Ice Blues - Stevenson Richard. Страница 6

Bean Vikings, who was I to care what they did in the privacy of their own mountains?

I walked up the middle of Crow Street on the hard-packed snow. The city plows had been out early, maybe due to the fact that it was a mayoral election year, when the Democratic machine tends to become visible, providing the odd useful service. At Crow and Lancaster a disabled city snow-removal truck had been abandoned in the center of the intersection forcing the Volvos and delivery vans to detour carefully around it. One end of its steel plow rested on the street where it had gouged out a section of tarmac. The driver's side door hung open, as if the driver had been driven off by attackers, maybe Republican terrorists, the Governor Thomas E. Dewey Brigades. Election years in Albany can be turbulent.

I headed up Lark, where some of the boutiques and spinach-salad joints were opening up, their owners apparently hoping the state workers would occupy their sudden leisure with some recreational spending. The street was cleaner than I had ever seen it and the few people walking along it looked happy to be out and taking part in a harmless emergency.

On Central Avenue I glanced through the frosted window of the Watering Hole, where a few of the regulars had already shown up for an early light brunch. I could hear the jukebox playing something pleasantly sordid, but it seemed a bit early in the day for that-or late in the decade-and I didn't stop in.

My office was locked up and unmolested. I turned the key and shoved the door open and nothing blew up. There was no evidence of forced or unforced entry, and I could see no sign of the "thing" that didn't belong to me having been left there by Jack Lenihan or anyone else. I half wanted it to be there. If a man hadn't been killed, I would have welcomed any distraction from my sour hibernation. As would Timmy, whose tolerance for lighthearted dishiness was high but for bitchiness low. I guess he'd learned from the Jesuits how to make distinctions like that.

I slid the pie tin out from under the leaky radiator valve and dumped the rusty bilge that had accumulated into the plastic bucket resting nearby for that purpose. I spilled about a third of a cup on my boots and wiped them off with the old T-shirt that lay along the windowsill as a puny obstacle against the winter wind.

Wednesday's mail was still on the floor where it had been shoved through the door slot the previous afternoon, which I'd spent tracking down my car.

There were three invitations to purchase a sewing machine and win a free trip to Las Vegas, and an envelope with a dollar bill in it from a former client who was paying me off a dollar a week for three thousand weeks. The fifth item was a slip from the postal service notifying me that a registered letter was waiting for me at the main post office. I slid the slip into my wallet.

The Albany phone book showed a Colonie listing for John C. Lenihan. I called directory assistance and was given a new number for Lenihan on Swan Street, which I dialed. I let it ring for a full minute. Down on Central traffic was starting to build. Behind the beer truck double-parked in front of Jimmy's Lounge a rusty beige Buick sat idling with a man in a baby-shit-brown leather jacket behind the wheel. He was smoking something and looked settled in.

I hung up the phone, locked the office and went down the back stairs to the fire exit. Snow had drifted against the door, but I shoved it open far enough to angle my way out, then over a fence and through a backyard to Washington Avenue. Snow worked its way down into my boots, and I figured if I kept this up I'd have to stop off somewhere for a couple of bread bags and two rubber bands.

Back on Crow Street I opened the passenger door of Timmy's big snowball, retrieved the snow brush from the back seat-no body was on it-and went to work. The plastic handle snapped under the wet weight and I ended up swiping the rest of the car clean with my arms. Snow seeped into my gloves, and I thought again of the islands.

I warmed up the Subaru, rocked it to and fro for a time, then shot onto the roadway and over toward State, trailing chunks of flying snow like James Bond firing at a pursuing nemesis. My pursuer, undeterred, was the green Chevy pickup that had been parked across from our house when I'd passed it ten minutes earlier. I sailed down State on the hardpack, then left on Broadway. I drove around to the back of the main post office, through the gateway, past the columns of mail trucks, up a ramp, and into a loading bay. The green pickup did not follow.

"Hey, you can't park there!"

"Governor's office," I chirruped, and flashed my library card. "Special-delivery birthday greetings for Mario's mom!" I fled on into the building, signed for the registered letter, pocketed it carefully, strode out, drove down the ramp at the far end of the loading dock, exited through the gateway opposite the one I'd come in through, lined up on the north side of a CDTA bus about to cross Broadway, then stayed with it through the intersection. The pickup truck was nowhere in sight.

On Lodge Street I parked alongside the Hilton, went in and booked a double room under the name Hiram Nestlerode.

"But that's not the name on your credit card," the clerk pointed out. I'd seen him around, at the Watering Hole, the Green Room, Uncle Charlie's Far North.

I winked. "Look, I'm really Engelbert Humperdinck, here for a sold-out concert at the Coliseum, and I'd just like a little privacy, that's all, a little discretion on your part. You know how it goes." I winked again.

His experienced desk clerk's eyebrow went up. "My dear, you don't look the least bit like Engelbert Humperdinck. You look more like-Tom Selleck, except with a few years on him."

"That's who I am actually-Tom Selleck with a few years on him. Now just give me a room, will you?"

"Welcome to Albany, Mr. Selleck. If there's anything I can do-anything at all-to make your stay more enjoyable, just let me know. Ask for Malcolm."

"You're too kind."

"Have you any luggage?"

"It's en route from the airport."

"I'll have it sent right up. Perhaps I'll carry it up myself. Front!"

The envelope, with no return address, was postmarked Los Angeles, the previous Monday, January 14, P.M. The letter inside was dated January 13 and was handwritten on two sheets of plain white inexpensive typing paper. Taped to the bottom of the second sheet were five tiny keys.

Dear Mr. Strachey,

We met one time last summer, and I am hoping you remember me. I was at Herb Brinkman's pool party and we talked about the Democratic convention which was coming up soon. You might recall that I was a Jessie Jackson supporter for the Rainbow Coalition and you said you were for Morris Udall. I argued that your vote would be wasted because Udall was not running. Do you remember me now?

Although I disagreed with your position on certain issues, I got the strong impression that you are a man of integrity who can be trusted to do the right thing when the chips are down. Other people I know said the same thing about you recently, even though you are rather weird in some ways, but I can relate to that.

Mr. Strachey, I need your help very much right now, and I am in a position to pay for it. A large sum of money has come into my possession, and my request is that you keep it safe for me until I can dispose of it in an appropriate manner.

You are probably wondering why I don't deposit this "fortune" in a bank-is this money "hot" in some way? I just want to say that what I am doing might be illegal, strictly speaking, but it is not immoral. Not in the least way. On the contrary.

I have heard about the way you think, and I'm sure you will agree with me.