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"Do you know how big Fulton County is?"
"On a black Mercedes?"
"Yes, well, we're checking. We've got the guy from the Department of Motor
Vehicles out of his bed, if that makes you feel better."
"It does," I said. "But if we'd found that 'ancient little snapshot of Bekuv'
among these personal effects, that would make me feel even better still. Until
we've got something to go on, this remains a simple, old-fashioned New York
holdup."
"Just a heist. But tomorrow, when we tell our pal Bekuv about it, I'm, going
to paint it to look like they're gunning for him."
"Why?"
"We might learn something from him if he thinks he needs better protection.
I'm going to tuck him away somewhere where no one's going to find him."
"Where?"
"We'll get him out of here for Christmas. It's too dangerous here."
"Miami? Or the safe house in Boston?"
"Don't be a comedian. Send him to aCIA safe house! You might as well take a
small ad inProvda." Mann rolled the body back into the chilled case. The sound
set my teeth on edge. "You take the backup car," Mann told me. "I'll drive
myself."
"Then where will you put Bekuv?"
"Don't make it too early in the morning."
"You've got my sworn promise," I said. I watched him as he marched through
the rows and rows of cold slabs, his shoes clicking on the tiled floor and a
curious squeaky noise that I later recognized as Mann whistling a tune.
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I suppose Mann's insouciant exit attracted the attention of the mortuary
attendant. "What's going on, Harry?" He looked at me for a few seconds before
realizing that I wasn't Harry. "Areyou the photographer?"
"No," I said.
"Then who the hell are you?"
"Seventeenth Precinct knows about me," I said.
"And I'll bet they do," he said. "How did you get in here, buster?"
"Calm down. I saw your colleague."
"You saw my colleague," he mocked in a shrill falsetto. "Well, now you're
seeingme ." I noticed his hands as he repeatedly gripped his fists and
released them again. I had the feeling he wanted to provoke me so that he had
an excuse for taking a poke at me. I was keen to deprive him of that excuse.
"It's official," I said.
"ID, fella," he said, and poked a finger at my chest.
"He's all right, Sammy." We both turned. The other mortuary attendant had
come in by the center door. "I talked to Charlie Kelly about him. Charlie says
okay."
"I don't like guys creeping around here without my permission," said little
pugnacious little man. Still murmuring abuse, he studied his clipboard and
wandered back upstairs with that twitchy walk one sees in punchy old
prizefighters.
"Sorry about that," said the first attendant. "I should have told Sammy that
you were here."
"I thought he was going to put me on a slab," I said.
"Sammy's all right," he said. He looked at me before deciding that I should
have a fuller explanation. "Sammy and me: were cops we joined the force
together. We were both wounded in a gun battle near Delancey, way back in the
sixties. Neither of us was fit enough to go back on the force. He's a good
guy."
"You could have fooled me," I said.
"Saw his fifteen-year-old kid brought in here one day hit by a truck coming
out of school that happens to you once and you remember. You start getting
dizzy every time you unzip a body bag." He turned away. "Anyway, it was okay
for you. was it? I hear you were right in the middle when the shells started
flying."
"I was lucky," I said.
"And the third guy took off in a black Mercedes. I was reading it all on the
report. You get the plate number?"
"FC," I said. "They tell me that's a Fulton County registration."
"Well, at least you didn't get suckered by the Fulton County plate."
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"What do you mean?"
"Any cop who's been on the force a few years; will tell you the way those
people from Fulton County used to come into the city and double-park all over
Manhattan. And no cop would ever give them a ticket. Jesus, the number of
times I saw cars would you believe triple-parked on Madison, jamming; the
traffic? And I just walked on and forgot about it."
"I don't get it."
"Well, you wouldn't, being from out of town, but a Fulton County plate is FC
and then three numerals. Not many cops noticed any difference between that and
three numbers followed by FC I mean, a cop's got a lot on his mind, without
getting into that kind of pizzazz."
"And what is it about a car with a license plate that has three numbers
followed by FC? What is it that makes it okay for him to triple-park on
Madison Avenue?"
The mortuary attendant looked at me sorrowfully. "Yeah, well, you've never
been a patrolman, have you? Three digits FC means a car belonging to a foreign
consul that's an official car with diplomatic immunity to arrest, and I mean
including parking tickets. And that's what all those smart-ass drivers from
Fulton County were betting on."
"Got you," I said.
He didn't hear me; he was staring into the sixties and watching one of those
nice kids we all used to be. "Midnight to eight," he said. "I liked that shift
-no dependents, so what's the difference and you make more money, overtime and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]