hand was not too steady and she caught his wrist in her fingers and held the flame to the cigarette. Her fingers were cold. ‘Tomorrow night you meet Eels. I’m going up there for a moment before dinner. You go along and look around.’
‘And then?’
‘He’ll take some stuff home with him in a few days. When he does I’ll tell you and get you in. He won’t be there. He’ll be with me.’
‘As simple as that,’ Red said dryly. ‘They haul a man across a continent to play burglar.’
She watched him through the smoke, her head tilted a little. He didn’t like the expression in her eyes. He was puzzled and not a little wary. The whole business smelled. You couldn’t put things together—Parker and Eels and Meta Carson. But what could you do about it but string along and hope to Christ you weren’t being handed a hot one?
’You’ve nothing to worry about,’ Meta said.
‘I’m glad of that.’
‘Another drink?’
‘I’ll buy you one if you don’t mind walking. My favorite bar is up the street a bit.’
‘You’ll have to wait while I change.’
‘Put on shoes,’ Red said. ‘Otherwise you’re fine.’
‘You don’t wear slacks to bars, Mr. Bailey.’ She rose and disappeared through a door in the hall.
There were some bits of ice at the bottom of his glass, and he filled his mouth with them. He wondered if Meta was as cold as she seemed. Women with figures as good as she had weren’t usually. Maybe she was repressed. Maybe she had something on her mind. He got up presently and went through the screen doors into the small court that had enough potted plants standing around to be called a garden. In the apartment above, a woman with a thin, hard voice was telling somebody off. Higher up a radio was giving forth with bad music. It was dark now and he managed to find a few stars in the murky patch of sky.
Meta’s voice made him turn. She was standing just inside the door. She wore a rust-colored gabardine suit and an oddly shaped hat that was probably very smart. ‘Did you find the sky?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘But of course. You’re a detective.’
Walking through the hot night, he changed his mind about Meta Carson. She moved along close to him, one shoulder touching his arm now and then, her voice bright and warm. She had fire in her, all right. Or maybe she was trying to keep his mind occupied, maybe she didn’t want him to figure things out. The hockey players had departed, but Forty-Eighth Street wasn’t quiet. Women yelled at each other across the narrow way or screamed for their offspring. The offspring paid little heed. Two girls traded witticisms with a man in a delivery truck. A crap game was in progress on the sidewalk in front of a small grocery. The woman who ran the place stood in the door watching the boys roll the cubes against a brick wall.
‘I’m not hungry yet,’ Meta said. ‘Let’s look at the river.’
They crossed First Avenue, went past a row of garages and under the new East River Drive. A barge loaded with pilings was tied at a pier and the air had the good, sharp smell of fresh creosote. Some kids played on the barge.
The path went along the bank and widened. A few little trees struggled against the fence. On the benches people sat staring at the dark water, waiting patiently for a breeze that refused to accommodate them. Most of the people were silent. Ahead was the bridge, a few cars crawling across it. Red and Meta found a vacant bench and sat down.
‘I come here nearly every night,’ Meta said. ‘I love the river.’
Red said he did too. But he wasn’t thinking about the river moving sluggishly along. He was wondering what in hell he was mixed up in. An ex-cop who ran a gambling joint in Reno and a New York attorney. A woman, with class written all over her, who was somehow tied in with Parker and who didn’t hesitate to sell out the man she worked for. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all. He wasn’t coming out of this
‘And then?’
‘He’ll take some stuff home with him in a few days. When he does I’ll tell you and get you in. He won’t be there. He’ll be with me.’
‘As simple as that,’ Red said dryly. ‘They haul a man across a continent to play burglar.’
She watched him through the smoke, her head tilted a little. He didn’t like the expression in her eyes. He was puzzled and not a little wary. The whole business smelled. You couldn’t put things together—Parker and Eels and Meta Carson. But what could you do about it but string along and hope to Christ you weren’t being handed a hot one?
’You’ve nothing to worry about,’ Meta said.
‘I’m glad of that.’
‘Another drink?’
‘I’ll buy you one if you don’t mind walking. My favorite bar is up the street a bit.’
‘You’ll have to wait while I change.’
‘Put on shoes,’ Red said. ‘Otherwise you’re fine.’
‘You don’t wear slacks to bars, Mr. Bailey.’ She rose and disappeared through a door in the hall.
There were some bits of ice at the bottom of his glass, and he filled his mouth with them. He wondered if Meta was as cold as she seemed. Women with figures as good as she had weren’t usually. Maybe she was repressed. Maybe she had something on her mind. He got up presently and went through the screen doors into the small court that had enough potted plants standing around to be called a garden. In the apartment above, a woman with a thin, hard voice was telling somebody off. Higher up a radio was giving forth with bad music. It was dark now and he managed to find a few stars in the murky patch of sky.
Meta’s voice made him turn. She was standing just inside the door. She wore a rust-colored gabardine suit and an oddly shaped hat that was probably very smart. ‘Did you find the sky?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘But of course. You’re a detective.’
Walking through the hot night, he changed his mind about Meta Carson. She moved along close to him, one shoulder touching his arm now and then, her voice bright and warm. She had fire in her, all right. Or maybe she was trying to keep his mind occupied, maybe she didn’t want him to figure things out. The hockey players had departed, but Forty-Eighth Street wasn’t quiet. Women yelled at each other across the narrow way or screamed for their offspring. The offspring paid little heed. Two girls traded witticisms with a man in a delivery truck. A crap game was in progress on the sidewalk in front of a small grocery. The woman who ran the place stood in the door watching the boys roll the cubes against a brick wall.
‘I’m not hungry yet,’ Meta said. ‘Let’s look at the river.’
They crossed First Avenue, went past a row of garages and under the new East River Drive. A barge loaded with pilings was tied at a pier and the air had the good, sharp smell of fresh creosote. Some kids played on the barge.
The path went along the bank and widened. A few little trees struggled against the fence. On the benches people sat staring at the dark water, waiting patiently for a breeze that refused to accommodate them. Most of the people were silent. Ahead was the bridge, a few cars crawling across it. Red and Meta found a vacant bench and sat down.
‘I come here nearly every night,’ Meta said. ‘I love the river.’
Red said he did too. But he wasn’t thinking about the river moving sluggishly along. He was wondering what in hell he was mixed up in. An ex-cop who ran a gambling joint in Reno and a New York attorney. A woman, with class written all over her, who was somehow tied in with Parker and who didn’t hesitate to sell out the man she worked for. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all. He wasn’t coming out of this
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