Death Wish by Brian Garfield Page B

place.
    He had thought of buying a heavy cane and carrying it as a weapon. But it would be unwieldy at best; someone with a knife could get in under it, and it might anger them if they saw you carrying an obvious club.
    At the counter he stood behind a fat man in a grease-spotted apron who was buying change, probably for a lunch counter’s cash register. The man went away with a sack heavy with coins wrapped in paper rolls.
    Paul bought a ten-dollar roll of quarters. Back in the apartment he slipped it into a sock, knotted it, and crashed it experimentally into his cupped palm. Then he put it in his pocket. He would carry it all the time henceforth.

    He wasn’t gentle; he was a flabby coward. It was dawning on him that the most terrifying thing about his existence was his ineffectualness.
    He felt like a fool. He took the roll of coins out of his pocket, untied the sock, and went to put the roll of quarters away in the drawer of an end table. The drawer opened an inch and then stuck. He jerked at it; it came out, fell from his hand, tumbled onto the rug. The oddments from it—safety pins, decks of cards—flew across the floor.
    He blurted a string of oaths at the top of his lungs.
    After he had put the drawer back and gathered up its droppings he re-wrapped the roll of quarters in the sock and returned it to his pocket.

    He called a locksmith and the man agreed to come round Wednesday and change the locks, replace them with heavy models that couldn’t be slipped with cellulose or broken by pressure.
    For several hours he sat constructing fantasies of methods of boobytrapping the apartment against intruders. Shotguns with wires attached to the triggers. Grenades.
    After that he began to call himself names: stupid idiot, paranoid fool.
    Jack phoned a little after five. “I’ve been trying to get you since noon.”
    â€œI had the phone off the hook. Too many sympathy calls.”
    â€œI know what you mean.”
    â€œDid Carol see the psychiatrist?”
    â€œYes, we went around there this morning. He seemed like a nice guy, pretty level-headed. He prescribed some tranquilizers and said she’d probably take a little while to get over it. I think he spent more time talking to me than he spent with Carol. A lot of speechifying on how I have to be calm and patient and understanding with her until she’s over it. You’d think she was pregnant.”
    â€œIt sounds as if he’s probably right, though. Aren’t you relieved?”
    â€œI was at the time. But she’s incredibly depressed, Pop. She hardly reacts at all when I talk to her. It’s like talking to a wall.”
    â€œMaybe that’s partly the effect of the tranquilizers.”
    â€œMaybe,” Jack said without conviction.
    â€œDo you think it would do her any good if I came around to see her?”
    â€œNo. I mentioned it to the doctor. He said it might be better for her not to see you for a little while. I told him you might be hard to convince, but he seems to feel it’s important to try and protect her from certain associations with the crime. Evidently she identifies you with it because it was your apartment. Now please don’t misunderstand, Pop—it’s not that she blames you for anything. But it might be better if you didn’t see her for a few days.”
    â€œThat’s what he said, is it?”
    â€œYes. I’m sorry—I know things are hard enough for you without——”
    â€œNever mind, I understand.” He wasn’t sure he did, altogether; but he didn’t want to start an argument. It would be fruitless. “Well, I’ll call you tomorrow.” He rang off, feeling dismal.

    He had called the police Sunday morning; he phoned again Monday evening and was put through to a Lieutenant Malcolm Briggs. “Yes, that’s right, Mr. Benjamin, I’m in charge of the case.”
    â€œI was just wondering if anything had