William P. Salton

“ The martini glided smoothly down Paul's throat. Empty, the glass returned to the table.
Paul tingled all over, thoroughly enjoying the new thrill, the new sense of power. It was far more intoxicating than the martinis themselves.
With a marked sense of superiority he again looked up and down the bar. The first flash of fear gone, he now regarded the other drinkers with patronizing contempt.
That fat fellow there at the end for instance. Drinking a manhattan. Trying to look like a banker. Trying to impress the people. Pompous ass! Maybe I can fix his wagon, Paul thought. ”

“ A squad car pulled up and he climbed docilely in the back seat and sat like a man in a trance between the two silent policemen. At the station there was the added chill of feeling like a man alone, a criminal involved in a terrible experience that was merely routine to the tormentors who walked by his side. ”

“ Then he watched as the guards vanished inside the truck and closed the door. The truck spouted a white exhaust and pulled away.
Paul was trembling now, suddenly aghast at what he had done. This wasn't a parlor game anymore, and he told himself it hadn't happened; told himself this in quick desperation; that this whole thing had been nothing more than an idle daydream, a moment's relaxation along with a few drinks.
Like hell it was! Regardless of how he figured it he was now a bigtime thief. Bigtime? How much is bigtime? How much money was now stuffed in the briefcase beside his stool? ”