Black Rock Read Free

almost bumped into a man standing still and staring blankly, not really looking at anything, and Dougherty said, “Are you okay?”
    The man turned and Dougherty realized he was young, in his twenties, shaking his head and saying, “They would have all been killed.” Dougherty said, “Who?” and the young guy said, “The phone boys. If the New York exchange hadn’t closed early — they’ve been closing at two since the beginning of the year, catching up on the backlog, last year was so busy. If New York had been open they would all have been …” He motioned to where the gallery had collapsed, and Dougherty saw the row of small desks under the rubble.
    â€œWell, we’re lucky,” Dougherty said, and the young guy said, “Yeah, lucky.”
    Dougherty got the young guy moving, got him to the main stairwell, where people were walking down in a steady stream. An hour later they had the whole trading floor and most of the rest of the building cleared, and Dougherty was out front directing traffic in the middle of Victoria Square, getting the ambulances and the cop cars back into the street for the trip to the hospitals.
    The last of the injured were taken to the hospital: over two dozen it turned out, most of them women. Lots of head wounds and shock but it looked like everyone would survive. Dougherty leaned back against his squad car, lit a cigarette and looked up at the hole in the side of the building. The smoke had stopped pouring out and it didn’t look like any more pieces of ­concrete were going to fall off. He was thinking they really had been lucky when he heard a woman’s voice say, “You have another one of those?”
    He said, “Sure,” and got out his pack.
    She was wearing a miniskirt and was holding a man’s suit jacket around herself and managed to extend a hand and put the cigarette in her mouth. She leaned forward a little so Dougherty could light it.
    â€œI left my purse, my coat, everything.”
    Dougherty said, “You should get inside, people are in the Métro station,” motioning to the subway entrance, the art nouveau portico that looked like a Métro entrance in Paris — in fact, it was a gift from Paris — installed right beside the statue of Queen Victoria. The woman shook her head, exhaled a long stream of smoke, and said, “I don’t want to be underground.” Then she said, “I was looking for Barbara but I don’t see her anywhere.”
    â€œWas she hurt?”
    â€œA little, I think. We were all knocked over,” she waved her hand. “The ceiling was falling, the walls. The whole members’ lounge. I’m a hostess.”
    â€œWell,” Dougherty said, “maybe she was taken to the hospital.”
    A man came up to them and said, “Helen, my girl, you could say the stocks went up today, eh?” and laughed at his own joke. He was in his fifties and his suit was covered in dust, his tie loosened around his neck, and Dougherty was pretty sure he’d had a few drinks. Must have had a bottle in his desk.
    The woman, Helen, said, “Yes, Mr. Gillespie,” and smiled at him and he said, “We’re going to Michael’s. Come on, only doubles — we’re only drinking doubles.” She said she’d see him later and he walked away. She looked at Dougherty and said, “He’s in shock,” and Dougherty said, “He’s something.”
    Helen took another drag on the smoke and said, “Maybe a drink isn’t a bad idea,” and Dougherty said, “Yeah, maybe, but not at Michael’s,” and they went to the St. James Pub, which was full of cops and firemen.
    The cops were talking in French about who could have planted the bomb. There were really only a few guys who could have done it, guys who’d been picked up over the last couple of years for other bombings and bank robberies, mostly out on