“Folsom, class of 1989. Fully rehabilitated, of course.”
“Of course,” I said. “What makes you so sure I’m avoiding a cop?”
He started laughing and pulled the two dollars back out of his pocket. He handed them to me and said, “Sister, you earned it,” as he walked back into the kitchen.
As I started toward the front door, I heard him say, “Hey!”
I turned around.
“You in some kind of trouble?” he asked.
“Not really. Someone else is.”
“Yeah? Well, go over to the little bookstore across the street. Guy over there will let you out the back way.”
“Thanks,” I said.
The long, narrow store sold used books. The owner was at a counter in the back, talking on the phone. He was tall and thin and looked as if he had been selling books since the day the Gutenberg Bible was hot off the press. There was a closed door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY behind him. I decided not to make a scene by rushing through it and passed the time browsing — not an unpleasant diversion. I found a paperback copy of a collection of short stories by Bret Harte and pulled it from the shelf. A penciled notation on the title page said it was mine for a quarter — a deal.
Deciding I needed to move toward the rear of the store in case Reed Collins came back, I moved closer to the counter and started looking over the eclectic collections on the back shelves, which yellowed tags identified as books on gardening, bicycling, architecture, military history, and other subjects. While most sections were crowded with titles, there was a noticeable gap on one of the upper shelves, and I stood on tiptoe to read its tag.
“Magic and Magicians,” I read aloud.
The store owner had just finished his call. “Magic?” he repeated. “Not you, too. Is this some new craze or something?”
“You’ve had a lot of people in here buying books on magic?”
He shook his head. “No, just Mr. Messier, the fellow that bought the theater.”
Something was familiar about that name, but I couldn’t place it. “Which theater?”
“Oh, it’s just down the alley from here. The Starlight. Long time ago, it was quite a grand place, but then it went broke. Church group had it for a little while. Called it the Starlight Chapel. Then the church went broke. Hasn’t operated as a theater in years, but Mr. Messier’s restoring it.”
The Starlight. I knew where I had heard the name, then. “Would this be Mr. Charles Messier?”
“Why, yes!” he said, smiling. “Do you know him?”
“We’ve spoken on the phone,” I said. “Is he a young man?”
“Yes, but don’t let that fool you. He’s well off. And smart as a whip. And I’m telling you, he showed me a couple of card tricks — he should be in Vegas, he’s that good.”
“Sounds like you’ve taken a liking to him.”
“I have, I have. Mr. Messier is a very charming young man. And he’s put a lot of work into that theater.”
I paid for the Harte stories and said, “I have a favor to ask.”
The owner looked up at me.
“The cook at the cafe across the street said you might let me out the back door, into the alley.”
The old man smiled. “Ray said that? Well, sure, go right ahead.”
“How well do you know Ray?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.
“You mean, do I know he’s an ex-con? Sure I do. He worked here for me when he first got out, then went to work over there at the cafe. He keeps an eye out for me, though. Neighborhood’s a lot tougher than it used to be — heck, they tell me the SWAT team was all over the place last night. A warehouse burned down. Anyway, Ray doesn’t let anybody give me any trouble. So if he wants you to see our lovely alley, go right on through that back door. But I’ll warn you, that back door will lock behind you, so once you’re in the alley, you have to walk to the end of it to get out.”
“Thank you — and please thank Ray again for me.” I started to leave, then paused and asked, “Do you know where the nearest pay phone is?”
“Local call?”
“Yes, but—”
“Go right ahead and use mine.”
“Thanks.”
I dialed Cassidy’s number, got an answering machine.
“Cassidy, this is Irene. There’s an old theater between Twentieth and Twenty-first Streets, off….”
“Denton,” the old man supplied.
“Denton,” I said. “It’s owned by Mr. Charles Messier, whom you may remember from our conversation with the Szals. I think he has our package. The Starlight Theater. I’ll call back in a few minutes.”
I hung up, stood wondering if I trusted such an important message to an answering machine.
“Go ahead,” the old man said, “make another call.” At my puzzled look he added, “You’re still hanging on to the
