I glanced around. There didn’t seem to be anything left to search. The bed covers were thrown up over the bed. I pulled them back to reveal a pair of rumpled trousers. Just for fun, I looked through the pockets. From the front left pocket, I removed a folded piece of pink paper. Opening it up, I saw that it was a receipt from a local realty firm for a one month lease of storage property. An address was written at the top of the page: 54 Front Street. Down by the docks — mostly old, condemned buildings. I knew where Malloy was.
Chapter Twelve
The waterfront area had once been a teeming centre of commerce. Now it’s building sat decrepit and forgotten, like dust-covered blocks in an attic. I’d heard that most of the properties had been bought up by underworld types, who used them to store things like hot merchandise, drug shipments, and the occasional dismembered body. Some of the buildings could still pass inspection with a small donation and were rented out as practice space for aspiring rock bands and experimental dance companies.
The massive structure at 54 Front Street had no pulse. It look like it had died about the same time as black-and-white movies (may they rest in peace). From the front, no lights were visible inside. After scaling an eight-foot chain-link fence, I walked around the left side of the building. I glanced up at the windows pockmarking the wall and saw no sign of activity, no indication that anyone was home. From the rear, I caught sight of a faint, thin, halogen glow seeping out around a window on the sixth floor.
There were three doors at ground leveclass="underline" one in the front, one in the back, one on the west side. Of course, they all felt solidly dead bolted. I returned to the rear of the building and fired up a Lucky Strike. Smoking is good for a lot of things, one of which is helping me to think. It’s also great after sex, baths, and meals and goes with just about anything except milk.
I looked up at the sixth storey window, then scanned my way down the building, looking for any possible way I could climb up. When I was nine, I’d had an authentic Spiderman uniform. Whenever I wore it, I could scale anything. A twinge of nostalgia ran through me. Of course, even if I could find the uniform, it probably wouldn’t fit. No, I’d become a mere mortal and would have to resort to mere mortal methods.
A rusted metal ladder was bolted to the brick face of the building on the far left side and ran all way up to the roof. Apparently, the bottom section had rusted and fallen off or been broken off, leaving a jagged end about 15 feet above the ground. If I could only reach the latter, I could easily climb to the sixth floor. I searched the area around the back of the building. Plenty of junk scattered around, but nothing useful. Then I was struck by a possibility: it might be a tricky fit, but I could probably land my speeder close enough to use it to stand on.
Five minutes later, I was standing atop my speeder, pulling my ever-increasing body weight up onto the first rungs of the latter with my ever-decreasing muscular capacity. Despite some unpleasant burning sensations and several mysterious popping noises, I finally got my feet on to the bottom rung. I rested a few moments, then began the ascent of Mount Malloy. As I reached the fourth story, the kid in me was saying to look down. The adult, of course, was saying not to. I listened to my inner child and felt the world begin to spin wildly off its axis. It took several minutes before I was ready to climb again.
When I got to the sixth storey, I realised that the window I was trying to reach was much farther away from the ladder than it had appeared when I was safely on the ground. It was at least eight feet away, with no apparent way to bridge the gap. If it had been possible to get a cigarette, light it, and smoke it without using my hands, I would have done it. As it was, both hands were locked in rigor mortis on the ladder, and I was hoping desperately that I’d live to smoke again.
It didn’t take me long to realise that I wasn’t going to get to the window from where I was clinging to the ladder. I began to climb again. Despite sweating palms and slight dizziness, I reached the roof quickly. Thirty feet away I saw a roof-access door. I hurried over, but it was locked. A search of the rooftop turned up no trap doors or other means of entrance. I walked toward the retainer wall at the edge of the roof, directly two floors above the sixth-storey window. As I approached, I stumbled over something in the dark. It turned out to be a coil of steel cable.
An idea came into my head that was simultaneously ingenious and ridiculous. I looked around and spotted a metal vent pipe protruding from a rooftop surface. Kneeling down and examining it, I determined that it was sturdy enough. I unrolled the steel cable and fed it down over the side until the end of the cable reached the bottom of the six-storey window. Making note of the length, I pulled the cable up, then attached the other end to the vent. I wrapped the cable around my hands several times. With a deep breath, I took several steps toward the edge of the roof and hurtled over the side.
I fell for what seemed an eternity, then jerked violently as the slack in the cable was taken up. My eyes, which had closed involuntarily, opened to see the window rushing straight at me. I shut my eyes again and felt a strange sensation of bursting through solid matter. With a loud crash, the window shattered into a thousand pieces. Still not opening my eyes, I let go of the cable and dropped. My feet hit the floor, and my knees buckled.
I looked up and saw a man across the room. He was half turned toward me and appeared to be in shock. I stood up slowly and made a quick check to verify that everything was still intact. Brushing glass shards from my overcoat, I walked toward him.
“Thomas Malloy, I presume.”
The old man seemed paralysed. I looked him over. He obviously resembled his image in the photograph Fitzpatrick had given me, but in person he had the look of a biblical prophet. He seemed ancient, though his gnarly, hoary look was probably as much a result of cigarettes and booze as the labours of a long and fruitful life. He still didn’t answer, so I decided to break the ice. “You know, Dr Malloy, you’re a hard man to track down. I’m pretty good at what I do, but you sure gave me a run for my money.”
“You’re NSA, aren’t you? You’re here to kill me.”
I gave Malloy my warmest smile. “No. I’m just a simple PI. A friend of yours, Gordon Fitzpatrick, hired me to find you.”
The old man relaxed a bit, but was still on guard. “So what are you going to do now?”
I considered for a moment. “Well, first I’ll have a smoke.”
I pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Malloy. He took it slowly and sniffed it, then turned and packed it on a countertop. He was obviously no stranger to unfiltered smokes. I pulled out a matchbook and held a lit match up in front of him. He lit the Lucky Strike and inhaled deeply, eyes closed and a faint trembling in his hand. After several seconds, he exhaled and opened his eyes. It looked like he’d caught a buzz.
“This is my first cigarette in four months.” his eyes were bright. He took another drag, savouring it. “My daughter made me quit. I think she was just trying to make my last few years as miserable as possible.”
Malloy sat down and motioned me towards a nearby chair. We sat and smoked without talking for several minutes. Malloy took a final drag and dropped the cigarette to the floor, crushing it under the tip of his shoe. “Thanks for the smoke.”
“My pleasure.”
He ran a hand through his unruly thatch of white hair. “So Fitz put you on my trail. Did he tell you why he wanted to find me?”
I shook my head. “He didn’t give me any details… he just said that he thought you might be in danger.”
Malloy chuckled, then coughed several times. “You don’t know much about me, do you Mr — “