crazy man," Crabbe said, wincing and raising his arms in front of his face as if to ward off a blow. It was just past ten in the morning, but the man's pupils were already dilated from the effects of cocaine.
Veil laughed as he released Picker Crabbe's thin arm. "If you ran every time you saw a crazy man in New York, you'd die of exhaustion before noon."
Crabbe sniffed, then pushed a strand of greasy gray-brown hair away from his eyes. He looked as if he wanted to run, but he stayed where he was. "You beat up on me pretty good."
"That was a year and a half ago."
"It was the kind of beating a man don't forget. You thought about what you were doing to me. Man, I ain't never been beat on like that."
"I don't see any lasting damage."
"Damage ain't the point, man. It hurt."
"It was supposed to hurt, and you were supposed to remember it the next time you were tempted to get into the child pornography and prostitution game. One of the kids you were pimping for had been kidnapped three months before, beat on, and drugged."
"I didn't do no kidnapping, and I didn't do none of that other stuff. I was just working for a piece of the action."
"I know. The man who did do the kidnapping is dead. You are out of that business now, aren't you?"
"Yes!"
"Good. Maybe you deserved to die, Picker. At the time I did give some thought to killing you. I didn't, so I figure you owe me something."
"What do you want?"
"Information. What were you doing parked on Sixty-ninth last night? I know you were supposed to be watching the art gallery, so give me the condensed version of the story."
Crabbe blinked slowly. "What art gallery?"
Veil sighed. "Picker, I just had a talk with those two jerks you got to tail the woman. Incidentally, they asked me to tell you that they resign."
"Oh, Jesus."
"So let's cut through the bullshit, okay? What were you doing there?"
"You're right. I was supposed to keep an eye on the place. There were other guys too. It was my bad luck to have you come along on my shift."
"Why were you supposed to watch the place?"
"To make sure that idol wasn't stolen. If it was, to try to
stop the guy; if I couldn't, to get a good look at who it was doing the stealing."
"Somehow I find that funny, Picker. You're telling me a thief was sent out to make certain the statue wasn't stolen by another thief?"
"It's the truth."
"Who hired you?"
"I can't tell you that, man."
"Now, Picker . . ."
To Veil's astonishment, tears welled in Crabbe's eyes, then picked up grime like mascara as they rolled down his cheeks. "I'm being straight with you, man," Crabbe said in a near whimper. "I don't mind telling you most of what I know, because I don't know that much. But I can't give you that name. I know you can bust me up, and God knows I don't want you to, but I can't give you the name. He's as crazy as you are, man; you're two sides of the same coin— except that you'll hurt me for this but you won't kill me. This guy'll hurt me worse than you did, and then he'll kill me. For sure. He likes it."
"How would he know you told me?"
"I ain't takin' no chances, man. I don't want to be tortured, and I don't want to die."
Veil looked at the trembling man before him, saw the tears in his eyes and the defeated sag of his shoulders. Suddenly he was disgusted with the terror in the world and ashamed of that part of it he had, with whatever justification, helped nurture. Picker Crabbe made him feel profoundly sad. There were too many Picker Crabbes in the world, he thought; victims who victimized, producing victims who victimized.
"Forget it, Picker," Veil said quietly. "I don't want the name of the man who put you on the job. But tell me this: If your man is so interested in the statue, why didn't he just have you steal it?"
"I'm not sure. He may have been afraid there was a police stakeout."
"So you and the others were put in place just to make certain that the police did their job?"
"I'm just guessing. He moved so fast, nobody could have
Veil laughed as he released Picker Crabbe's thin arm. "If you ran every time you saw a crazy man in New York, you'd die of exhaustion before noon."
Crabbe sniffed, then pushed a strand of greasy gray-brown hair away from his eyes. He looked as if he wanted to run, but he stayed where he was. "You beat up on me pretty good."
"That was a year and a half ago."
"It was the kind of beating a man don't forget. You thought about what you were doing to me. Man, I ain't never been beat on like that."
"I don't see any lasting damage."
"Damage ain't the point, man. It hurt."
"It was supposed to hurt, and you were supposed to remember it the next time you were tempted to get into the child pornography and prostitution game. One of the kids you were pimping for had been kidnapped three months before, beat on, and drugged."
"I didn't do no kidnapping, and I didn't do none of that other stuff. I was just working for a piece of the action."
"I know. The man who did do the kidnapping is dead. You are out of that business now, aren't you?"
"Yes!"
"Good. Maybe you deserved to die, Picker. At the time I did give some thought to killing you. I didn't, so I figure you owe me something."
"What do you want?"
"Information. What were you doing parked on Sixty-ninth last night? I know you were supposed to be watching the art gallery, so give me the condensed version of the story."
Crabbe blinked slowly. "What art gallery?"
Veil sighed. "Picker, I just had a talk with those two jerks you got to tail the woman. Incidentally, they asked me to tell you that they resign."
"Oh, Jesus."
"So let's cut through the bullshit, okay? What were you doing there?"
"You're right. I was supposed to keep an eye on the place. There were other guys too. It was my bad luck to have you come along on my shift."
"Why were you supposed to watch the place?"
"To make sure that idol wasn't stolen. If it was, to try to
stop the guy; if I couldn't, to get a good look at who it was doing the stealing."
"Somehow I find that funny, Picker. You're telling me a thief was sent out to make certain the statue wasn't stolen by another thief?"
"It's the truth."
"Who hired you?"
"I can't tell you that, man."
"Now, Picker . . ."
To Veil's astonishment, tears welled in Crabbe's eyes, then picked up grime like mascara as they rolled down his cheeks. "I'm being straight with you, man," Crabbe said in a near whimper. "I don't mind telling you most of what I know, because I don't know that much. But I can't give you that name. I know you can bust me up, and God knows I don't want you to, but I can't give you the name. He's as crazy as you are, man; you're two sides of the same coin— except that you'll hurt me for this but you won't kill me. This guy'll hurt me worse than you did, and then he'll kill me. For sure. He likes it."
"How would he know you told me?"
"I ain't takin' no chances, man. I don't want to be tortured, and I don't want to die."
Veil looked at the trembling man before him, saw the tears in his eyes and the defeated sag of his shoulders. Suddenly he was disgusted with the terror in the world and ashamed of that part of it he had, with whatever justification, helped nurture. Picker Crabbe made him feel profoundly sad. There were too many Picker Crabbes in the world, he thought; victims who victimized, producing victims who victimized.
"Forget it, Picker," Veil said quietly. "I don't want the name of the man who put you on the job. But tell me this: If your man is so interested in the statue, why didn't he just have you steal it?"
"I'm not sure. He may have been afraid there was a police stakeout."
"So you and the others were put in place just to make certain that the police did their job?"
"I'm just guessing. He moved so fast, nobody could have
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