Get Real

42

STAN DROVE the GMC Mastodon hybrid from where he’d found it, alone and unattended on a dark side street in Queens, across Northern Boulevard to the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge to Manhattan, the quickest most direct route after midnight, which this was, making today Wednesday, three weeks since the Wednesday since they had first heard of the existence, from Stan’s Mom, of Doug Fairkeep and reality.

Once in Manhattan, Stan paused at various street corners to pick up some friends. By the time he turned westward onto Fourteenth Street from Park Avenue, he had Dortmunder to his right and Kelp beyond that, with the kid in the usually roomy backseat making do with whatever was left over after Tiny came aboard.

“Even late at night,” Stan explained, as they drove toward Varick Street, “I can’t just park forever in front of that building. There’s still some tunnel traffic at any hour, so the cops come by a lot to keep it clear, and if a cop decides to tell me to move along he just might also decide to have a look at my paperwork first.”

“We know how it works,” Dortmunder said.

“Good.” Stan braked for a red light, and never even glanced at the patrol car parked in the bus stop. “What I’ll do,” he said, “I’ll let everybody off and then just go around the block until I see you all.”

“Fine,” Dortmunder said.

“If it turns out,” Stan said, “you have a little problem and I shouldn’t wait around but just go home, try to open that garage door. Like a signal.”

Kelp said, “What if we wanna give you a signal you should come in and help out with something?”

“I don’t think we’re gonna need that signal,” Stan said.

There was no more discussion along those lines, and then they reached the building, hulking dark in the middle of the block next to the well-illuminated bank building stretching to the corner. Stan drove past the GR Development building to the darker big structure at the next corner, where he stopped. His passengers all got out to the sidewalk there and, as Stan drove off to begin his orbits, the kid did a whole lot of quick stretches and bends to counteract the effects of spending the last half hour squeezed between Tiny and the ungiving flank of the Mastodon.

Meanwhile, the others followed Kelp around the corner. They were going in the same way Dortmunder and Kelp had slipped in two weeks ago. At the small side door, Kelp bent briefly over the lock meant to protect from pilferage the deep fryers, menu holders, and microwave ovens of the restaurant supply wholesaler who called this place a living. The kid had caught up by the time Kelp was pushing open the door to lead the way inside.

The stairwell, as they now knew, was on the far side of this building, across all these unemployed furnishings. Trooping through, guided by the pink light from the wall clock at the rear of the showroom and then the dim lights at every level of the stairwell, up they went to the sixth floor and into the offices of the olive oil importer who would provide the window through which they could step onto the GR Development roof.

That door, down into Get Real, had still not been restored to service, so they simply went in and down the stairs. At the second floor, Combined Tool, Dortmunder and Tiny stopped, while Kelp and the kid continued on down to the massed vehicles on one.

With one flashlight, held by the kid, they threaded through the cars to the rear door and out, where they now had to work with only the light that New York City’s sky continued to reflect down onto the crowded jumble below. Over there in the corner was the ladder, which they quickly moved into place, slanted up to beside the pantry window. Kelp climbed the ladder as the kid held it, and when he was in position he took the handled suction cup from one of the pouches in the rear of his jacket, fixed it into place against the middle of the pane of the lower half of the window, and took out the glass cutter he’d purchased new, with his own money, at a hardware store on Bleecker Street yesterday afternoon.

This was the tricky part, to cut and not break. He started at the top, which was the hardest to get at, running the cutter horizontally in as straight a line as possible along the glass, as near to the top rail as he could get, the cut angled just a bit toward the wood.

Because he didn’t want to have to do finicky after-work with the window almost completely free, he went back and cut the same line a second time, then did the same kind of cut down both stiles, first on the left, then on the right. He was aware of the kid watching him from below, but kept his concentration on the work at hand.

The slice across the bottom was the hardest. Having cut just a few inches along that line, he felt he had to hold on to the suction cup handle, just in case the pane decided to fall out before he was ready. Left hand holding the handle, left elbow braced against the jamb, he slid the cutter across once, then twice, then pocketed the cutter and leaned a little forward pressure onto the glass.

At first he thought he hadn’t done enough, but then, with unexpected speed, the pane angled backward into the room. Kelp needed both hands on the handle and both elbows down against the stool in order to keep control of the glass, which was pretty heavy, particularly from this angle. Holding tight, he lifted the pane up and away from himself, then lowered it into the room. Partway, he switched his left hand to grip the glass at the top, keeping away from the fresh-cut edge.

Tink, the glass said, when it touched the floor, but landed with no harm. Kelp used both hands to reach in and down and move the pane to the left, leaning forward against the handle. Then he rattled the ladder to get the kid’s attention, looked down, and waved that he was going in.

It wasn’t easy to get through the glassless window. There were metal shelves to both sides of it in there, but they were a little too far away to give him much help. Mostly, he had to try to slither on his belly, using first elbows and then knees to keep himself clear of the strip of sliced glass below him. From time to time he’d stop to shift position, then inch a little farther along the way, until at last he could firmly grasp a metal shelf on the right and use it to bring his legs the rest of the way into the room.

Down below, the kid would have gone by now, leaving the ladder in place. He would go back up with Dortmunder and Tiny to wait for Kelp to disarm the door and let them in.

Kelp studied himself and found a new roughened area on the front of his jacket, but no other signs of his recent close embrace of cut glass. He stepped through from the pantry into the kitchen, which was moderately illuminated by all its appliance lights, and crossed it to the dark doorway leading into whatever room was next.

When he felt around this doorway in the dark, he found it came with a door, now open against the wall. He closed the door, so he’d be able to switch lights on in here without being seen from outside, then found the light switch, which worked a ceiling fixture.

With light and privacy, he turned to see where he was, and the man sitting up on the sofa bed pointed a Glock at him and said, “Halt.”