sportsman. Course? ?? He sighted the long rifle at two young women gassing up a VW out front. His eyes flew around behind the barrel like stirred bats.
?Dreamin? of nook,? Moss said, ?shooting the gook.? He clicked the trigger and simulated a blunderbuss recoil.
He google-eyed Berryman?s sunglasses. ?Hope you not thinkin a huntin rabbit??
Berryman hooted. ?Not going to eat?m if I do.?
?You sure as hell ain?t. No way.?
Moss Jr. tried to sell Berryman a Colt .38 with an ankle holster. He tried several different M-12s and M-16s. Some twenty-two-caliber dum-dums. A handmade Creek Indian blanket.
Berryman hemmed and hawed, toed the wooden floor like a skittish colt, finally picked up one of the Smith & Wesson pistols. A .44 magnum like Bert Poole?s. Plus a silencer.
He signed for it American Express: care of Mr. Brewster Greene of Louisville.
As he bagged the gun, silencer and ammunition, one of Moss Jr.?s eyes disappeared into his forehead. In his mind he was participating. ?Hey, whachu goan do with all this fahpow??
Berryman held an Indian blanket up to a hanging Coleman lamp. ?Targetshoot,? he said. ?Kill beer cans and watermelons.?
Moss?s eye returned. ?You know that .44 was developed for huntin,? he said.
?I know that.?
?All right then. All right,? Moss grinned. He handed over the gun. ?You will be careful a your nigger weenies near my cherry bombs. On your way out, stranger.?
Philadelphia, July 2
It was on that same day, July 2nd, that the final piece was told about the puzzle.
St. Joseph?s Place is a well-kept secret in the extreme northeast section of Philadelphia. It?s made up of two long rows of modest homes, most with owner-trimmed hedges and very old elms in their front yards. Most with swing sets or basketball hoops.
The street deadends north at St. Joseph?s Church and elementary school. As Gothic cathedrals go, the church is small and unpretending. The elementary school is redbrick in color, probably large, but mostly hidden by elms.
Directly across from the school, half-hidden in still more elm trees, sits Joe Cubbah?s candy store.
The name on the yellow and brown Hershey?s sign says ?Angie?s Magazines.? The candy store is called ?Angie?s? after Joe Cubbah?s wife (who also happens to do all the work there), but in the vernacular it?s ?Jockey Joe?s,? no relation to the saint.
On that particular morning, Cubbah was minding the store for his wife.
To be more precise, he was lounging in the back booth near the pay phones.
He was equipped with steaming black coffee, cream doughnuts,
magazine, and the
He was dressed in a raw silk shirt and Daks, but he smelled of bacon grease.
?Scrambled eggs, coffee, burn the rye toast?and keep it coming.? A woman named Mrs. Riley was sitting at the counter giggling. Her comic material was a straight lift from a serious breakfast order the groundskeeper from St. Joe?s had given Cubbah. Knowing the way Joe Cubbah operated around the store, the order had broken the neighborhood woman up.
Cubbah didn?t even hear her, though. He was in the store strictly as a favor to Angela. He cleared over twenty-five thousand dollars a year, and he figured he could take or leave the six grand the little store brought in. That went double for Mrs. Riley?s eighty cents a day.
?Scrambled eggs,? the woman gagged on a mouthful of bialy, ?coffee, burn the rye toast ? Where?s your sense of humor, Joe??
?Shove it up your can,? Joe Cubbah muttered. He looked over at the back of the woman?s dirty white wedgies; he wondered how Angela could stand it all day in the store? But then he was watching a young priest play basketball, H-O-R-S-E, in the schoolyard; and he was back having generally good thoughts about the world.
A little after nine o?clock the day?s first real customer arrived in the store. This was a rich old dentist who drilled in the neighborhood, but who lived out on the Main Line. His name was Dr. Martin McDonough.
?Hello Mister Cubbah,? he called back to the pay phones. ?How are you doing today??
?Eatin,? Cubbah smiled. He hitched up his trousers and started toward the front.
He leaned over the gum and cigars to talk with the dentist. ?Angela tells me you?re screwin around with one of those lay teachers over the school??
The dentist chuckled, but he was already lost in the
?s sports section.
?What do you think of the Phils?? he asked.
Joe Cubbah, ?Jockey Joe,? didn?t think of the Phils. ?Seven gets you six over the Expos,? he said. ?Fucking Expos,? he added for the fun of it. ?Assholes are losing me my underwear this year.?
The dentist laughed. Cubbah laughed with him. At least the old gentleman had fun losing his money.
The first bet of the day was for ten units on the Philadelphia Phillies, and ?the strong right arm of Gentleman
