recorder and followed behind as the younger man expertly rolled the tank along.
“About the business … is there someone who’s pretty well informed … about how matters stand?”
“Well, now,” replied the younger man without interrupting his work, “there’s an office girl inside but … well, she’snew. Besides, she was teased by that ugly fellow and now she’s on the verge of tears. You won’t get much out of her.”
“What ugly fellow?”
“Oh, some thug, I guess. Some deadhead with pull in the red-light district on the river.”
We had arrived in front of the storehouse at the end of the roofed garage. With the help of the older one, who had followed along behind, in one movement he lifted the tank he had been rolling up to the top of the already three-tiered pile. Judging from the sound of steel striking steel, the tanks must have been heavy indeed.
“Want a peek inside the office?”
“It feels like it’s going to be cool tonight, doesn’t it.”
The older man, manifesting no interest, humped his back and with a shuffling, dancelike gait went back toward the street.
“You go through here and it’s to the left,” said the younger one, sniffling, indicating with his chin the space between the storehouse and the building. Then he looked up at the viscous, black sky, and grasping the fingers of his worn gloves, followed after the older man.
Just as I had been told, the office was directly to the left as I emerged from the narrow alley. There was an ill-fitting sliding door of cypress in which the cracked glass window was mended with Scotch tape. It smelled like drain sludge dissolved with gasoline. Or else it was the stench of chemical fertilizer soaked in the urine of domestic animals. The sliding door screeched on the twisted rail. Hesitantly, I opened it enough of a crack to let me through, and instantly a blanket of hot, sticky air pressed against my face like a moist rag. It was obviously a fuel supplier’s office.
Directly in front of me as I entered was a partition screenthat rose to the ceiling. A bus schedule, printed in two colors, was fastened to it with thumbtacks. I glanced to the left, along the partition; there were only a single old-fashioned office desk and what seemed to be a lookout platform. Above the desk rose the head of a girl in a page-boy bob, and under it two white, well-rounded knees were clamped tightly together.
“Good evening,” I said in an unnecessarily cheerful voice, passing my hands over my arms and shoulders as if to rub in a little warmth and purposely not looking at the girl’s face.
“Good evening.”
For an instant I doubted my ears. What came to me sounded exactly like a man’s voice. Yes, quite definitely, it was a man’s voice. It had apparently not come from the girl at all, but from the other side of the partition wall. A disturbing voice. Probably the customer I had just heard about. As I advanced, there came into my field of vision, in the following order: steel shelves, white window curtains that made the vulgarity of the surroundings stand out even more, plastic artificial flowers of indeterminate variety, then a television set, a round table covered with a silvery vinyl, on it the familiar ashtray with the four beckoning cats, and then, in the background, a fellow with a receding chin I remembered having seen.
It was him!
Him … there was no mistake, it was him, the self-styled brother. He had taken off his coat, and his black necktie hung loose. He smirked at me insolently, his forehead beaded in sweat. In his shirtsleeves, his thin, crooked shoulders did not show to advantage as I had expected they would. What could he be doing, turning up in a place like this? A damned unamusing game. The key to catching a stray dog is to actas if you’re completely absorbed in something else, and I intended to do just that for the time being. I would have the stray dog I was after, crawling to me with wagging tail from a completely
“About the business … is there someone who’s pretty well informed … about how matters stand?”
“Well, now,” replied the younger man without interrupting his work, “there’s an office girl inside but … well, she’snew. Besides, she was teased by that ugly fellow and now she’s on the verge of tears. You won’t get much out of her.”
“What ugly fellow?”
“Oh, some thug, I guess. Some deadhead with pull in the red-light district on the river.”
We had arrived in front of the storehouse at the end of the roofed garage. With the help of the older one, who had followed along behind, in one movement he lifted the tank he had been rolling up to the top of the already three-tiered pile. Judging from the sound of steel striking steel, the tanks must have been heavy indeed.
“Want a peek inside the office?”
“It feels like it’s going to be cool tonight, doesn’t it.”
The older man, manifesting no interest, humped his back and with a shuffling, dancelike gait went back toward the street.
“You go through here and it’s to the left,” said the younger one, sniffling, indicating with his chin the space between the storehouse and the building. Then he looked up at the viscous, black sky, and grasping the fingers of his worn gloves, followed after the older man.
Just as I had been told, the office was directly to the left as I emerged from the narrow alley. There was an ill-fitting sliding door of cypress in which the cracked glass window was mended with Scotch tape. It smelled like drain sludge dissolved with gasoline. Or else it was the stench of chemical fertilizer soaked in the urine of domestic animals. The sliding door screeched on the twisted rail. Hesitantly, I opened it enough of a crack to let me through, and instantly a blanket of hot, sticky air pressed against my face like a moist rag. It was obviously a fuel supplier’s office.
Directly in front of me as I entered was a partition screenthat rose to the ceiling. A bus schedule, printed in two colors, was fastened to it with thumbtacks. I glanced to the left, along the partition; there were only a single old-fashioned office desk and what seemed to be a lookout platform. Above the desk rose the head of a girl in a page-boy bob, and under it two white, well-rounded knees were clamped tightly together.
“Good evening,” I said in an unnecessarily cheerful voice, passing my hands over my arms and shoulders as if to rub in a little warmth and purposely not looking at the girl’s face.
“Good evening.”
For an instant I doubted my ears. What came to me sounded exactly like a man’s voice. Yes, quite definitely, it was a man’s voice. It had apparently not come from the girl at all, but from the other side of the partition wall. A disturbing voice. Probably the customer I had just heard about. As I advanced, there came into my field of vision, in the following order: steel shelves, white window curtains that made the vulgarity of the surroundings stand out even more, plastic artificial flowers of indeterminate variety, then a television set, a round table covered with a silvery vinyl, on it the familiar ashtray with the four beckoning cats, and then, in the background, a fellow with a receding chin I remembered having seen.
It was him!
Him … there was no mistake, it was him, the self-styled brother. He had taken off his coat, and his black necktie hung loose. He smirked at me insolently, his forehead beaded in sweat. In his shirtsleeves, his thin, crooked shoulders did not show to advantage as I had expected they would. What could he be doing, turning up in a place like this? A damned unamusing game. The key to catching a stray dog is to actas if you’re completely absorbed in something else, and I intended to do just that for the time being. I would have the stray dog I was after, crawling to me with wagging tail from a completely
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