‘What is?’
‘You know what. Do you want to? Tonight?’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Sure.’ And thought again: isn’t this some life. Isn’t this just
7
Nolly Gardener was listening to rock n’ roll music on WLOB and snapping his fingers when the telephone rang. Parkins put down his crossword magazine and said, ‘Cut that some, will you?’
‘Sure, Park.’ Nolly turned the radio down and went on snapping his fingers.
‘Hello?’ Parkins said.
‘Constable Gillespie?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Agent Tom Hanrahan here, Sir. I’ve got the information you requested.’
‘Good of you to get back so quick.’
‘We haven’t got much of a hook for you.’
‘That’s okay,’ Parkins said. ‘What have you got?’ ‘Ben Mears investigated as a result of a traffic fatality in upstate New York, May 1973. No charges brought. Motorcycle smash. His wife Miranda was killed. Witnesses said he was moving slowly and a breath test was negative. Apparently just hit a wet spot. His politics are leftish. He was in a peace march at Princeton in 1966. Spoke at an antiwar rally in Brooklyn in 1967. March on Washington in 1968 and 1970. Arrested during a San Francisco peace march November 1971. And that’s all there is on him.’ ‘What else?’
‘Kurt Barlow, that’s Kurt with a 'k'. He’s British, but by naturalization rather than birth. Born in Germany, fled to England in 1938, apparently just ahead of the Gestapo. His earlier records just aren’t available, but he’s probably in his seventies. The name he was born with was Breichen. He’s been in the import-export business in London since 1945, but he’s elusive. Straker has been his partner since then, and Straker seems to be the fellow who deals with the public.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Straker is British by birth. Fifty-eight years old. His father was a cabinetmaker in Manchester. Left a fair amount of money to his son, apparently, and this Straker has done all right, too. Both of them applied for visas to spend an extended amount of time in the United States eighteen months ago. That’s all we have. Except that they may be queer for each other.’
‘Yeah,’ Parkins said, and sighed. ‘About what I thought.’
‘If you’d like further assistance, we can query CID and Scotland Yard about your two new merchants.’
‘No, that’s fine.’
‘No connection between Mears and the other two, by the way. Unless it’s deep undercover.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
‘It’s what we’re here for. If you want assistance, get in touch.’
‘I will. Thank you now.’
He put the receiver back in its cradle and looked at it thoughtfully.
‘Who was that, Park?’ Nolly asked, turning up the radio.
‘The Excellent Cafe. They ain’t got any ham on rye. Nothin’ but toasted cheese and egg salad.’
‘I got some raspberry fluff in my desk if you want it.’
‘No thanks,’ Parkins said, and sighed again.
8
The dump was still smoldering.
Dud Rogers walked along the edge, smelling the fragrance of smoldering offal. Underfoot, small bottles crunched and powdery black ash puffed up at every step. Out in the dump’s wasteland, a wide bed of coals waxed and waned with the vagaries of the wind, reminding him of a huge red eye opening and closing… the eye of a giant. Every now and then there was a muffled small explosion as an aerosol can or light bulb blew up. A great many rats had come out of the dump when he lit it that morning, more rats than he had ever seen before. He had shot fully three dozen, and his pistol had been hot to the touch when he finally tucked it back in its holster. They were big bastards, too, some of them fully two feet long stretched end to end. Funny how their numbers seemed to grow or shrink depending on the year. Had something to do with the weather, probably. If it kept up, he would have to start salting poison bait around, something he hadn’t had to do since 1964.
There was one now, creeping under one of the yellow sawhorses that served as fire barriers.
Dud pulled out his pistol, clicked off the safety, aimed, and fired. The shot kicked dirt in front of the rat, spraying its fur. But instead of running, it only rose up on its hind legs and looked at him, beady little eyes glittering red in the fire glow. Jesus, but some of them were bold!
‘By-by, Mr Rat,’ Dud said, and took careful aim.
Dud walked across and prodded it with one heavy work boot. The rat bit weakly at the shoe leather, its sides
