hour?"
I was puzzled and a little angry. "Something like what? You're offering me three more days of work trying to find some evidence that probably doesn't exist. We had an agreement: if I did an acceptable job today—"
"Sands, you've got a chance to go to England, goddammit. England—where life is halfway normal, where there's heat and food and television and good-looking women. Don't screw it up by pissing me off."
I sat back down. "Have I missed something here?" I asked slowly. "When was it established that I was going to England?"
Winfield waved his hand irritably. "Well, of course I'll need a bodyguard. And you seem reasonably bright—I might have you, I don't know, track down clues or something. Listen: you know, if you go over there, you don't have to come back. Theoretically you have to leave when your visa runs out, but they can't deport you if they can't find you, right? Meanwhile you find some nice British girl to marry or you figure out who to bribe, and you're all set. But the main thing is to get over there, right? This is the chance of a lifetime, Sands. Just get me the evidence."
Perhaps the heat and the smell of the steak were making me hallucinate. England? Me? I was familiar with both objects, but the combination of them seemed utterly ludicrous. Me. In England. Where was the catch?
It was obvious. Winfield was just getting more work out of me without having to pay for it. And besides, the proof he wanted simply didn't exist. I had talked to Hemphill; I knew he wasn't guessing about Cornwall's death.
But still, there was a chance—wasn't there? And the chance was obviously worth three days of my life. In England. Me. "Okay," I said. "I'll see what I can do."
Winfield smiled. "Good man," he said. "Three days. Bring me proof."
"Coming right up," I said. But I didn't have the faintest idea how I was going to find it.
Chapter 9
"So how's the case?" Linc asked at supper.
"I made a little progress. The guy I'm looking for is probably dead, but he may conceivably be in England."
"Well, that narrows it down. Is your client satisfied?"
"He's keeping me on the case, so I guess he's satisfied."
"I'm helping Walter find out about the England angle," Stretch announced. "Gonna check out all the scientists the British took back with them while they were here."
Gwen looked at me. "What happens if he's in England?" she asked.
"Oh, I dunno," I said. "It's almost certain that he's dead, anyway." I concentrated on my stew.
After supper we all went into the parlor and listened while Gwen played the piano. Linc huddled in a blanket on the couch. Stretch tried to sing along with a Beatles' song. He was almost as bad as Ground Zero. I sat in an armchair next to the piano and watched Gwen's eyes studying the ragged sheet music, her fingers moving gingerly over the keys. We went to bed early.
"Are you happy?" she asked as we lay in the darkness.
"Sure," I said. "It felt good to be on the job. I didn't screw up very much, and my client seemed pleased."
"I'm glad," she said, and she snuggled into the crook of my shoulder.
I waited until she was asleep, and then trekked upstairs. But my room didn't give me the satisfaction I needed. Tonight I was too restless, too excited, and the shadows were too dim. After a while I took a book from the shelf. I stared at it, then went back downstairs, put my parka on, and walked out into the night.
Used to be that going outside in the city at night was an open invitation to get yourself murdered. Things are better nowadays, but still I was on my guard as I walked the few blocks to School Street. I stopped in front of a small store. The sign over the door said:
Art's Filthy Bookstore
It had never been clear to me whether the adjective applied to the store or its merchandise; I had a feeling it was deliberately ambiguous. There was a light shining inside. I pounded on the door.
After a few moments there was movement. A slot at eye level in the door opened
I was puzzled and a little angry. "Something like what? You're offering me three more days of work trying to find some evidence that probably doesn't exist. We had an agreement: if I did an acceptable job today—"
"Sands, you've got a chance to go to England, goddammit. England—where life is halfway normal, where there's heat and food and television and good-looking women. Don't screw it up by pissing me off."
I sat back down. "Have I missed something here?" I asked slowly. "When was it established that I was going to England?"
Winfield waved his hand irritably. "Well, of course I'll need a bodyguard. And you seem reasonably bright—I might have you, I don't know, track down clues or something. Listen: you know, if you go over there, you don't have to come back. Theoretically you have to leave when your visa runs out, but they can't deport you if they can't find you, right? Meanwhile you find some nice British girl to marry or you figure out who to bribe, and you're all set. But the main thing is to get over there, right? This is the chance of a lifetime, Sands. Just get me the evidence."
Perhaps the heat and the smell of the steak were making me hallucinate. England? Me? I was familiar with both objects, but the combination of them seemed utterly ludicrous. Me. In England. Where was the catch?
It was obvious. Winfield was just getting more work out of me without having to pay for it. And besides, the proof he wanted simply didn't exist. I had talked to Hemphill; I knew he wasn't guessing about Cornwall's death.
But still, there was a chance—wasn't there? And the chance was obviously worth three days of my life. In England. Me. "Okay," I said. "I'll see what I can do."
Winfield smiled. "Good man," he said. "Three days. Bring me proof."
"Coming right up," I said. But I didn't have the faintest idea how I was going to find it.
Chapter 9
"So how's the case?" Linc asked at supper.
"I made a little progress. The guy I'm looking for is probably dead, but he may conceivably be in England."
"Well, that narrows it down. Is your client satisfied?"
"He's keeping me on the case, so I guess he's satisfied."
"I'm helping Walter find out about the England angle," Stretch announced. "Gonna check out all the scientists the British took back with them while they were here."
Gwen looked at me. "What happens if he's in England?" she asked.
"Oh, I dunno," I said. "It's almost certain that he's dead, anyway." I concentrated on my stew.
After supper we all went into the parlor and listened while Gwen played the piano. Linc huddled in a blanket on the couch. Stretch tried to sing along with a Beatles' song. He was almost as bad as Ground Zero. I sat in an armchair next to the piano and watched Gwen's eyes studying the ragged sheet music, her fingers moving gingerly over the keys. We went to bed early.
"Are you happy?" she asked as we lay in the darkness.
"Sure," I said. "It felt good to be on the job. I didn't screw up very much, and my client seemed pleased."
"I'm glad," she said, and she snuggled into the crook of my shoulder.
I waited until she was asleep, and then trekked upstairs. But my room didn't give me the satisfaction I needed. Tonight I was too restless, too excited, and the shadows were too dim. After a while I took a book from the shelf. I stared at it, then went back downstairs, put my parka on, and walked out into the night.
Used to be that going outside in the city at night was an open invitation to get yourself murdered. Things are better nowadays, but still I was on my guard as I walked the few blocks to School Street. I stopped in front of a small store. The sign over the door said:
Art's Filthy Bookstore
It had never been clear to me whether the adjective applied to the store or its merchandise; I had a feeling it was deliberately ambiguous. There was a light shining inside. I pounded on the door.
After a few moments there was movement. A slot at eye level in the door opened
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