Get Real

26

HE CALLED my Mom this afternoon,” Stan said, as Kelp got into this nice Chevy Gazpacho that Stan had borrowed half an hour ago from a perfectly legal parking place on West Forty-ninth Street.

Shutting his door, putting on his seat belt—because who wants to listen to all that ping-ping-ping—Kelp said, “Doug? What’d she tell him?”

Stan put the Gazpacho in gear and continued on downtown. “What we said. I’m out of town into California a while, considering my job prospects.”

“Good.”

Last night’s expedition to Varick Street, like this one tonight, had been only the two of them, since they didn’t need a whole crowd to gaff one window. They’d brought a different car from a different neighborhood last night, gone through the house like smoke, Kelp up the ladder while Stan held it, and sufficient epoxy glue was spread there to hold USS Intrepid in place. A gas-pipe explosion could take out the entire block, but that window would not leave that frame.

Tonight would be step two of the plan: Cut out the lower pane, carefully place the pane inside the room, case Combined Tool to find out at last what the hell was in there, gently epoxy the pane back in place, and depart. John had wanted to come along tonight, just because it was a kind of a matter of personal pride for him to walk around inside that forbidden city, but he’d come to understand it wasn’t necessary; soon they’d be going in for real.

Now, Stan parked in a temporarily legal place a couple blocks from Varick Street, and he and Kelp used paper towels to wipe down anything they might have touched in the car. When they were done here, Kelp would cab uptown and Stan would subway to Canarsie, and eventually the city would take charge of the Gazpacho. In the meantime, Kelp carried the thick tube of epoxy and the strong suction cup with a handle.

The walk to Varick Street and through the building was uneventful, but when they went out the back door to the areaway and looked up the lights were on in Combined Tool. “What the hell,” Stan said.

“Ssh,” Kelp whispered. Pointing toward the ladder, he whispered, “We gotta see.”

“Good.”

They went over to get the ladder, extended it without difficulty, and leaned it against the wall between two of the kitchen windows. Stan whispered, “I’m not doing that thing like you and the kid did, with two people at once up on this thing. You go up and come down, and then I’ll go up and come down.”

“I like that.”

Stan held the ladder and watched Kelp climb. The light from the kitchen was bright enough that he’d have to be careful up there looking in. His head bent far back, Stan watched as Kelp eased up and over, and then the light was on part of Kelp’s face including his right eye, and he was looking in.

Well? Get on with it. Stan wanted to call up to Kelp, Come on, what’re you looking at up there, what’s going on, but he knew he couldn’t do that, and eventually Kelp did come back down the ladder. He looked at Stan, shrugged in a manner that didn’t communicate anything, and gestured for Stan to take his turn.

Stan said, “What’s up there?”

“Look at it,” Kelp advised.

So Stan did. Up he went, and slowly eased his face into the light, and what he was looking at was the profile of a man seated at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal and reading a newspaper. The word “Zeitung” was the biggest word Stan could see on the newspaper, so it was in German.

The man himself was about fifty, thin, balding, spectacled, wearing a pale yellow dress shirt and dark patterned tie under a buttoned-up black vest, plus dark pants and black shoes. Very formal dress for eating cereal on Varick Street in Manhattan at one in the morning.

Stan went down the ladder. “We can’t do it,” he whispered. “Not with him in there.”

“I know it.”

“And you were all supposed to meet Doug here tomorrow. Except you weren’t going to.”

“Well,” Kelp said, “it looks as though we’re gonna meet Doug here tomorrow.”