He gazed down at Dortmunder. “You coming?”
With a second sigh — that made two in one day — Dortmunder shook his head. “I don’t think I can, Tiny. That guy kinda knocked the spirit out of me, you know what I mean?”
“Not yet.”
“What I think,” Dortmunder said, “I think I should go home. Just, you know, go home.”
“We’ll miss you,” Tiny said.
Chapter 3
----
“So, John,” May said, over the breakfast table, “what are you going to do?”
After a troubled night, Dortmunder had described his meeting with Johnny Eppick For Hire to his faithful companion, May, over his usual breakfast of equal parts corn flakes, milk, and sugar, while she listened wide–eyed, ignoring her half–grapefruit and coffee black. And now she wanted to know what he was going to do.
“Well, May,” he said, “I think I got no choice.”
“You say he isn’t a cop any more.”
“He’s still plugged in to the cops,” Dortmunder explained. “He can still point a finger and lightning comes out.”
“So you have to go there.”
“I don’t even know how, ” Dortmunder complained. “All the way east on Third Street? How do I get there, take a ferry around the island?”
“There’s probably buses,” May said. “Across Fourteenth Street. I could loan you my MetroCard.”
“That’s still a hell of a walk,” Dortmunder complained. “Fourteenth, all the way down to Third.”
“Well, John,” she said, “it doesn’t seem worth stealing a car for.”
“No, I guess not.”
“Especially,” she said, “if you’re gonna visit a cop.”
“Not for seventeen months.”
“Uh huh,” she said.
• • •
The bus wasn’t so bad, once he and the driver figured out how he should slide May’s mass transit card through that little slot. It was an articulated bus, so he found a seat next to a window in the rear part, beyond the accordion. He sat there and the bus groaned away from the curb, and he looked out the window at this new world.
He’d never been so far east on Fourteenth Street. New York doesn’t exactly have neighborhoods, the way most cities do. What it has is closer to distinct and separate villages, some of them existing on different continents, some of them existing in different centuries, and many of them at war with one another. English is not the primary language in many of these villages, but the Roman alphabet does still have a slight edge.
Looking out his window, Dortmunder tried to get a handle on this particular village. He’d never been to Bulgaria — well, he’d never been asked — but it seemed to him this area was probably like a smaller city in that land, on one side or the other of the mountains. If they had mountains.
After a while, he noticed the scenery wasn’t bumping past the window any more but was just sitting out there, and when he looked around to see what had gone wrong the other seats were all empty and the driver, way up there in front, was twisted around, yelling at him. Dortmunder focused and got the words:
“End of the line!”
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
He waved at the guy, and got off the bus. The walk down to Third Street was just as long as he’d been afraid it would be, but then that wasn’t even the end of it. Not knowing how long it would take to get to such an out–of–the–way location, he’d given it an hour, which turned out to be fifteen minutes too long, so he had to walk around the block a couple times so he wouldn’t be ridiculously early.
But at least that did give him the opportunity to case the place. It was a narrow dark brick corner building, a little grungy, six stories high. The ground floor was a check–cashing place, with neon signs saying so in many languages in windows backed by the kind of iron bars they use for the gorilla cages in the zoo.
Around the side on Third Street was a green metal door with a vertical row of buttons next to names on cards in narrow slots. Some of the names
With a second sigh — that made two in one day — Dortmunder shook his head. “I don’t think I can, Tiny. That guy kinda knocked the spirit out of me, you know what I mean?”
“Not yet.”
“What I think,” Dortmunder said, “I think I should go home. Just, you know, go home.”
“We’ll miss you,” Tiny said.
Chapter 3
----
“So, John,” May said, over the breakfast table, “what are you going to do?”
After a troubled night, Dortmunder had described his meeting with Johnny Eppick For Hire to his faithful companion, May, over his usual breakfast of equal parts corn flakes, milk, and sugar, while she listened wide–eyed, ignoring her half–grapefruit and coffee black. And now she wanted to know what he was going to do.
“Well, May,” he said, “I think I got no choice.”
“You say he isn’t a cop any more.”
“He’s still plugged in to the cops,” Dortmunder explained. “He can still point a finger and lightning comes out.”
“So you have to go there.”
“I don’t even know how, ” Dortmunder complained. “All the way east on Third Street? How do I get there, take a ferry around the island?”
“There’s probably buses,” May said. “Across Fourteenth Street. I could loan you my MetroCard.”
“That’s still a hell of a walk,” Dortmunder complained. “Fourteenth, all the way down to Third.”
“Well, John,” she said, “it doesn’t seem worth stealing a car for.”
“No, I guess not.”
“Especially,” she said, “if you’re gonna visit a cop.”
“Not for seventeen months.”
“Uh huh,” she said.
• • •
The bus wasn’t so bad, once he and the driver figured out how he should slide May’s mass transit card through that little slot. It was an articulated bus, so he found a seat next to a window in the rear part, beyond the accordion. He sat there and the bus groaned away from the curb, and he looked out the window at this new world.
He’d never been so far east on Fourteenth Street. New York doesn’t exactly have neighborhoods, the way most cities do. What it has is closer to distinct and separate villages, some of them existing on different continents, some of them existing in different centuries, and many of them at war with one another. English is not the primary language in many of these villages, but the Roman alphabet does still have a slight edge.
Looking out his window, Dortmunder tried to get a handle on this particular village. He’d never been to Bulgaria — well, he’d never been asked — but it seemed to him this area was probably like a smaller city in that land, on one side or the other of the mountains. If they had mountains.
After a while, he noticed the scenery wasn’t bumping past the window any more but was just sitting out there, and when he looked around to see what had gone wrong the other seats were all empty and the driver, way up there in front, was twisted around, yelling at him. Dortmunder focused and got the words:
“End of the line!”
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
He waved at the guy, and got off the bus. The walk down to Third Street was just as long as he’d been afraid it would be, but then that wasn’t even the end of it. Not knowing how long it would take to get to such an out–of–the–way location, he’d given it an hour, which turned out to be fifteen minutes too long, so he had to walk around the block a couple times so he wouldn’t be ridiculously early.
But at least that did give him the opportunity to case the place. It was a narrow dark brick corner building, a little grungy, six stories high. The ground floor was a check–cashing place, with neon signs saying so in many languages in windows backed by the kind of iron bars they use for the gorilla cages in the zoo.
Around the side on Third Street was a green metal door with a vertical row of buttons next to names on cards in narrow slots. Some of the names
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