and shouted down, “What’cha want?”
“Looking for a family, name of Grossman,” Martin called back.
“You’re barking up the wrong block,” the man yelled. “The Jewish, they live on President Street. Union is still thanks to God reasonably Roman.” With that he pulled his head back into the house and slammed the window shut.
Martin stood on the stoop for a moment, feigning confusion as he surveyed the street in either direction. Then he doubled back the way he’d come and made his way along President Street to the flagstones that led to the side entrance with the light over it. He was about to knock on the “No Peddlers” sign when the door was pulled open. Stella, wearing tight jeans with a man’s shirt tucked into them, stood inside, squinting up at him. The same three top buttons of her shirt were unbuttoned, revealing the same triangle of pale chest. Strangely, Martin found her more attractive than he remembered. He noticed her hands for the first time; the nails were neither painted nor bitten, the fingers themselves were incredibly long and extremely graceful. Even her chipped front tooth, which had struck him as downright ugly when they met the day before, seemed like an asset.
“Well, if it isn’t the barefoot gumshoe, Martin Odum, Private Eye,” Stella said with a mocking grin. She let him in and slipped his valise under a chair. “In that raincoat,” she said, taking it from him and hanging it on a vestibule hook, “you look like a foreign correspondent from a foreign country. I saw you limp past ten minutes ago,” she announced as she led him up a flight of stairs and into a windowless walk-in closet. “I concluded that your leg must be hurting. I concluded also that you’re paranoid someone might be following you.
I’ll bet you didn’t call me from home I’ll bet you called from a public phone.”
Martin grinned. “There’s a booth on Lincoln and Schenectady that smells like a can of turpentine.”
A booming voice behind Martin exclaimed, “My dear Stella, when will you learn that some paranoids have real enemies. I was watching from an upstairs window when he limped down President Street. Our visitor has the haunted look of someone who would circle the block twice before visiting his mother.”
Martin spun around to confront the corpulent figure wrapped in a terrycloth robe and crammed into a battery-powered wheelchair. Scratching noisily at an unshaven cheek with the nicotine-stained fingers of one hand, working a small joystick with the other, the man piloted himself into the closet, elbowed the door closed behind him and backed up until his back was against the wall. The naked electric bulb, dangling from the ceiling, illuminated his sallow face. Studying it, Martin experienced a twinge of recognition: in one of his incarnations he’d come across a photograph of this man in a counterintelligence scrapbook. But when? And under what circumstances?
“Mr. Martin Odum and me,” the man growled in the grating voice of a chain-smoker, “are birds of a feather. Tradecraft is our Kabala.” He scraped a kitchen match against the wall and sucked a foul smelling cigarette into life. “Which is how come I meet you in this safe room,” he plunged on, taking in with a sweep of his arm the shelves filled with household supplies, the mops and brooms and the vacuum cleaner, the piles of old newspapers waiting to be recycled. “Both of us know there are organizations that can eavesdrop on conversations over the land lines, it does not matter if the phones are on their hooks.”
Stella made a formal introduction. “Mr. Odum, this is my father, Oskar Alexandrovich Kastner.”
Kastner removed a pearl-handled Tula-Tokarev from the pocket of his terrycloth robe and set the handgun down on a shelf. Martin, who understood the value of gestures, accepted Kastner’s decision to disarm with a nod.
All the tradecraft talk had tripped a memory. Suddenly Martin recalled which
“Looking for a family, name of Grossman,” Martin called back.
“You’re barking up the wrong block,” the man yelled. “The Jewish, they live on President Street. Union is still thanks to God reasonably Roman.” With that he pulled his head back into the house and slammed the window shut.
Martin stood on the stoop for a moment, feigning confusion as he surveyed the street in either direction. Then he doubled back the way he’d come and made his way along President Street to the flagstones that led to the side entrance with the light over it. He was about to knock on the “No Peddlers” sign when the door was pulled open. Stella, wearing tight jeans with a man’s shirt tucked into them, stood inside, squinting up at him. The same three top buttons of her shirt were unbuttoned, revealing the same triangle of pale chest. Strangely, Martin found her more attractive than he remembered. He noticed her hands for the first time; the nails were neither painted nor bitten, the fingers themselves were incredibly long and extremely graceful. Even her chipped front tooth, which had struck him as downright ugly when they met the day before, seemed like an asset.
“Well, if it isn’t the barefoot gumshoe, Martin Odum, Private Eye,” Stella said with a mocking grin. She let him in and slipped his valise under a chair. “In that raincoat,” she said, taking it from him and hanging it on a vestibule hook, “you look like a foreign correspondent from a foreign country. I saw you limp past ten minutes ago,” she announced as she led him up a flight of stairs and into a windowless walk-in closet. “I concluded that your leg must be hurting. I concluded also that you’re paranoid someone might be following you.
I’ll bet you didn’t call me from home I’ll bet you called from a public phone.”
Martin grinned. “There’s a booth on Lincoln and Schenectady that smells like a can of turpentine.”
A booming voice behind Martin exclaimed, “My dear Stella, when will you learn that some paranoids have real enemies. I was watching from an upstairs window when he limped down President Street. Our visitor has the haunted look of someone who would circle the block twice before visiting his mother.”
Martin spun around to confront the corpulent figure wrapped in a terrycloth robe and crammed into a battery-powered wheelchair. Scratching noisily at an unshaven cheek with the nicotine-stained fingers of one hand, working a small joystick with the other, the man piloted himself into the closet, elbowed the door closed behind him and backed up until his back was against the wall. The naked electric bulb, dangling from the ceiling, illuminated his sallow face. Studying it, Martin experienced a twinge of recognition: in one of his incarnations he’d come across a photograph of this man in a counterintelligence scrapbook. But when? And under what circumstances?
“Mr. Martin Odum and me,” the man growled in the grating voice of a chain-smoker, “are birds of a feather. Tradecraft is our Kabala.” He scraped a kitchen match against the wall and sucked a foul smelling cigarette into life. “Which is how come I meet you in this safe room,” he plunged on, taking in with a sweep of his arm the shelves filled with household supplies, the mops and brooms and the vacuum cleaner, the piles of old newspapers waiting to be recycled. “Both of us know there are organizations that can eavesdrop on conversations over the land lines, it does not matter if the phones are on their hooks.”
Stella made a formal introduction. “Mr. Odum, this is my father, Oskar Alexandrovich Kastner.”
Kastner removed a pearl-handled Tula-Tokarev from the pocket of his terrycloth robe and set the handgun down on a shelf. Martin, who understood the value of gestures, accepted Kastner’s decision to disarm with a nod.
All the tradecraft talk had tripped a memory. Suddenly Martin recalled which
Similar Books
