Carrying over the rusted hulk of a discarded metal cabinet, he stood on the thing and chanced looking in the window. He spied Henrik Ellsmere standing at a table, making a sandwich. Not having paper or pen to make a note, Henson decided it was best to not tap on the glass and communicate with the scientist. The room Ellsmere was in seemed to be a combination of work area and sleeping quarters. There was a closed door in the back and beyond that, he guessed, would be the men guarding him. He checked his watch; time to get a move on.
He got his grapple and line out of the gunny sack, and on the second throw, latched the hook onto the edge of the roof. Up he went, sealskin gloves on. There was no skylight, but there was a flush hatch for access. He pried the lock off, got the hatch open and, using a flashlight, worked the beam to see a set of built-in metal rungs in the wall below. Part of the floor was visible from where he was as well. He heard voices drifting upward and killed the light. Feeling in the square hole, he got his hand on a rung and down he went. He was in a small hallway and ahead of him was an opening onto the shop floor. A card slapped a tabletop below him.
“Glad when this babysitting job is over.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said the other one. “How long is Dutch gonna keep this bird on ice? When’s the thing he’s supposed to be working on getting here?”
“Who knows? We drew the short straw.” A card was slapped down again. “Gin.”
“Dammit,” the other one said.
Henson looked at his watch, eyeing the sweep of the second hand. In less than twenty seconds came a knock at the front door. It echoed throughout the garage. Several work lights were on, throwing circular pools of illumination from their bulbs.
“Who the hell is that?”
“We due for a delivery of hooch?”
“Naw, not tonight.” Chair legs scrapped across concrete as one of them went to the door. There was a slot there and he drew it back to see who was outside.
“Yeah?” he said to the face of the colored gal standing there.
“I’m your fairy godmother,” Destiny Stevenson smiled sweetly.
“Huh, you drunk or you been smoking some loco weed? Maybe you oughta come in and share it with me and my pal,” he leered.
Her palm held upward, she blew a silvery powder into his face.
“What the fuck?” he declared, backing up, coughing and reaching for the gun in his shoulder holster. The hood got it free, but his muscles had become rubbery and his eyes rolled back in his head. He collapsed, unconscious, onto the oily concrete.
“Pauly?” The other hood got up in a rush, knocking his chair over. As he ran to the aid of his fellow gunman, Henson stepped out and clubbed him once, twice, on the back of his head with a sap. He went down hard. There was an entry door inset in the garage’s bay doors and Henson opened this to let the two women inside. They went past a Kenworth truck being worked on and reached the room where Ellsmere was.
“Matthew,” the white-haired physicist exclaimed, rising from where he’d been having his snack. “And ladies,” he said, bowing slightly. “I heard the shouting, but didn’t dare peek out.” He touched a bruise on his jaw. “I’d been reprimanded for trying to sneak away previously.” There was other evidence of his mistreatment.
Henson picked up an empty unmarked bottle and smelled the opening. “Let’s blow,” he said, tossing the empty onto the bed.
“Uh-oh,” Coleman said, hearing the chain rattle on the front doors.
“You two hide,” Henson suggested. There was no back door, and while he and the two others might have gotten away via the roof and his rope, he didn’t think Ellsmere would make it.
The bay doors were swung open and a driver got back in his truck and brought the vehicle inside. He came to a halt and turned off the engine. He opened the driver’s door and foot on the running board, leaned partially out of the truck and called out. “Alfonse? Pauly? Where the hell are you?”
“They’re taking their naps,” Henson said, appearing at the side of the truck.
“Where’d you come from, shine?” He was reaching into the cab, but Henson grabbed him by his leather coat and yanked him out of the truck. Just as he was about to sap the man, a flap of canvas put him on alert. He dove away as a hood with a shotgun clambered out the covered bed of the truck, blasting at him. Buckshot pelted the flank of a delivery truck that Henson dove under.
“I got you black boy, ain’t no hiding from the likes of me.” He stalked over, bending down to shoot under the truck.
“Hey now,” Coleman said, stepping into view.
Quickly, the shotgunner spun around to fire, but Stevenson shot him first, dead center with the revolver she’d obtained from the unconscious Pauly. He went over onto his back, unseeing eyes locked on the ceiling.
“Destiny…” Henson began, having gotten back on his feet. He tried to put a hand on her shoulder but she drew back. “You saved my hide.”
She glared at him, tears in her eyes. She bit
