Gangway! by Brian Garfield Donald E. Westlake Page A

of a volcanic eruption. Francis rolled his eyes upward and said, by way of announcing his presence, "Have you two met?"
        They broke apart, both showing their embarrassment in the hue of their cheeks. Gabe grumbled something and went prowling back into the mine. Vangie fidgeted with her hair; Francis tipped his shoulder against the buckboard and folded his arms across his chest. "Well?"
        She shrugged, accepting no blame. "He likes the place."
        "He does?"
        "Francis, don't ask me. I don't know any more than you do."
        "Well he does seem sure of himself, doesn't he. But frankly I was a little worried right from the start. I mean, he said he wanted my help. Now that does make one a bit dubious of his judgment, doesn't it? I mean, what do you suppose he wants me to do for him? Maim and disfigure people and kill the ones he doesn't like?"
        "Well I imagine that's not exactly what he has in mind. Though God knows what he does have in his mind." She moved closer and dropped her voice to a confidential half whisper. "Francis, what was he like in the old days?"
        "Gabe? You mean back in New York? Oh, he was about the same. He always talked a bigger brand of meanness than he owned. I mean, he's deliciously rough on the outside, isn't he, but underneath he's really very kind."
        "Does he have a girl back there?"
        "He usually did. I don't know about now. I hadn't seen him in years and years, you know."
        She looked pensively toward the tunnel. "I don't know if I could like New York," she said.
        Surprise on surprise. Francis looked at her and said, "Why on earth should you ever go there?"
        She shrugged again, looking more like a lost orphan than usual. "I don't know," she said. "Gabe keeps saying he's going back there just as soon as he gets enough money."
        "Back to New York? Whatever for?"
        "He says it's the only place to live."
        Francis' own memories of the Big Apple were less delicious. "After seeing San Francisco?" he said, astonished.
        "He says San Francisco is a lumpy Newark."
        "And you'd actually go with him?"
        "I don't know," she said. Her brow was as furrowed as the hillside. "I wouldn't want to, but I guess if he asked me I'd go, yes."
        "Oh, I can't lose you both," Francis said. "We'll just have to convince Gabe to change his mind."
        She looked hopeful. "Do you think we can?"
        "We can only try."
        She clasped his hand in both of hers. "Francis," she said, "I'm glad you're on my side."
        His heart full, Francis told her the simple truth: "You're my dearest friends," he said.
        

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
        
        Gabe stood outside the Mint. He had been standing there for hours in the fog, watching.
        About eleven in the morning the fog burned off. He shifted his weight to the other foot.
        A little past noon Vangie brought him his lunch in a paper bag. He ate mechanically, watching the Mint, totally self-absorbed.
        At one-fifteen there was an alarm of bells, and Gabe stepped back into a doorway. Fire horses careened into the street, and the great red fire engine went thundering through the city.
        It went downstreet toward the waterfront. Up over the lower rise and then on toward Pacific Street. From his hilltop vantage point Gabe watched narrowly, thoughtfully.
        At half-past three he was still standing there when he saw McCorkle, the tall red-haired cop, staring at him dubiously from across the street. McCorkle took a huge notebook out of his hip pocket, jotted something down, and then went on around the corner out of sight.
        At five Gabe headed downhill.
        Five-oh-three, another fire alarm. He got off the street. The fire-engine went past with an earsplitting noise-flash of white, flash of red.
        Down below near the foot of the hill, two figures stood out in isolated silhouette because they