A stainless-steel door set between the two control panels at the far end of the platform opened. A man wearing a yellow hat with the intertwined B-B colophon on it stepped out onto the platform.
“Hank?” he said.
“Yes?” Curtis said.
“Telephone.”
“Thank you.” He turned to Matthew. “Back in a minute,” he said.
Mathew nodded.
Curtis walked to the end of the platform. He followed the other man out, and closed the door behind him.
Matthew was alone in the room.
He took another peek into the mash tank.
Hope.
Standing alone near a big stainless-steel tank.
Just a glimpse of him through the partially open door.
Hurley opened the door wider.
Some kind of stench hit his nostrils. He winced.
There was no one in the room with Hope, this whole fucking place was deserted. The door was on floor level. All he had to do was walk past the big tank to the right of the door, and then across the room to where metal steps with a tubular steel railing painted yellow led up to the platform where Hope was standing near the other tank.
Leaning over the tank.
Looking into a hole in the tank’s top.
Hurley stepped into the room. He moved swiftly but silently. Past the first tank, crossing to the steps, metal floor, metal steps, grabbed the yellow railing in his left hand, started climbing, six steps up to the platform, Hope still with his back to him.
He thought Here we go, counselor!
And shoved out at him with both hands.
The shove came as a total surprise.
Matthew brought his hands up at once, pushing out at the copper dome of the tank and then starting to turn, only to feel hands on his back again, shoving at him again, pushing him toward the three-foot wide opening in the tank and the boiling brown mixture of malt, corn, and water below him.
A bad situation can only get worse.
Morris Bloom’s words.
The words of a streetwise cop who had seen it all and heard—
A hand clutched into the collar at the back of Matthew’s jacket. A violent shove from behind. Matthew’s forehead banged against the opening’s rim. His dumb paper hat fell off his head and into the boiling brew below. Whoever was behind him was trying to lift him now, trying to force him through the opening into the tank.
Don’t wait. Make your move, make it fast.
Bloom again.
Matthew clenched his right fist. Like the drive-arm on the wheel of a steam-powered locomotive, his right elbow shot back blindly and desperately — and connected with something soft. He heard an ooof sound, tried to twist away from the hands still forcing him toward the gaping opening in the tank, feet shuffling, feet behind him, heels against toes, steam enveloping his head, the sickening smell of fermenting malt. He raised his left foot some four inches off the platform, brought the heel down sharply, connected only with metal, raised it again, down again, and this time hammered home on something soft, and this time heard a yell of pain behind him, and felt an immediate loosening of the hands clutching his jacket.
He twisted away at once.
Hurley.
Arthur Nelson Hurley, rage and pain mingled on his face, murder in his eyes.
Go for the money.
Still Bloom.
Matthew brought up his knee. Not a moment’s hesitation, not a single thought about the worst kind of pain he could think of inflicting on another man, brought up the knee fast and hard, smashing it into Hurley’s groin. Hurley bellowed in pain, and then doubled over, clutching for his balls.
Put him away.
Bloom.
Matthew brought his knee up again. This time he was going for Hurley’s chin. This time he felt bone connecting with bone, knee against jaw, felt something snapping and knew damn well it wasn’t his knee. Hurley staggered back toward the edge of the platform. Matthew wielded his right arm like a mallet, swinging it in a wide arc, the fist smashing into Hurley’s left ear, knocking him into the tubular steel railing. Once more, Matthew thought, and brought his left fist up from somewhere down near his knees, all the power of his shoulder and arm behind a searing uppercut that caught Hurley on his broken jaw and sent him stumbling backward screaming in pain toward the steps, and then down the steps, his head crashing repeatedly against metal as he tumbled to the bottom. Matthew came down the steps after him, breathing hard, fists still clenched. But Hurley was lying quite still on the metal floor below.
Matthew unclenched his fists.
The door between the control panels opened.
“Mr. Hope?”
Curtis standing up there on the platform in his ridiculous yellow hat with the tangled red Bs.
“I’m awfully sorry,” he said. “Miss Brechtmann has gone for the day.”
And then he noticed Hurley lying on the floor at Matthew’s feet.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“Call the police,” Matthew said.
Warren took a taxi from the airport. The driver, a white man, drove all over the Bronx for close to half an hour, told Warren he didn’t know the Bronx too well. The fare came to sixty dollars and change. The driver looked at his palm when he realized Warren hadn’t tipped him. And then looked up at Warren. And looked down at the palm again.
“Let me have a receipt,” Warren said.
“Sure,” the driver said, and ripped a small slip of paper from the meter. Scowling now, he handed it to Warren.
“Got a problem?” Warren said.
“Yeah, I got a problem,” the driver said. “You’re stiffing me is the problem I got.”
“The problem I’ve got is the one I’m taking to the Hack Bureau,” Warren said. “Your number’s on the receipt here, and your name’s on the card right there on the dash. Albert F. Esposito. I’m sure somebody’ll be contacting you, Mr. Esposito.”
“You’re scaring me to death,” the driver said.
“Does the F stand for Frank, Mr. Esposito?”
“The F stands for Fuck You.”
“Have a nice day,” Warren said, and got out of the cab.
Cold as hell up here.
Never again would he complain about the lousy weather in Florida.
Dark, too, Dark even when he got off the plane. In Calusa at that time, it would’ve been twilight. Sky over the ocean turning red and then purple and then blue-black and then black. Up here it had been black already, even blacker now, only seven-thirty and black as midnight. Dirty snow was piled on either side of the walkway leading through the development’s maze of high-rise red-brick buildings. The snow made him feel colder. Looked like it was fixing to snow some more, too. He should have gone home for an overcoat before heading for the airport, but there weren’t too many nonstop flights out of Calusa these days.
On the phone, Lucy Strong had given him her address.
Shivering in the lightweight sports jacket he was wearing, he looked for it now.
Here she came, strutting out of the house in a smart linen suit and high-heeled tan pumps, opening the door to the Jag parked in the driveway, checking the street as she did. Looking for Warren. Looking for a beat-up old Ford. Instead, here was little old Toots in a beat-up old Chevy parked a good hundred yards from the house on the opposite side of the street. Leona Summerville got into the Jag and started the engine. Toots did not start the Chevy until the Jag was off and running.