The Caveman's Valentine Read Online Free PDF Page B

work for nobody. Lives up in this cave, and he fends for hisself, y’know, and so what if he’s a little nuts? He keeps himself healthy, and he don’t do no drugs, he don’t even drink, and he’s not even afraid of no wolves—’ ”
    “I’m not afraid of wolves, Matthew, because there are no wolves in New York. Or if there are, I’m sure they’re on
our
side.”
    “Anyway, Scotty says to me, ‘This guy I gotta see.’ So I took him up here. But you weren’t around.”
    “When was this?”
    “October.”
    “I was probably out harvesting.”
    “You what?”
    “I’ve got a patch of pumpkins down by the highway.”
    “
Pumpkins
—that’s what I mean. See, that’s what Scotty would have loved. He wanted to live just like you, see. He wanted to be free.”
    Said Romulus, “Well, he’s free now.”
    “You think so? I think he’s walking around in
chains,
Rom.”
    “Matthew, get that notion out of your head right now. No such thing as ghosts. Right? Doesn’t matter what kind of garbage you’re carrying around, death’s going to shake it right out of you. Just hold you up by the ankles, and shake.”
    “So what are you saying? You’re saying we just forget about it? About Scotty, about what they—”
    “No, I’m saying
Scotty
just forgets about it. I guess you’re not going to be so lucky. Me neither. I mean, this thing just . . . pisses me off. Toss that boy’s body at my doorstep. You know why he did that, Matthew? To show me he
dishonors
me. He dishonors me the way he dishonored that boy.”
    “Wait. You
know
Leppenraub, Rom?”
    “Leppenraub, shit, Leppenraub’s just a shill. I know who’s behind him. I know the man he works for, and I know what that man wants. He wants to show us how
little
we are, Matthew. How he can break us in pieces any time he feels like it. Oh shit, Matthew. Old Stuyvesant, he got to us this time, didn’t he? I mean
this
one—looks to me like we’re going to be carrying this particular nasty insult around in our heads a
long
time.”
    He rubbed his head awhile.
    “Pisses me off.”

 
     
THE PERFECTLY REAL AND GOOD

15
    L ieutenant Detective Jack Cork stepped into the nave of the St. Veronica chapel on 207th Street. He crossed himself and felt stupid doing it, then crossed himself again because he’d felt stupid. He also felt edgy. He scanned the pews—there was no one to be seen. He shot a glance over his shoulder. Nobody behind him. He took a few steps down the aisle, into the open. Lord, if this is a setup, I’m in your hands, and please forgive me that this is the first time I’ve darkened the door of your church since . . . when—Rose’s wedding?
    Actually, he didn’t think it
was
a setup. But there were many surprises in his business. If it was a setup, if some hunter was using one of the pews for a blind, he was a dead duck.
    More likely, though, it was just another no-show.
    There were multitudes of those in his business.
    Then he smelled something. Faintly, faintly . . . He sniffed. Not a churchly fragrance. He sniffed again.
    A rich, rank, bum stink.
    Someone hissed at him. He looked over to the side aisle and saw the Caveman. Over by the confessionals, wagging a finger, summoning him. Well, he had figured it was probably just the Caveman. You couldn’t have known for sure over the phone, but there had been something unhinged and strangely civilized about that voice. And who else would insist on meeting in a place as unlikely as a church?
    Cork went over to him. The Caveman nodded gravely, then slipped into the priest’s side of one of the confessionals. Shut the door.
    Jack Cork sighed. He stepped into the penitent’s side. Shut his own door, and sat on the bench, and the little window slid open.
    Said the Caveman, “Do you have any sins to confess, my child?”
    “Ah, you don’t even know the lingo—but all right, yeah, I’ve got one sin to confess. It’s a whopper. I committed sacrilege. I agreed to meet an informant in your