LITMIR.BIZ

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classic machines. “This will be a museum. These guys are unique.” She referred to the huge creatures as though they were her buddies. “They’re irreplaceable. The Bishop Machine Museum. My Dad would like that. Someday,” she said dreamily. A narrow set of wooden stairs rose along the side wall. The machines watched us as we started up. One step complained so loudly I thought it was about to crack and send us back into the arms of the nasty-looking pipe crusher below us. At a small landing twenty-five feet up, Vera found another key on the ring and we entered her apartment. I was faced with total blackness until Vera reached around behind the door to flip the master switch in the fuse box. The place came alive. A huge room with ceilings that must be at least twenty feet high. Four lamps hung by chains from the ceiling to shaded bulbs. Bookshelves covered the walls from floor to ceiling on two sides. They were packed, row after row of books, with more stuffed in on their sides. The floor was concrete, but Vera had covered it with classic oval rag rugs. A long flat table in the middle surrounded by a few wooden chairs gave the place the flavor of a hidden library. An open curtain at the far end revealed a single bed and a standing closet. A small kitchen was built against one wall, looking as if it didn’t really belong there. I sat on the one piece of comfortable furniture, a large overstuffed couch in front of the bookshelves.

      Vera broke the silence. “I don’t stay here all the time. I have an apartment in the city, but this is awfully convenient if I’m tired, or just want to be alone. Can I get you a drink? What would you like?”

      “Do you serve martinis here?”

      “No. But I do have scotch.”

      ”Sounds good me, with a couple of ice cubes to stretch it a bit.”

      Vera walked over to the kitchen. I looked over the shelves behind the couch. An encyclopedia of industries, manuals from machine shops, a book of photographs of old industrial sites, the autobiography of Henry Ford. Vera brought two glasses, each filled to the brim with a well-aged Jameson, and sat down next to me on the sofa.

      “To Vera,” I smiled and raised my glass, simultaneously putting my hand on her soft knee.

      “Boo, I have a confession to make.”

      “It’s Blue.”

      Vera didn’t hear me. “I actually didn’t bring you here to make love.”

      “Let me guess. You’re a virgin.”

      “No. Actually I’d love to make love to you. But that’s not really why I picked you up and asked you to come home with me.”

      “You thought you were being followed.”

      Vera nodded. “How did you know that?”

      A sharp cracking sound! The broken stair. Vera froze. “Oh my God!” She whispered.

      I didn’t ask, just went to the door and listened. All was quiet. “Tell me something Vera. Quick! Who’s out there? What’s he want?”

      “It’s the letter. He wants the letter.” She was interrupted by a loud banging on the door.

      “Letter?” I whispered. “What letter?”

      “I have to take it, Boo. I’ll go out the back. Please, just keep him busy for a second. And,” Vera looked at me, “don’t tell anyone!” She pulled open the top drawer of the bureau, pulled too hard and too fast, and it fell to the floor. At that moment with a sharp blast, splinters of wood flew across the room. The lock on the door was blown half off. Vera ran toward the back of the loft and grabbed the emergency handle of a fire escape door. A second bullet blew through the lock. The door flew off its hinges and crashed to the floor. I was pushed behind the door—against the wall, the fuse box jabbing me in the back. I grabbed blindly, caught hold of the master switch, and yanked it down. As a figure burst into the room the loft disappeared into a solid black mystery. I heard him slam into the table and crash to the ground.

      A faint light came through from the open fire escape door. I could hear Vera’s footsteps as she ran down the metal fire stairs. I didn’t move. The shadowy form stumbled into a chair and spewed out a series of “Shits” and “Fucks.” I saw his form outlined in the faint light of the fire doorway, then vanish outside. I didn’t have a plan, but it seemed like trying to keep Vera from getting shot would be the gentlemanly thing to do. Anything I could do to distract would help. I pushed the power switch back up and the loft lit up in a blaze. I could hear him thumping down the fire escape after Vera. I was about to take the reverse route down the front stairs, when I saw an envelope among the contents of the drawer that were scattered on the floor. I quickly scooped it up and ran down the stairs we came in by to the pipe-filled yard in time to see the taillights of Vera’s Ford disappear around the bend. I hid behind a tall pile of sewer mains and peered around the edge.

      The night was strangely quiet. The intruder was standing with his back to me waving his gun at the road. He was wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head. I took the envelope out of my pocket, slipped it into a small pipe in the pile. If I lost this fight, at least he wasn’t getting the fucking letter. I groped around the junk on the ground and found a three-foot piece of steel water pipe, which unfortunately scraped against its neighbor as I pulled it out. He spun around and turned on a flashlight, which shined directly in my eyes. I couldn’t see much, so I swung the pipe. I think I hit his arm, as the flashlight flew into the pile of pipes. He grabbed for the light, still shining from the ground.

      This guy is nasty, about to get his light back, and has a gun. This is not a fight I should pick. I took off at a dead run around the back of the factory. I am fast, it was pitch dark, and I was fifty yards into the cornfield before he dug the flashlight out of the pile of pipes. He didn’t take up the chase, and I watched from the distance as his silhouette disappeared around the factory wall. I didn’t get a good look at him. All I knew was that he was tall, thin, and nasty, carried a gun, and had a sore arm. I circled around behind the factory, feeling my way through the woods as quietly as I could, until I was in sight of the station. I waited—no use rushing this.

      A half hour later I crossed the Avenue to the lot and the comfort of my Beamer, and the comfort of the Glock that was under the front seat. Vera didn’t want me to say anything. “Don’t tell anybody,” she had pleaded. Maybe she is hiding something; maybe she wants to protect someone. Her call—I’ll let her report this if she wants. I’m just an observer. I watch, I listen, and there will be time to think about tonight, tomorrow.

      9

      I lay awake much of the night trying to make sense of my evening with Vera. An affair, a letter, a scary nutcase with a gun, all in a dead factory watched over by silent machines. I finally fell asleep dreaming of a land of pipes, pipes that moved, that stood on end, and danced and spoke in hollowed voices. I found myself inside a huge sewer pipe. An envelope floated before me, just out of reach. I chased it through an endless tunnel. The sides shrank around me as I ran, then crawled, then slid on my stomach through a pipe no larger around than my chest. I sat upright, with a start, pushing the dream away. I wondered if I would be able to find that letter, which, foolishly, I’d stuffed in some pipe somewhere in the midst of vast pipe graveyard.

      The sun had crept over the horizon when Doctor Dollar’s receptionist, June of the shining blond hair, called. She said he could meet me as soon as he took care of his paying clients for the day. I ignored the hint, and said I would be by after lunch. I was sure that one of these days I’d be able to send a big job in his direction. I doubt the Doctor expected that, but he was too nice to tell me to add up my own numbers. When I arrived at his office, the waiting room was empty and the Doctor was alone in his office.

      “Good day, Doctor.”

      Henry Cadman rose from behind his desk and put out his hand. “Sorry I missed you the other day. Blue, how have you been?”

      “Fine, Doctor, and you’re looking good.” He’d lost some of his extra pounds and the old tan suit that had struggled to contain him for the past year or so was proudly showing a waistline.

      “Yes. I know. Started exercising—can you imagine such a thing?”

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