The Long Good Boy Read Online Free PDF Page A

way it was now, the way it would be when I was in there, reading what was in their files, quiet as a little mouse.
    I wondered if they moved around much in broad daylight. But what if they didn’t? I couldn’t either. Like the rest of the denizens of this street, I’d have to do my work under cover of darkness.
    I walked back to Keller’s again, staying on the opposite side of the street, passing by and going all the way to the end of the block, to West Street, where the wind picked up my scarf and almost carried it away. About a third of the markets on Little West Twelfth Street looked as if they’d closed not just for the night but for good. More and more of the markets were moving to Hunts Point in the Bronx, another neighborhood of wholesale food suppliers and drugged-out hookers. I’d have to come back in daylight to make sure, but some of the buildings looked deserted; a few were even starting to go to seed.
    The building to the right of Keller’s, my right, that is, had a sign that said they sold rabbit, grouse, pheasant, and other game. The one on the other side, the one closer to West Street, to the river and that punishing wind, to where Angel Rodriguez’s body had been found, looked deserted; no vehicles outside, a heavy padlock on the door, one of the windows upstairs broken and not even repaired with cardboard and tape. All three structures as similar as they could be, aside from their signs.
    I walked back to the corner again, now looking to see how I could implement my next good plan, hoping I could do it without freezing to death. At least the hookers got to get into warm cars. They didn’t just stay out in the street the way Dash and I were doing.
    Alert for movement, even paper swept up and sent tumbling by a gust of wind, I checked out both sides of the street for a place that would let me see without being seen, then thought of a place where I could get warm until the time was right to settle into my hiding place.

4
    She’s a Virgin
    I spent a few hours at Florent, the all-night bistro a block away on Gansevoort Street, eating steak frites, then nursing a glass of wine and writing down the questions I needed to answer, watching the clock as I worked. I wanted to be back at Keller’s at least an hour before they opened, but since I hadn’t tested access to my brilliant hideout, I gave myself forty-five minutes extra, hoping the steak and red wine would keep me warm while I secreted myself and waited, probably for nothing.
    Back at Little West Twelfth Street, I looked for the best way to climb up to the top of the sidewalk bridge that protected the first half of the block—from what, I couldn’t be sure. Sidewalk bridges are used to protect pedestrians from falling debris when, in compliance with Local Law 10, owners have contracted to have the brickwork repointed and cornices made secure. But none of the squat old buildings that housed meat markets, or used to house meat markets, on Little West Twelfth Street were being repaired. And anyway, I didn’t think Local Law 10 applied to such low buildings. I thought it was for high rises since it was passed after someone was killed by a falling piece of cornice from a tall building. Nevertheless, in keeping with the general chaos of the market, the bridge was there and appeared to have been in place for years. Had there ever been razor wire along the top, luckily for me, it was long gone, but the supports looked sturdy. Whether or not the top of the bridge was, I was about to find out. The bridge went from the building line at the corner to the building just past Keller’s. For my purposes, assuming I could get up there without killing myself, and that the bridge would hold me, it was perfect.
    I found a wooden box down the block and brought it back to the side farthest from the corner, hoping that this way I wouldn’t be seen. Little West Twelfth Street was off the stroll, and at this hour there