Night Secrets (33 page)

When he opened them again, the rope was no longer whirring loudly, and he could see the little girl as she walked toward him slowly, the red wooden handles of the rope scraping softly over the cement as she drew them along behind her. She had a strange, ghostly look, and he thought of Sarah, his daughter, again, her lost, forsaken eyes, the way she had seemed to dissolve into her death, grow bodiless and void, as if her flesh were peeling from her, leaving nothing but a homeless soul.

Reflexively, he glanced away from the girl, then, just as reflexively, returned to her. She was much closer to him now, and she smiled tentatively as she passed by. He nodded to her gently, his eyes still following her as she made her way out of the park, then began skipping playfully along the sidewalk. For a time, Frank continued to watch her as she sped through the thin pedestrian traffic, gliding past a large woman whose small boy walked beside her, then an old priest who moved shakily along, his hand gripping fiercely at his cane. Toward the end of the block, she darted abruptly to the left as if to avoid someone, and Frank instantly saw the old Gypsy woman who'd told Farouk's fortune the night before.

He stood up, then moved behind a thin stand of trees which rose at the other end of the park. The early spring foliage was quite sparse, and through it, he could watch the old woman as she hurried up Tenth Avenue. She was dressed in a long, flowing skirt which dragged behind her heavily, its hem nearly touching the cement walkway, and her hair was bound up in a bright-red scarf. She walked very determinedly, as if under orders, her eyes staring straight ahead until she reached the liquor store, which stood almost directly across from the park. She went in quickly, and from his position across the avenue, Frank could see her step up to the clerk. She said something to him, and he nodded once, then disappeared into the back of the store.

Frank walked across the street quickly, then eased himself over near the entrance to the store and peered in.

The old woman lingered beside the counter, her head jerking left and right from time to time as if she were being slapped by an invisible hand.

The store clerk returned, his arms wrapped around several tall bottles. He bagged them slowly, inserting small squares of cardboard between the bottles, then handed the bag to the old woman. She paid him in cash, counting out the bills one by one, then turned back toward the door.

Frank stepped away quickly and shrank back into the small cigar store next door. Then he waited, listening for the bell of the liquor store door.

After it had sounded, he eased himself out into the street again, and darted into the liquor store.

The clerk nodded to him as he stepped up to the counter.

“The old woman who was in here just now,” he said, “do you know her?”

The clerk shrugged. “She's just a customer.”

“What does she buy?”

The clerk didn't answer.

Frank drew a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket, along with his identification.

The man snapped up the bill, his eyes giving the identification only a quick, indifferent glance. “She just started coming in lately,” he said. “I'd say about the last three weeks or so.”

“Had you ever seen her before then?”

The clerk shook his head.

“What does she buy?” Frank asked.

“Some weird drink the old owner used to keep around,” the clerk said. “We still got about a case and a half left over.”

“What's the name?”

“Raki,” the man said. He shrugged. “The old owner used to keep specialty items like that. Me, I just stock the usual.”

“And she's been buying raki for about three weeks?”

“Yeah.”

“About how often?”

“Maybe a bottle every couple of days.”

“That's a lot.”

“If it was wine, it wouldn't be that much,” the clerk said. “I even have heavy stuff going out that often. But liqueurs, shit like that, that's for sipping, you know? Sweet stuff. Most people don't go through it that fast.”

Frank nodded. “Did you ever see anybody with the old woman?”

“No.”

“Particularly a man.”

The clerk shook his head.

“Did she ever say anything to you?”

“No.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Just one word,” the clerk said. “No talk. No conversation. She just comes in and she says, ‘Raki,' and that's the end of it.”

Frank nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks.” He started for the door.

The clerk glanced at the twenty, as if it carried with it some added obligation. “Today, though, she looked different”

Frank turned back toward him. “Different?”

“Nervouslike,” the clerk explained. “Scared.”

“She looked scared?”

“Yeah, there was just this funny look in her eyes,” the clerk went on. “Like she thought somebody was maybe after her, or something.”

“Had she looked that way before?”

The clerk chuckled. “Well, she never did look like a happy-go-lucky type,” he said. “But to tell you the truth, today it was different. I noticed it in her eyes, you know. And then, when she was giving me the money, it was like her hand was trembling, you know, like shaking real bad. I mean, enough so's a guy would notice.”

Frank smiled at him appreciatively. “Okay, thanks,” he said.

“Don't mention it,” the clerk told him.

Frank walked back out onto the street and glanced southward, trying to get her in his sight. Far in the distance, barely a small dot in a sea of small dots, he could see the old woman's red scarf bobbing softly like a float in the water.

He glanced at his watch, then started to follow her, shifting quickly through the crowds, edging closer and closer until the old woman reached the storefront and disappeared inside.

Frank held back for a moment. He had already burned his cover with Mrs. Phillips, and it was not a mistake he intended to make again. For a time, he simply waited, then, slowly, he moved toward the window of the storefront. The blue curtain was still in place, but the sign had been taken down. He pressed his back against the window, lining the right side of his body up with the small slit in the blue curtains, then quickly glancing over his shoulder and inside the room.

He could see the old woman as she meticulously drew the bottles out of the bag and placed them carefully in a large canvas bag. There were several small boxes scattered around the room, all of them neatly tied with rope. All the musical instruments had been taken from the walls and were now gathered together in one corner.

Suddenly the old woman's head jerked up, and Frank pulled away from the window. He waited a moment, then cautiously eased himself back and looked in.

The old woman was standing rigidly in place, her eyes staring to her left. For a moment she remained very still, then in a quick, abrupt movement, she stepped back, as if shrinking away from some threatening presence.

Frank glanced toward the floor. He could see a gray shadow as it eased out of his line of sight, then bolted forward suddenly. He looked up and saw a tall, slender man as he leaned forward slightly, his body held just at the edge of Frank's line of sight. He had a black mustache, his head was covered with a bright red handkerchief, almost exactly like the old woman's. He stood very erect, his head lifted haughtily while he spoke to her, pointing here and there, as if giving her a series of very detailed directions. Then he shrank back behind the covering wall and the old woman set to work, gathering up the few items that remained scattered across the floor and placing them carefully in the last empty box.

Frank pulled himself back from the window and tried to think about his next move. He knew that they were leaving, but he didn't know when or how. He stepped over beside the door, away from the small, narrow break in the curtains, and pressed his back against the brick wall. In his mind, he saw the man again, the distant, severe look in his eyes, the hard cut of his jaw. No one had ever looked more entirely in command. In a few minutes, he knew, they could be gone, and once they were out of sight, they would be gone forever. He had to find a means to follow them. He lifted his head slightly and tried to think of a way to cover both the front and back entrances of the storefront. It would be possible only if he were able to get above the building, look down on it, and keep track of them from a kind of watch-tower overhead. He glanced across the street, to the long line of squat red tenements that ran along the avenue. Up there, he would be able to see them. He let his eyes move up the ragged face of the building across the way, then up over the top, his eyes widening as he saw her staring down at him, her black eyes fixed on his.

She was standing in full view, as if to display herself, and he moved toward her instantly, his eyes still fixed on hers as he bolted across the street, then up the rickety wooden stairs that led to the roof.

At the top of the stairs, the metal fire door had been locked, so he jerked back and slammed his shoulder into it, breathing heavily now, but slamming forward anyway, first once, then again and again, growing more desperate with each plunge, until the door finally flew open and he went sprawling across the tar-paper surface of the building's roof.

He rolled onto his back, but she was on him instantly, staring down furiously, her knee on his chest. He felt the point of a knife blade at his throat. “I told you that I did not want you,” she whispered vehemently.

Frank said nothing. Her face was utterly radiant, her hair beautiful even in disarray, hanging like black seaweed over her broad, brown shoulders.

She pressed the point more firmly against his throat. He could feel a trickle of warm blood as it pierced his skin.

He looked at her longingly, and when she caught the expression in his eyes, Frank could see that hers took on a distant sympathy, as if he could hardly be expected to know what she already knew. Then, suddenly, the sympathy vanished and her face grew very grim.

She felt under his arm, pulled the .45 from his shoulder holster. “There is only one way,” she told him determinedly as she raised the pistol high in the air, then brought it crashing down upon him. “To be as dangerous as a man.”

T
here was still some light left in the air around him when Frank finally came to. He glanced about slowly, hazily, his mind still trying to orient itself. In his imagination, he could see the ghostly, translucent image of the Puri Dai as she had held herself above him, and in some indecipherably deep corner of himself, he also knew that he yearned for her return.

But she was gone, irretrievably gone, leaving everything in her wake with nothing but a lingering sense of fearful reverence.

He pulled himself into a sitting position, then groggily got to his feet. From the roof, he could see the evening traffic as it made its way toward the Lincoln Tunnel, and beyond it, the flat gray surface of the Hudson. He let his head slump left and right as his eyes stared out over the now deserted roof. Down below, he could see the window of the fortune-teller's shop, but the small neon sign was gone, along with the blue curtain that had once hung over the window and the small table and chair which had rested beyond it. Everything was gone, entirely abandoned.

He took a step, felt his legs regain their force, then headed back down the stairs and onto the street.

Once on the street, the faint light which remained in the air reminded him of the day case, and he realized that he wanted to let it edge out the night case, gently nudge the lost Puri Dai from his mind.

He glanced at his watch. There was still time to make his meeting with Powers, and so he walked swiftly across town.

As he walked, he could feel himself still yearning for the Puri Dai, for the allure of the uncertain, the mysterious and eternal call of those things in life which cannot be pinned down. He saw her kneeling over him again, her knee bearing down upon his chest, her hair hanging toward him like long black ropes, and the vision itself was like something aching softly in his chest, a thin, hairline fracture in his soul.