When the Sacred Ginmill Closes

"All we need," he said. He killed the engine and we exchanged glances, and his eyes moved to the glove compartment.



He said, "You see Keegan? In the back seat there?"



"Uh-huh."



"You can bet he's had a couple since they left."



"Probably."



"We'll wait, right? Celebrate after."



"Sure."



He shoved the gun into the waistband of his pants, draped his shirt to conceal it. "Probably the style here," he said, opening the door, hefting the attachй case. " Sheepshead Bay, home of the flapping shirttail. You nervous, Matt?"



"A little."



"Good. I don't want to be the only one."



We walked across the wide street and approached the restaurant. The night was balmy and you could smell the salt water. I wondered for a moment if I should have been the one to take the gun. I wondered if he'd even fire the pistol, or if it was just there for comfort. I wondered if he'd be any good with it. He'd been in the service, but that didn't mean he was proficient with a handgun.



I'd been good with handguns. Barring ricochets, anyway.



"Catch the sign," he said. "Clam opening and closing, it's a goddamned obscenity. 'C'mere, honey, let's see you open your clam.' Place looks empty."



"It's Monday night and it's getting late."



"Midmorning's probably late out here. Gun weighs a ton, you ever notice? My pants feel like they're gonna get dragged down around my knees."



"You want to leave it in the car?"



"Are you kidding? 'This is your weapon, soldier. It could save your life.' I'm all right, Matt. I'm just running on nerves is all."



"Sure."



He reached the door first and held it for me. The place wasn't much more than a glorified diner, all formica and stainless steel, with a long lunch counter on our left and booths on the right and more tables in back. Four boys in their midteens sat at a booth near the front, eating french fries with their fingers from a communal platter. Farther back, a gray-haired woman with a lot of rings on both fingers was reading a hardcover book in a lending library's plastic cover.



The man behind the counter was tall and fat and completely bald. I suppose he shaved his head. Sweat was beaded on his forehead and had soaked through his shirt. The place was cool enough, with the air conditioning running full blast. There were two customers at the counter, one a round-shouldered man in a short-sleeved white shirt who looked like a failed accountant, the other a stolid girl with heavy legs and bad skin. At the rear of the counter the waitress was taking a cigarette break.



We took seats at the counter and ordered coffee. Someone had left that afternoon's Post on an adjoining stool. Skip picked it up, paged through it.



He lit a cigarette, smoked it, glancing every few seconds at the door. We both drank our coffee. He picked up a menu and ran his eyes over its listings. "They got a million different things," he said. "Name something, it's probably on here. Why am I looking? I couldn't eat."



He lit another cigarette, put his pack on the counter. I took one from it and put it between my lips. He raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything, just gave me a light. I took two, three puffs and put out the cigarette.



I must have heard the phone ring, but it didn't register until the waitress had already walked back to answer it and come forward to ask the round-shouldered man if he was Arthur Devoe. He looked astonished at the idea. Skip went to take the call and I tagged along.



He took the phone, listened for a moment, then began motioning for paper and pencil. I got my notebook and wrote down what he repeated to me.



A whoop of laughter came at us from the front of the restaurant. The kids were throwing french fries at each other. The counterman was leaning his bulk onto the formica, saying something to them. I turned my eyes from them and concentrated on writing down what Skip was saying.



Chapter 16



Skip said, "Eighteenth and Ovington. You know where that is?"



"I think so. I know Ovington, it runs through Bay Ridge, but Eighteenth Avenue is west of there. I think that would put it in Bensonhurst, a little ways south of Washington Cemetery."



"How can anybody know all this shit? Did you say Eighteenth Avenue? They got avenues up to Eighteen?"



"I think they go up to Twenty-eight, but Twenty-eighth Avenue 's only two blocks long. It runs from Cropsey to Stillwell."



"Where's that?"



" Coney Island. Not all that far from where we are now."



He waved a hand, dismissing the borough and all its unknowable streets. "You know where we're going," he said. "And we'll get the map from Kasabian. Oh, fuck. Is this going to be on the part of the map they're carrying?"



"Probably not."



"Fuck. What did I have to go and rip the map for? Jesus."



We were out of the restaurant by now. We stood in front, with the winking neon in back of us. Skip said, "Matt, I'm out of my element. Why'd they have us come here first, then call us up and send us to the church?"



"So they can get a look at us first, I guess. And interrupt our lines of communication."



"You think someone's looking at us right now? How'm I gonna tell Johnny to follow us? Is that what they oughta do, follow us?"



"They probably ought to go home."



"Why's that?"



"Because they'll be spotted following us, and they'll be spotted anyway when we tell them what's going on."



"You think we're being watched?"



"It's possible. It's one reason for them to set things up this way."



"Shit," he said. "I can't send Johnny home. If I suspect him, he probably suspects me at the same time, and I can't… Suppose we all go in one car?"



"Two cars would be better."



"You just said two cars won't work."



"We'll try it this way," I said, and took his arm to steer him. We walked not toward the car where Kasabian and the others were parked but to Skip's Impala. At my direction he started the car up, blinked the lights a couple of times, and drove to the corner, took a right, drove a block and pulled to the curb.



A few minutes later Kasabian's car pulled up beside us.



"You were right," Skip said to me. To the others he said, "You guys are smarter than I gave you credit. We got a phone call, they're sending us on a treasure hunt, only we got the treasure. We're supposed to go to a church on Eighteenth Avenue and something."



"Ovington," I said.



No one knew where that was. "Follow us," I told them. "Stay half a block to a block in back of us, and when we park go around the block and park behind us."



"Suppose we get lost?" Bobby wanted to know.



"Go home."



"How?"



"Just follow us," I said. "You won't get lost."



WE took Coney Island Avenue and Kings Highway into Bay Parkway, and then we got disoriented and it took me a few blocks to get my bearings. We went across one of the numbered streets, caught Eighteenth Avenue, and found the church we were looking for on the corner of Ovington. In Bay Ridge, Ovington Avenue runs parallel to Bay Ridge Avenue a block to the south of it. Somewhere around Fort Hamilton Parkway it winds up still parallel to Bay Ridge Avenue but a block north of it, where Sixty-eighth Street used to be. Even when you know the area, this sort of thing can drive you crazy, and Brooklyn is full of it.



There was a No Parking zone directly across from the church, and Skip pulled the Chevy into it. He cut the lights, killed the engine. We sat in silence until Kasabian's car had moved up, passed us, and turned at the corner.



"Did he even see us?" Skip wondered. I said that they had, that was why they'd turned at the corner. "I guess," he said.



I turned and watched out the rear window. A couple of minutes later I saw their lights. They found a parking spot half a block back, and their lights went out.



The neighborhood was mostly prewar frame houses, large ones, set on lots with lawns and trees out in front. Skip said, "It doesn't look like New York out here. You know what I mean? It looks like some normal place in the rest of the country."



"A lot of Brooklyn is like this."



"Parts of Queens, too. Not where I grew up, but here and there. You know what this reminds me of? Richmond Hill. You know Richmond Hill?"



"Not well."



"Track team had a meet out there once. We got the shit kicked out of us. The houses, though, they looked a lot like this." He dropped his cigarette out the window. "I guess we might as well do it," he said. "Right?"



"I don't like it," I said.



"You don't like it? I haven't liked it since the books disappeared."



"The other place was public," I said. I opened my notebook, read what I'd written down. "There's supposed to be a flight of steps on the left-hand side of the church leading down to the basement. The door's supposed to be open. I don't even see a light on, do you?"



"No."



"This looks like an awfully easy way to get sandbagged. I think you'd better stay here, Skip."



"You figure you're safer alone?"



I shook my head. "I figure we're both safer separated for the moment. The money stays with you. I want to go down there and see what kind of a reception they've got set up for us. If there looks to be a safe way to make the switch, I'll have them blink the lights three times."



"What lights?"



"Some light that you can see." I leaned across him, pointed. "Those are the basement windows down there. There must be lights, and you'll be able to see them."



"So you wink the lights three times and I bring the money. Suppose you don't like the setup?"



"Then I tell them I have to get you, and I come out and we drive back to Manhattan."



"Assuming we can find it." He frowned. "What if- never mind."



"What?"



"I was gonna say what if you don't come out."



"You'll find your way home sooner or later."



"Funny man. What are you doing?"



I'd popped the cover of the dome light and I was unscrewing the bulb. "In case they're watching," I said. "I don't want them to know when I open the door."



"The man thinks of everything. It's good you're not Polish, we'd need fifteen guys to turn the car while you held onto the bulb. You want the gun, Matt?"



"I don't think so."



" 'Bare-handed, he went up alone against an army.' Take the fucking gun, will you?"



"Gimme."



"And how about a quick one?"



I reached for the glove box.



I got out and stayed low, keeping the car between me and the church basement windows. I walked half a block to the other car and ran down the situation for them. I had Kasabian stay with the car and told him to start the motor when he saw Skip enter the church. I sent the other two around the block on foot. If the other side made their getaway through a rear exit of the church and over a fence and through a yard, Bobby and Billie might be able to spot them. I didn't know that they could do much, but maybe one of them could come up with a license-plate number.



I returned to the Impala and told Skip what I'd done. I put the bulb back in the dome light, and when I opened the door again it went on, lighting up the car's interior. I swung the door shut and crossed the street.