Surrounded Read Free Page A

empty cartons, and open cans that were crusted around the edges with the food that they had once contained. The cracked linoleum was stained in dozens of spots and was filmed overall with the grime of day-to-day city life.
        A cockroach was feasting on bread crumbs by the refrigerator. It sensed their footsteps and scuttled for cover under the oven.
        "We'll use the table here," Meyers said. He removed a dirty plate and a set of silverware left over from breakfast- or perhaps from the previous night's supper. He ran his big hands over the top of the dinette, satisfied himself that there was nothing sticky or wet to get in their way.
        "Clitus told me it was a bank job," Tucker said. He stood at one end of the table, preferring not to sit down.
        "That's right," Meyers rasped. "And a sweet one."
        "I don't like bank work," Tucker said. "There are too damned many risks. You've got to deal with fancy alarm systems, closed-circuit television, heroic tellers, panicky patrons, guards, limited getaway routes…"
        "This is different," Meyers said, echoing Clitus Felton. He went to the bread box that sat on the counter by the sink and removed a large, folded paper from beneath a tin of store-bought sweet rolls. "When you see the setup, you'll love it."
        When he saw the setup, Tucker thought, he would more than likely laugh in Frank Meyers's face and then get the hell out of there.
        But there was nothing to be gained by leaving before Meyers said his piece. The big man might just have something after all. That distracted look had finally left his blue eyes. He seemed to be more alert, less pumped up with nervous energy, and more inclined to get down to the facts. He was still rumpled and somewhat sour smelling, but he no longer looked as if he belonged in this pigsty of an apartment. Obviously the thought of this bank job energized and lifted him. Which might mean something. Or nothing.
        Meyers unfolded the paper on top of the kitchen table and stepped back to give Tucker a good look at it.
        It was a carefully rendered diagram of a large building. The paper itself was a four-foot square, and the scale was twenty-five feet to the inch. It was well drawn, full of names and shorthand descriptions.
        "The bank?" Tucker asked, impressed by the detail. He bent closer, squinting at the writing.
        "No," Meyers said. "It's the full layout of a small shopping center near Santa Monica. Nineteen stores, all under one roof."
        "Nineteen stores," Tucker said, not believing it. "Nineteen stores-and one bank."
        "That's right."
        "You want to hit a bank that's situated in the center of a goddamned enclosed shopping mall," Tucker said, incredulous. "Is that it?" He half turned away from the diagram and stared hard at Meyers. The big man had to be joking.
        He was serious. His broad face was creased by a silly but sincere grin. "I want that bank. That's mainly what we're after, naturally. But I also want two or three of the very best stores in the place."
        Tucker just stared at him.
        "Stores," Meyers repeated. "Jewelry, furs, antiques…"
        "I understood you the first time."
        "Do the logistics bother you?" Meyers asked.
        "They don't bother you?"
        "No."
        "They should."
        "If you'll look more closely at the drawing," Meyers said, "you'll see that there are only four entrances to the mall." He held up four thick fingers, as if he thought Tucker might need some learning reinforcement. "We can gain control of all the doors and then clean out everything worth taking." He laughed at Tucker's expression. "Sounds crazy, doesn't it?"
        "Absolutely," Tucker said. He turned completely away from the table. "And you can count me out."
        Meyers stopped grinning. "Wait a minute." He laid one heavy hand on Tucker's shoulder. "It really is possible. It's safe. It's the sweetest thing