Tom, there are a lot of keys . . .”
The flyer with Danny’s picture was probably still on the top of her desk, staring up at her, while he stared at her from across the room. I had not recognized him from the mug shot, so it is not a surprise that Mary did not, either. The mug shot showed a man in an open-necked white shirt with a look of restrained panic slapped onto his face. The customer in the turtleneck was cool and polite and fifteen years older.
“Can I help?” Danny approached, hands folded behind his back, the ice picks up his sleeves pressing into his forearms. He stood next to her, both of them squinting into the box, while his own mug shot looked up at them from the desk. I guess with all the rest of the stuff strewn on the desk, he might have been hard-pressed to pick it out from the rest of the papers, but the image was a familiar one. Too familiar.
Danny was unable to read anything on the scribbled tags inthe key box and so turned away. He was probably thinking he might as well just bust into the place on his own and look around. Scanning the premises of Upscale Realty, he was probably not reassured that she would ever find the key. He began to notice that there were keys dotted all over the place. On a stack of files on the desk, in an empty coffee cup on a desk, in an ashtray on a desk over there, hanging from a clip on the edge of a lamp shade. Even her desk . . .
“Ooo!” Mary came up with the key and plunked down in her chair with a gasp. “Now, let me just get your name and number.” She found a pad of paper and dropped it on top of his mug shot.
“Tom Roberts.” He had heard many times in prison that the best aliases were a combination of two first names. People had a hard time remembering them, got the names mixed up. Then he gave her the phone number of where he grew up.
She stared at the number. “So you live not far from here?”
“Excuse me?”
“This exchange, it’s local.”
She held up the pad, pointing the pen at the number. “It’s a local exchange.”
Danny blinked. He realized that he was behind on popular technologies, so lying about things having to do with phones made him nervous. As he looked at the pad in her hand, beyond it would have been his mug shot. Now he was looking directly into his own eyes from fifteen years before—but his eyes shifted and focused on Mary’s instead of his own.
“That’s for messages,” he blurted.
“Oh, a message service.”
“A message service.” He nodded a little uncertainly. Even though they existed before he went to prison, he did not really know what a message service was.
“OK, well, here’s the key. Back here within the hour? I don’t want to have to call the police.”
Danny froze, key dangling from his hand.
She looked up at him, focusing on his face, noticing the restrained panic.
“Tom, I’m just joking. I trust you. You have an honest face.” People usually say that sort of thing when they aren’t sure, and by way of warning.
“Right.” Danny exhaled and tried to smile. Those smiling muscles hadn’t been exercised in a long time, so it was more of a lopsided grin. “I’ll be back soon with the keys.”
“If nobody is here, just drop them in the mail slot in the front door.”
“Thank you.” He headed for the exit, his hand adjusting the meat hammer in his belt.
Mary looked for someplace to put his name and address, muttering to herself about the mess, and picked up the mug shot to put it somewhere. Suddenly it hit her.
“Ooo! Tom!”
He stood in the open doorway and looked back across the room at her.
“Yes, Mary?”
“You may have to jiggle the lock and give the door a shove.”
“Thank you.”
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
WHILE DANNY WAS GETTING THE key to the place on Vanderhoosen from Mary, I was depositing the check she gave me at the neighborhood Ponce de León bank. Yes, believe it or not, Father, we have banks in New York with this name. The storage place was
The flyer with Danny’s picture was probably still on the top of her desk, staring up at her, while he stared at her from across the room. I had not recognized him from the mug shot, so it is not a surprise that Mary did not, either. The mug shot showed a man in an open-necked white shirt with a look of restrained panic slapped onto his face. The customer in the turtleneck was cool and polite and fifteen years older.
“Can I help?” Danny approached, hands folded behind his back, the ice picks up his sleeves pressing into his forearms. He stood next to her, both of them squinting into the box, while his own mug shot looked up at them from the desk. I guess with all the rest of the stuff strewn on the desk, he might have been hard-pressed to pick it out from the rest of the papers, but the image was a familiar one. Too familiar.
Danny was unable to read anything on the scribbled tags inthe key box and so turned away. He was probably thinking he might as well just bust into the place on his own and look around. Scanning the premises of Upscale Realty, he was probably not reassured that she would ever find the key. He began to notice that there were keys dotted all over the place. On a stack of files on the desk, in an empty coffee cup on a desk, in an ashtray on a desk over there, hanging from a clip on the edge of a lamp shade. Even her desk . . .
“Ooo!” Mary came up with the key and plunked down in her chair with a gasp. “Now, let me just get your name and number.” She found a pad of paper and dropped it on top of his mug shot.
“Tom Roberts.” He had heard many times in prison that the best aliases were a combination of two first names. People had a hard time remembering them, got the names mixed up. Then he gave her the phone number of where he grew up.
She stared at the number. “So you live not far from here?”
“Excuse me?”
“This exchange, it’s local.”
She held up the pad, pointing the pen at the number. “It’s a local exchange.”
Danny blinked. He realized that he was behind on popular technologies, so lying about things having to do with phones made him nervous. As he looked at the pad in her hand, beyond it would have been his mug shot. Now he was looking directly into his own eyes from fifteen years before—but his eyes shifted and focused on Mary’s instead of his own.
“That’s for messages,” he blurted.
“Oh, a message service.”
“A message service.” He nodded a little uncertainly. Even though they existed before he went to prison, he did not really know what a message service was.
“OK, well, here’s the key. Back here within the hour? I don’t want to have to call the police.”
Danny froze, key dangling from his hand.
She looked up at him, focusing on his face, noticing the restrained panic.
“Tom, I’m just joking. I trust you. You have an honest face.” People usually say that sort of thing when they aren’t sure, and by way of warning.
“Right.” Danny exhaled and tried to smile. Those smiling muscles hadn’t been exercised in a long time, so it was more of a lopsided grin. “I’ll be back soon with the keys.”
“If nobody is here, just drop them in the mail slot in the front door.”
“Thank you.” He headed for the exit, his hand adjusting the meat hammer in his belt.
Mary looked for someplace to put his name and address, muttering to herself about the mess, and picked up the mug shot to put it somewhere. Suddenly it hit her.
“Ooo! Tom!”
He stood in the open doorway and looked back across the room at her.
“Yes, Mary?”
“You may have to jiggle the lock and give the door a shove.”
“Thank you.”
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
WHILE DANNY WAS GETTING THE key to the place on Vanderhoosen from Mary, I was depositing the check she gave me at the neighborhood Ponce de León bank. Yes, believe it or not, Father, we have banks in New York with this name. The storage place was
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