at my watch. Minutes were ticking away and I was sweating heavily. What the h.e.l.l was this? The reading hour?

When he finally came out, he asked, "Don't you have to p.i.s.s or anything?"

I wasn't sure I wasn't too nervous to perform any bodily functions, and I was getting worse by the minute. But I figured it was probably a good idea, because I had no idea what was going to happen next, so I fronted up to a urinal and, with considerable concentration, managed to get it done. "Wally, you want to tell me what the h.e.l.l's going on, here?"

"I thought we'd spend the night here in the store. Do a little easy unhurried shopping."

Had I heard him right? "Wally, did I hear you right?"

"Relax, man. I've done it before. We'll have a ball."

He was serious! I felt a little dizzy. This topped anything from the Oak Ridge days by a couple of quantum leaps. "Wally, we've got to get the h.e.l.l out of here! Now! Before they shut the place down and turn on their security setup! If we don't, we're going to be in a lot of trouble."

"Will you relax? I told you, I've done this before."

And he was relaxed. Completely. I couldn't believe it. "Well, look," I said, "I want to get on home. I told my wife I'd be home around ten, ten-thirty, and that's what I want to do. I don't want her worrying."

He pulled the cell phone from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. "Here. Give her a call. Tell her we missed our flight and she'll see you tomorrow."

"What if I just leave now and I'll go look for a cab home? You can stay if you want. I can get my suitcase from you tomorrow."

He looked at his watch. "You're too late, pal. The front door's already shut. n.o.body's down there. And if you start looking around for somebody to let you out, you're going to run into some rather tedious problems... Why don't you relax? We'll have a great time here, tonight. I told you before, this is not my first time doing this."

"What do you do?" I asked, partly as a joke, "sleep in the furniture department?"

"Of course," he answered with his usual cynical grin, "and then be the first person in the coffee shop for a great bacon-and-eggs breakfast in the morning." Then he handed me his phone. "Call your wife and tell her you'll see her tomorrow."

"I don't believe you. I don't think you've ever done this before. You can't walk around this store at night. They must have some kind of fancy electronic security system, motion detectors, closed-circuit TV, some d.a.m.n thing, that'll pick us up and start ringing bells and have police coming in here like gangbusters. What I do think is, you've gotten me in a lot of trouble, and I have to tell you, Wally, I'm sweating bullets. How in h.e.l.l are we going to get out of here?"

"Will you take it easy? First of all, they don't have any fancy electronic stuff here. In the Manchester Store? Never. It wouldn't be in keeping with the store's image. What they do have is a night watchman who walks the store once an hour, on the hour, and sticks his key in one of those old time clocks on every floor, and then returns to his little office in the bas.e.m.e.nt, where he does have closed-circuit TV monitors covering all the outside doors to the building."

Then Wally looked at his watch. "Keep an eye on that middle aisle of the floor. He'll go walking down it in about five minutes to go to the time clock on the back wall, back there in appliances. We'll stay down, out of sight, but I'll bet he doesn't even look in this direction."

"Well, when he shows up, I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to tell him I accidentally got caught in here after the doors closed, and ask him to let me out. And I'll look for a taxi to take me home."

"A taxi ride from around here to where you live, even if you could get one, which I doubt, could cost you a couple hundred bucks. Have you got that kind of cash with you, hotshot? I doubt it. And taxis don't take credit cards. And even if you do have cash, you can't put that on your expense account. Whether I sign it or not, it won't fly."

"I don't care. Wally, I'm a nervous wreck. What I want to do is leave."

"Well, you can't. If you do, he'll call the cops to come and investigate, and the cops'll write it up. And you don't want that. Do you hear what I'm saying? Why can't you just relax and have some fun doing a little shopping? It's great not having a bunch of stupid clerks trying to wait on you."

My shirt was getting damper by the minute and clinging to my body. "Wally, I'm scared out of my head being in here like this, now."

"Jesus, I thought you'd love it." He looked at his watch. "It's just about time for the night watchman to come traipsing through. Let's sit here on this sofa and keep our heads down and we can watch for him. You can call home after he's gone."

I did as I was told. I had no idea what else I could do. And I was shaking. What if the guard decided to come walking over to the furniture department to browse? He could. He could be in the market for a sofa. Maybe even the one on which we were slumped, watching for him. "Tell me, gentlemen," he could say, when he came strolling over, "how does this sofa sit? Nice? Comfortable? And try to keep your dirty shoes off of it. I may want this particular one. And by the way, you're under arrest."

And just as Wally had said, we heard elevator doors open, followed by footsteps, and finally, there he was. The area had been darkened from what it had been during sales hours, but from our crouched position, peering over the back of the sofa, we could still see him clearly. Wally had picked us a spot where we could watch through a maze of lamps and stick furniture, and easily go unnoticed. The guard was a big man, middle-aged, burly, tough looking despite a potbelly.

He walked slowly along the middle aisle of the floor, glancing in all directions. He moved out of our view as he reached the back of the floor, in appliances, and, in the quiet, we heard the small mechanical sound of his key being inserted into the time clock. He then walked back toward the elevators, and we kept our heads down until we heard the elevator door open and close.

"That's a different watchman from the one I saw the last time I was here," Wally said.

"It is?"

"This one's a big 'un. The last time I was here, the guy was so old and puny he looked like a good strong fart would knock him down."

"Wally, you're not making me feel any better."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, relax. We're not going to be seeing him up close. We'll be seeing him just like we did, then. From a distance. Every hour on the hour. And in between his hourly visits, we'll do a little shopping."

"He thinks he's alone in this store, Wally. What makes you so d.a.m.n sure he won't do something different?"

"Because that's his job. He's gotta hit every one of those clocks at a specific time, and he spends the rest of his time sitting on his a.s.s in that office in the bas.e.m.e.nt. They provide him with a television to keep himself occupied."

"How do you know that?"

"I've been down there. I talked to the other guy down there one night, just before closing. I started picking his brain and he was more than happy to spill his guts. He told me everything about his job. They provide him with a TV to watch while he's keeping an eye on all those closed-circuit screens monitoring the outside doors."

I was impressed, as usual, with Wally's research. Almost as much as with his nerve. He was a crazy man. But he never got caught at anything. Never.

"Here," he said, "take the phone and call your wife."

I couldn't think of an immediate alternative. I told her the flight had been canceled because of mechanical problems, and I'd be home the following day. Then I returned the phone to him. "I guess you can call your wife now."

"She'll see me when she sees me." He stuffed the small phone into his jacket pocket. Then he said, "Let's go do a little shopping. We've got a good forty-five minutes before he gets off his a.s.s again."

"How about if I wait here for you?"

"Are you kidding? Come on. I'm going to help you with your Hanukkah shopping. Make a real hero out of you. Let's go."

I reluctantly got to my feet and went with him. I guess it was out of a long-established habit of letting him talk me into doing things that I was absolutely sure I'd regret doing. This was crazy. This was no cave exploring or deserted-quarry target practice. This was big doings. Felony-sized... So what else was new?

We walked to the escalator, which was silent and unmoving, turned off for the night. Then it was cautiously down the steps, tiptoeing just far enough to be able to survey the next floor before continuing down into it. I followed behind him, gradually becoming a little more relaxed. I had to marvel at the fact that he really seemed to know what he was doing. He'd never gotten caught at anything. Despite his almost deranged driving habits, he'd never to my knowledge even gotten so much as a ticket.

We approached the first floor, and after surveying it longer than any of the others, we moved toward the fine jewelry area. Despite the subdued lighting, visibility was still adequate. Wally stepped behind the counter where he'd seen the fancy pearls, and it was at this moment that I knew for sure he'd been planning this. He reached into a pocket and pulled out thin, plastic-film gloves! As he slipped his hands into them, he whispered, "You keep your hands in your pockets."

I understood perfectly. He and I had come to Oak Ridge during a time when all new employees were fingerprinted on being hired, and those prints were still on file somewhere. I was more than glad to do that. I had no desire to touch anything. I wanted no part of the whole business. But I did have a question: how was he going to get into those jewelry showcases? They were all locked.

And as quickly as I wondered about the question, I got my answer. He poked his hand into his pocket and came out with a bunch of those little metal things that locksmiths use to open locks.

"I'll bet you were wondering how I'd get into this showcase without breaking any gla.s.s," he said with his cynical smile.

"As a matter of fact, yes, I was."

"You think I want to smash the place up? That wouldn't be any fun. I'm not here to rob the store. The challenge is just to do a little shopping without their help. And if they do notice that something's missing, which I doubt will even happen, they'll maybe ask a few questions and then write it off to employee pilferage and get the loss reimbursed by insurance."

"And those lock picks? Where'd you get those?"

"I've got a buddy who's a key-and-lock guy, and he's been checking me out on this particular skill. These little locks on the jewelry showcases? s.h.i.t! These are kid stuff."

Another of my firmest beliefs shattered. Locksmiths sell absolute security. It's their stock-in-trade. So it goes. "And The Manchester Store is your favorite store," I said. "Right?"

"A fine old store. Everything is of highest quality." And with a flourish, a smile, a wave of his hands, and a softly whispered musical "ta-da," he opened the display cabinet.

He reached inside and from an extensive array of pearl necklaces, he carefully lifted out a necklace, a double strand of large cultured pearls, priced at thirty-five hundred dollars. It was not the same one he'd looked at before. That had been a single strand, and much cheaper. He avoided disrupting the arrangement of necklaces in the black velvet tray, pushing the others together just enough to eliminate the gap left by the missing one.

He next opened the drawer in a side cabinet, the drawer opened by the saleslady earlier, and took out one of the black gift cases. He laid the necklace into it and smiled. Then he began opening other drawers until he found a small box made to contain the gift case. He put the case into this box and slid it into his jacket pocket. Then he looked at me. "Which one would you like?"

"What?"

"Pick out one. Come on. We haven't got all night."

"Uh, no. Really. No thanks."

"Come on, pal. Don't be a schmuck. We're standing here. Pick something."

"No. Really, Wally. Forget it. It's not necessary. Actually, to tell you the truth, my wife's not much into jewelry." And what a whopper of a lie that was. But I'd made up my mind.

"s.h.i.t! For Chrissakes, will you pick out something? This is last call."

"Nothing for me, Wally, but thanks." I backed away a few feet from the showcase. He was hot, but somehow, I just couldn't make myself be a party to it.

"Schmuck!" Wally snapped. "What the h.e.l.l's the matter with you? That's why I brought you here." He relocked the showcase. "Come on, then. Let's get back upstairs."

We made our way back up the escalator steps to the fifth floor, and furniture. I still couldn't believe what was happening. Did he really think I was going to be able to sleep through the night up there? But it was still early.

We just sat and stared at our watches until eleven o'clock approached, and then we began to antic.i.p.ate the next pa.s.s by the guard. And he appeared, as expected, just as Wally had a.s.sured me he would. He walked the length of the floor, this time, hardly looking around, until he entered the appliances area, where he disappeared. He looked even larger this time than I'd remembered from his first pa.s.s. We heard the sound of his key in the time clock and then he reappeared as he made his way back to the elevators.

After we heard the elevator door open and close, Wally said, "How about that? Everything right on schedule." There was still a trace of annoyance in his voice, but he was cooling down.

I asked, "And he just sits down there in an office and watches the tube for an hour, and then repeats his rounds?"

"If he doesn't key those clocks on schedule, he's in a lot of trouble. Maybe one of these days, during store hours, I'll take you down there and show you around. There's a lot of stuff going on down there." Wally smiled. "If he's there, we'll get him to give us a tour."

"And are we supposed to just go to sleep now, and wait for morning?"

"First, I've got one more little item to shop for, as soon as he's had time to get back to his office, and after that we can think about getting a little rest. Matter of fact, I could use some sleep. It's been a long day. We got up early in Chicago this morning, did a day's work, drove to O'Hare, and flew home. And we were up late last night, running around..." Then he looked at me and grinned one of his familiar teasing grins. "How about you, hotshot? Think you'll be able to get to sleep after all this excitement here tonight?"

He'd read my mind. I felt a little weak at the knees every time I remembered just where the h.e.l.l we were... But I had to hand it to him. He was right at home. How many times had he done this, before?

Then he said, with his playful smile, fully aware of my state of unrest, "Okay, let's go. One more little purchase and then we can turn in." He chuckled. "I'm a pretty good customer here, you know? My wife loves this store. She spends a fortune here. She'll love getting this gift, knowing it came from the Manchester Store. She doesn't much like all the New York stores they have around, up this way."

"What floor this time?" I asked.