shrugged. “Forget all that for the moment. How are you going to retrieve it?”
“Why should I?”
“I can think of several reasons,” Blake said. “The first is the most obvious. What if the people chasing Kay strap her to a table and persuade her to talk. Then they phone you and demand an exchange: the cube for Kay.”
“I can always rent scuba gear.”
Blake shook his head. “How deep can scuba divers go? Besides, it will be dark down there, darker than even your night-seeing eyes can negotiate, I’d think. The cube could be two feet away from you and you’d swim right past it, never knowing. You as good as threw it away.”
“Let’s hope so,” I said.
The back of Blake’s chair creaked as he leaned against it. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”
“Yes. Information that could get you stretched on a table as people torture you.”
“Say rather: you’re withholding information that might save me from their worst efforts. Now I can’t talk so they’ll stop.”
“Just tell your torturers about me,” I said. “They’ll let you go then.”
Looking thoughtful, Blake fell silent.
Scraping the plate clean, I finished my pasta. The waitress reappeared, asked for permission and lifted my plate.
“Bring me the check,” I said.
She took it out of her apron, set it on the table and retreated into the kitchen. I put money on the plastic tray and we headed outside onto the deserted street. Well, it was almost deserted. A dingy street sweeper with dirty-red rotating brushes roared past, kicking up dust and debris. After it turned onto a different street, Blake took his leave.
I felt the wad of bills I’d taken from Chinese Intelligence. I’d rendered several other operatives unconscious inside the building. I’d been right about them. They had a printing press there, making counterfeit money. There had also been piles of heroin and stacks of legitimate money. I’d helped myself to the latter, stuffing enough bills to fill two jacket pockets.
After a long walk, I entered Scotty’s, an old-style bar. Several big black men in jeans and expensive jackets sat around a table. They were telling jokes and drinking whiskey. Billiard balls clacked in the back. There were two tables, with a group around each and bottles everywhere. Three lonely men sat along the bar, each wrapped in his private thoughts, one munching on peanuts.
I joined them after a fashion, keeping my distance as they kept theirs. With my elbows on the zinc-topped bar, I examined brown Scotch or clear vodka, alternating between them. Like gazing into a prophetic pool, I searched for answers.
“You trying to drown yourself,” the bartender asked later, a tall woman with Cleopatra eyeliner.
Smiling sadly, I paid the tab and took my leave. I’d learned some time ago. Concerning alcohol, it was better not to bring attention to myself. Everyone was an expert, and eventually he or she understood I shouldn’t be able to drink so much.
Soon, I sat in the Red Tavern. There was a karaoke machine, singing drunks and wild hoots amid the laughter.
I tried an encore performance here and steadily drank vodka. When someone sang, “We Are The Champions,” I had a glorious moment. The alcohol numbed my mind. I grinned, drank harder and tried not to think about the numbing. It failed as I became stubbornly sober. The reason was simple. Alcohol in my system dissipated too fast. Something about my greater density made it terribly difficult for me to get or remain drunk.
With a sigh, I left too much money on the bar and exited the tavern, leaving the bad singing behind.
Sunk in gloom, I wandered the streets and finally decided to give it one more try. Two hours later, I walked out the last bar as sober as I’d entered. I did some more walking and thinking, the ghost of San Francisco.
In the morning, I put on my sunglasses and searched for a church. They were hard to find here, but I slipped into the back of a small one full of
“Why should I?”
“I can think of several reasons,” Blake said. “The first is the most obvious. What if the people chasing Kay strap her to a table and persuade her to talk. Then they phone you and demand an exchange: the cube for Kay.”
“I can always rent scuba gear.”
Blake shook his head. “How deep can scuba divers go? Besides, it will be dark down there, darker than even your night-seeing eyes can negotiate, I’d think. The cube could be two feet away from you and you’d swim right past it, never knowing. You as good as threw it away.”
“Let’s hope so,” I said.
The back of Blake’s chair creaked as he leaned against it. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”
“Yes. Information that could get you stretched on a table as people torture you.”
“Say rather: you’re withholding information that might save me from their worst efforts. Now I can’t talk so they’ll stop.”
“Just tell your torturers about me,” I said. “They’ll let you go then.”
Looking thoughtful, Blake fell silent.
Scraping the plate clean, I finished my pasta. The waitress reappeared, asked for permission and lifted my plate.
“Bring me the check,” I said.
She took it out of her apron, set it on the table and retreated into the kitchen. I put money on the plastic tray and we headed outside onto the deserted street. Well, it was almost deserted. A dingy street sweeper with dirty-red rotating brushes roared past, kicking up dust and debris. After it turned onto a different street, Blake took his leave.
I felt the wad of bills I’d taken from Chinese Intelligence. I’d rendered several other operatives unconscious inside the building. I’d been right about them. They had a printing press there, making counterfeit money. There had also been piles of heroin and stacks of legitimate money. I’d helped myself to the latter, stuffing enough bills to fill two jacket pockets.
After a long walk, I entered Scotty’s, an old-style bar. Several big black men in jeans and expensive jackets sat around a table. They were telling jokes and drinking whiskey. Billiard balls clacked in the back. There were two tables, with a group around each and bottles everywhere. Three lonely men sat along the bar, each wrapped in his private thoughts, one munching on peanuts.
I joined them after a fashion, keeping my distance as they kept theirs. With my elbows on the zinc-topped bar, I examined brown Scotch or clear vodka, alternating between them. Like gazing into a prophetic pool, I searched for answers.
“You trying to drown yourself,” the bartender asked later, a tall woman with Cleopatra eyeliner.
Smiling sadly, I paid the tab and took my leave. I’d learned some time ago. Concerning alcohol, it was better not to bring attention to myself. Everyone was an expert, and eventually he or she understood I shouldn’t be able to drink so much.
Soon, I sat in the Red Tavern. There was a karaoke machine, singing drunks and wild hoots amid the laughter.
I tried an encore performance here and steadily drank vodka. When someone sang, “We Are The Champions,” I had a glorious moment. The alcohol numbed my mind. I grinned, drank harder and tried not to think about the numbing. It failed as I became stubbornly sober. The reason was simple. Alcohol in my system dissipated too fast. Something about my greater density made it terribly difficult for me to get or remain drunk.
With a sigh, I left too much money on the bar and exited the tavern, leaving the bad singing behind.
Sunk in gloom, I wandered the streets and finally decided to give it one more try. Two hours later, I walked out the last bar as sober as I’d entered. I did some more walking and thinking, the ghost of San Francisco.
In the morning, I put on my sunglasses and searched for a church. They were hard to find here, but I slipped into the back of a small one full of
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