knew some of them enough to nod to and others enough to drink with, and they knew him for a right bettor who didn’t leave much on their tables but who rarely hurt them, either. They thought he was all right He thought they were garbage, but he didn’t let them know it.
Now, at Platt’s restaurant, he carried the remains of his Bloody Mary to a table in the back. He ordered a rare sirloin and a salad and wondered if Platt would show up.
Manso was on his second cup of coffee when the gangster walked in. There were three others in his party. The other man with him was half a head taller than Platt and weighed fifty pounds less. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes deeply sunken, and he walked with his arms tight against his body and a look of incipient death in his eyes. The two girls were blondes in their late twenties, and Manso thought they looked hired. He watched Platt’s girl and wondered if he had played the revolver trick on her.
He finished his coffee and signaled for the check. While he was waiting for his change he saw Buddy Rice at the door. At once he dropped his eyes, rested his forehead on one hand as if in thought. Platt had looked his way twice and had shown no recognition. Platt, though, would not be apt to recognize him; Rice, bodyguard and seeing-eye dog, was supposed to scan rooms his master entered and place the faces he found in them.
Manso raised his eyes again. Buddy was alone at a table on the far wall, positioned so that he could keep an eye on Platt’s table. The waiter brought Manso’s change. He left an unremarkable tip. When the welterweight-turned-headwaiter went over to talk to Buddy Rice, Manso got to his feet and left the restaurant.
On the pavement he lit a cigarette and walked off to the left. Rice had come into the restaurant almost five minutes after Platt. He had parked the car, obviously. Manso walked on past the restaurant’s parking lot. There was an attendant on duty, a stringy kid in an ill-fitting uniform. But did he park the cars himself or just stand guard? Manso crossed the street at the corner, came back halfway on the other side, and waited. After a few minutes a car pulled in and the boy parked it.
So Rice had dropped them off. Then he must have gone on around the block to the lot entrance, where he turned the car over to the kid.
But when it was time to pick up the car, Rice wouldn’t have to drive around the block. For that matter, there was a fair possibility that Platt and his party would walk the few yards to the lot entrance with him. Whether they did or not, there was no room for Manso to make his play.
He stood in a doorway for a few moments, thinking it out. Then he walked to his own car, parked on the street around the corner. He drove halfway around the block and parked the Plymouth in front of an unlit house.
Another house two doors down was backed up against the restaurant’s parking lot. Manso shucked his jacket and tie, left them in the car. He changed his black oxfords for tennis shoes and slipped noiselessly up the driveway and through the backyard. The lawn was soggy from a full afternoon of sprinkling. When a light went on in the rear of the house, he dropped flat on the wet grass, and for a thin moment he was back in Bolivia on an antiguerrilla patrol with high swamp grass bunched under him and the chatter of the guerrillas, a mongrel Indio-Spanish, rattling on either side of him. The light went out. He stayed where he was for another moment or two, then got to his feet and moved silently to the fence.
A bed of climber roses twining up a woven wire fence with the ends of the wire extending jagged above the top rail of the fence. The fence was chin-high, the mesh too dense for a foothold. He stripped to the waist, then put his shirt on again. His undershirt he rolled into a tight cylinder and placed on the top of the fence.
Then he got down on his haunches and waited.
ELEVEN
The sign above the door said LIGHT OF FREEDOM BOOKS . In the
Now, at Platt’s restaurant, he carried the remains of his Bloody Mary to a table in the back. He ordered a rare sirloin and a salad and wondered if Platt would show up.
Manso was on his second cup of coffee when the gangster walked in. There were three others in his party. The other man with him was half a head taller than Platt and weighed fifty pounds less. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes deeply sunken, and he walked with his arms tight against his body and a look of incipient death in his eyes. The two girls were blondes in their late twenties, and Manso thought they looked hired. He watched Platt’s girl and wondered if he had played the revolver trick on her.
He finished his coffee and signaled for the check. While he was waiting for his change he saw Buddy Rice at the door. At once he dropped his eyes, rested his forehead on one hand as if in thought. Platt had looked his way twice and had shown no recognition. Platt, though, would not be apt to recognize him; Rice, bodyguard and seeing-eye dog, was supposed to scan rooms his master entered and place the faces he found in them.
Manso raised his eyes again. Buddy was alone at a table on the far wall, positioned so that he could keep an eye on Platt’s table. The waiter brought Manso’s change. He left an unremarkable tip. When the welterweight-turned-headwaiter went over to talk to Buddy Rice, Manso got to his feet and left the restaurant.
On the pavement he lit a cigarette and walked off to the left. Rice had come into the restaurant almost five minutes after Platt. He had parked the car, obviously. Manso walked on past the restaurant’s parking lot. There was an attendant on duty, a stringy kid in an ill-fitting uniform. But did he park the cars himself or just stand guard? Manso crossed the street at the corner, came back halfway on the other side, and waited. After a few minutes a car pulled in and the boy parked it.
So Rice had dropped them off. Then he must have gone on around the block to the lot entrance, where he turned the car over to the kid.
But when it was time to pick up the car, Rice wouldn’t have to drive around the block. For that matter, there was a fair possibility that Platt and his party would walk the few yards to the lot entrance with him. Whether they did or not, there was no room for Manso to make his play.
He stood in a doorway for a few moments, thinking it out. Then he walked to his own car, parked on the street around the corner. He drove halfway around the block and parked the Plymouth in front of an unlit house.
Another house two doors down was backed up against the restaurant’s parking lot. Manso shucked his jacket and tie, left them in the car. He changed his black oxfords for tennis shoes and slipped noiselessly up the driveway and through the backyard. The lawn was soggy from a full afternoon of sprinkling. When a light went on in the rear of the house, he dropped flat on the wet grass, and for a thin moment he was back in Bolivia on an antiguerrilla patrol with high swamp grass bunched under him and the chatter of the guerrillas, a mongrel Indio-Spanish, rattling on either side of him. The light went out. He stayed where he was for another moment or two, then got to his feet and moved silently to the fence.
A bed of climber roses twining up a woven wire fence with the ends of the wire extending jagged above the top rail of the fence. The fence was chin-high, the mesh too dense for a foothold. He stripped to the waist, then put his shirt on again. His undershirt he rolled into a tight cylinder and placed on the top of the fence.
Then he got down on his haunches and waited.
ELEVEN
The sign above the door said LIGHT OF FREEDOM BOOKS . In the
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