The Mugger Read Online Free PDF Page B

earie. I listen a little here and there, and I buzz you. Dig?”
    “When?” Willis asked. “Soon.”
    “How soon is soon?”
    “How high is up?” Donner asked. He rubbed his nose with his forefinger. “You looking for a lead or a pinch?”
    “A lead would suit me fine,” Willis said.
    “Gone. So let me sniff a little. What’s today?”
    “Wednesday,” Willis said.
    “Wednesday,” Donner repeated, and then for some reason, he added, “Wednesday’s a good day. I’ll try to get back to you sometime tonight.”
    “If you’ll call, I’ll wait for it. Otherwise, I go home at four.”
    “I’ll call,” Donner promised.
    “Okay,” Willis said. He rose, tightened the towel about his waist, and started out.
    “Hey, ain’t you forgetting something?” Donner called.
    Willis turned. “All I came in with was the towel,” he said.
    “Yeah, but I come here every day, man,” Donner said. “This can cost a man, you know.”
    “We’ll talk cost when you deliver,” Willis said. “All I got so far is a lot of hot air.”
    Bert Kling wondered what he was doing here.
    He came down the steps from the elevated structure, and he recognized landmarks instantly. This had not been his old neighborhood, but he had listed this area among his teenage stomping grounds, and he was surprised now to find a faint nostalgia creeping into his chest.
    If he looked off down the avenue, he could see the wide sweep of the train tracks where the El screeched sparklingly around Cannon Road, heading north. He could see, too, the flickering lights of a Ferris wheel against the deepening sky—the carnival, every September and every April, rain or shine, setting up business in the empty lot across from the housing project. He had gone to the carnival often when he was a kid, and he knew this section of Riverhead as well as he knew his own old neighborhood. Both were curious mixtures of Italians, Jews, Irish, and Negroes. Somebody had set a pot to melting in Riverhead, and somebody else had forgotten to turn off the gas.
    There had never been a racial or religious riot in this section of the city, and Kling doubted if there ever would be one. He could remember back to 1935 and the race riots in Diamondback and the way the people in Riverhead had wondered if the riotswould spread there, too. It was certainly a curiously paradoxical thing, for while white men and black men were slitting each other’s throats in Diamondback, white men and black men in Riverhead prayed together that the disease would not spread to their community.
    He was only a little boy at the time, but he could still remember his father’s words: “If you help spread any of this filth, you won’t be able to sit for a week, Bert. I’ll fix you so you’ll be lucky if you can even walk!”
    The disease had not spread.
    He walked up the avenue now, drinking in the familiar landmarks—the latticini, and the kosher butcher shop, and the paint store, and the big A&P, and the bakeshop, and Sam’s candy store there on the corner. God, how many ice cream sundaes had he eaten in Sam’s? He was tempted to stop in and say hello, but he saw a stranger behind the counter, a short, bald-headed man, not Sam at all, and he realized with painful clarity that a lot of things had changed since he was a carefree adolescent.
    The thought was sobering as well as painful, and he wondered for the fiftieth time why he had come back to Riverhead, why he was walking toward De Witt Street and the home of Peter Bell. To talk to a young girl? What could he say to a seventeen-year-old kid?
    He shrugged his wide shoulders. He was a tall man, and he was wearing his dark-blue suit tonight, and his blond hair seemed blonder against the dark fabric. When he reached De Witt, he turned south and then reached into his wallet for the address Peter had given him. Up the street, he could see the yellow brick and cyclone fence of the junior high school. The street was lined with private houses, mostly