door with the trumpet case in his hands, smiled winningly at him. “Roof.”
“I’m sorry, this car only goes up eighty-nine. The remaining floors are private property.”
The trumpeter frowned. “Private? We have an engagement on the roof. A wedding.”
The elevator operator tried not to look as confused as he was. “I don’t think so, sir. There’s no place up there to have a wedding. A talk-box reception tower and some machinery, I think.”
“Then what’s that black thing on your uniform?”
The uniformed man looked down at his front and finally showed confusion. “Sir, there’s nothing—”
He did not see the other musician wield the blackjack. He did feel blinding pain as the lead shot-filled weapon rapped down on his uniform cap, and that was the last he knew. His legs gave way and he thudded onto the carpeted floor of the elevator car.
The trumpeter tipped his hat at the unconscious elevator operator, then nodded at the sap-wielder. “Now. Take us up.”
The big man pocketed the sap. He took the car’s control handle. “He was telling the truth. You know whose building this is.”
“Yes.”
“So this car won’t