was now plastered against his head and he looked like he was
wearing a yellow helmet. Icy rain rivulets trickled down his neck. He was so
bedraggled two people dropped coins in his empty coffee cup! Where had this
sleet come from? It was April, for Christ sake. Someday he was going to kill a
weather idiot on general principles.
What
the hell was Shields doing in there? Eating a side of beef? A passing car
splashed more slush on his legs. We must have felt this way at Stalingrad.
You’d think we’d learn. He decided that his blood had indeed thinned in
Florida. No wonder the Dolphins lost most of their games north of the Mason
Dixon line. Of course, he reflected, they lost a lot south of the line, too.
***
Henry
Mosely held the door as Scarne and Shields walked out of the club together.
They quickly retreated back inside.
“Can
you rustle us a couple of umbrellas, Henry? We’re good for them.”
“Oh,
I know you are, Mr. Sheldon. But this fellow looks pretty shady.”
Mosely
disappeared into his cubicle and came out with two Totes from an endless supply
of lost or forgotten umbrellas.
“I
don’t know as these will be much help. It’s blowing pretty good out there. Why
aren’t you gentlemen in Florida?”
“Thanks,
Henry,” Shields said. “Believe it or not, we’re working on that.”
The
two men walked to the corner together.
“To
get to Ballantrae, Jake, you’ll probably have to go through Alana Loeb.
Remarkable women. Brilliant mind and truly stunning. Randolph’s tongue hits the
deck whenever she’s on the yacht.” Shields shook his head. “I don’t know what
she’s doing working for Ballantrae.”
“Maybe
it’s not all work.”
“God,
I hate to think so. It would be another reason to dislike the bastard.” He put
out his hand. “I know you will find out what happened to my boy, Jake. I
believe you are a man I can trust.”
Shields
turned and started walking downtown. Scarne watched him bend his umbrella into
the wind. He was soon lost in the crowd.
***
Keitel
spotted them coming out of the club, deep in conversation. He didn’t recognize
the younger man but he looked like a hard case. Cop? Keitel knew where Shields
was headed. He decided to follow the other man. At least now he could cover his
head.
***
Scarne
started back to his office, changed his mind, and crossed Park Avenue to St.
Christopher’s, one of the oldest Catholic churches in the city. The loss of
their only son and his wife in an air crash had not dimmed his grandparent’s
faith and as a child Scarne was herded to mass every Sunday. But he was not now
particularly religious, despite, or maybe because of, four years at a Catholic
college. And in more introspective moments Scarne suspected he was not as
forgiving as his grandparents.
An
old woman in the church vestibule was robotically feeding quarters into
electric votive “candles” that blinked on as the coins registered. Either she
had a huge family, Scarne surmised, or thought she was playing a celestial slot
machine. He recalled standing in front of a bank of real candles with his
grandmother as she showed him how to use the long taper to light the wicks in
the small jars. The wax and soot smell of those candles were rooted in his
memory. They always said a prayer for his parents although he was quite sure
they hadn’t spent even a moment in purgatory on their way to heaven and thus
didn’t need any indulgences. But it was a comforting ritual for a little boy and
he always picked candles that looked like they would burn the longest. He
assumed the modern versions were on timers set to maximize donations. The old
woman turned her head toward him, her face a mask of sorrow. Her hand kept
moving and the votives kept clicking.
Scarne
took a seat in a pew half way down the aisle. At this hour many of the
churchgoers were pungent street people seeking temporary shelter and warmth.
Although he now rarely saw the inside of any church save for weddings
wearing a yellow helmet. Icy rain rivulets trickled down his neck. He was so
bedraggled two people dropped coins in his empty coffee cup! Where had this
sleet come from? It was April, for Christ sake. Someday he was going to kill a
weather idiot on general principles.
What
the hell was Shields doing in there? Eating a side of beef? A passing car
splashed more slush on his legs. We must have felt this way at Stalingrad.
You’d think we’d learn. He decided that his blood had indeed thinned in
Florida. No wonder the Dolphins lost most of their games north of the Mason
Dixon line. Of course, he reflected, they lost a lot south of the line, too.
***
Henry
Mosely held the door as Scarne and Shields walked out of the club together.
They quickly retreated back inside.
“Can
you rustle us a couple of umbrellas, Henry? We’re good for them.”
“Oh,
I know you are, Mr. Sheldon. But this fellow looks pretty shady.”
Mosely
disappeared into his cubicle and came out with two Totes from an endless supply
of lost or forgotten umbrellas.
“I
don’t know as these will be much help. It’s blowing pretty good out there. Why
aren’t you gentlemen in Florida?”
“Thanks,
Henry,” Shields said. “Believe it or not, we’re working on that.”
The
two men walked to the corner together.
“To
get to Ballantrae, Jake, you’ll probably have to go through Alana Loeb.
Remarkable women. Brilliant mind and truly stunning. Randolph’s tongue hits the
deck whenever she’s on the yacht.” Shields shook his head. “I don’t know what
she’s doing working for Ballantrae.”
“Maybe
it’s not all work.”
“God,
I hate to think so. It would be another reason to dislike the bastard.” He put
out his hand. “I know you will find out what happened to my boy, Jake. I
believe you are a man I can trust.”
Shields
turned and started walking downtown. Scarne watched him bend his umbrella into
the wind. He was soon lost in the crowd.
***
Keitel
spotted them coming out of the club, deep in conversation. He didn’t recognize
the younger man but he looked like a hard case. Cop? Keitel knew where Shields
was headed. He decided to follow the other man. At least now he could cover his
head.
***
Scarne
started back to his office, changed his mind, and crossed Park Avenue to St.
Christopher’s, one of the oldest Catholic churches in the city. The loss of
their only son and his wife in an air crash had not dimmed his grandparent’s
faith and as a child Scarne was herded to mass every Sunday. But he was not now
particularly religious, despite, or maybe because of, four years at a Catholic
college. And in more introspective moments Scarne suspected he was not as
forgiving as his grandparents.
An
old woman in the church vestibule was robotically feeding quarters into
electric votive “candles” that blinked on as the coins registered. Either she
had a huge family, Scarne surmised, or thought she was playing a celestial slot
machine. He recalled standing in front of a bank of real candles with his
grandmother as she showed him how to use the long taper to light the wicks in
the small jars. The wax and soot smell of those candles were rooted in his
memory. They always said a prayer for his parents although he was quite sure
they hadn’t spent even a moment in purgatory on their way to heaven and thus
didn’t need any indulgences. But it was a comforting ritual for a little boy and
he always picked candles that looked like they would burn the longest. He
assumed the modern versions were on timers set to maximize donations. The old
woman turned her head toward him, her face a mask of sorrow. Her hand kept
moving and the votives kept clicking.
Scarne
took a seat in a pew half way down the aisle. At this hour many of the
churchgoers were pungent street people seeking temporary shelter and warmth.
Although he now rarely saw the inside of any church save for weddings
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