essential fluid. Be right back."
Jacobs stumbled when he returned, holding on to chairs and guests. The waiter brought the bill. "I do believe your friend is somewhat tipsy, sir."
"Hardly surprising." De Gier paid. "I'll take him home."
Jacobs sang children's songs in the taxi, softly so as not to irritate the driver. "Hop hop horseman," Jacobs sang. "When you fall you cry." His elbow touched de Gier's side. "Which is dumb, sergeant. To fall is fine, but we shouldn't be too noisy about it."
"That's absolutely correct," de Gier said. "Here we are, driver. You do live about here, don't you, Jacobs?"
Jacobs peered out of the car's window. "Let's see, now. Yes, I believe these houses are known to me. If this is where Straight-Tree-Ditch and Bent-Tree-Ditch meet, then I do live here."
Jacobs staggered away while de Gier put a note into the driver's hand. He got out. "Wait for me, I'll see you home."
Jacobs lay on his bed, in a room that, apart from the old-fashioned iron bed, contained no more than a wobbly table, a chair, and a cupboard. He covered an eye with his hand and tried to look at de Gier. "Coffee, sergeant? There's some powder in the cupboard. The kitchen is downstairs."
"No," de Gier said, "but I would like to have a look at that Schmeisser of yours."
"Just a minute." Jacobs managed to get off the bed and crawled about on the floor. He tried to pry up a board but his finger missed the crack. De Gier knelt next to him. "Let's see if I can do that." The board veered up.
"There it is," Jacobs said, and fell back on his bed.
De Gier picked up the weapon, yanked the clip out of its grip, and pulled the chamber back. A cartridge jumped free and bounced off the floor. "Careless, aren't you? This thing was ready to go off. Jacobs?"
Jacobs' mouth sagged as he snored softly. De Gier opened the cupboard and took out a towel. He wrapped the weapon in the cheerfully striped material.
"Hop hop horseman." Jacobs' eyes were still closed.
"That's clever," de Gier said. "Singing in your sleep. I don't think too many people can do that. Or are you awake now?"
"I'm not too sure," Jacobs said. "Could be dreaming, too. Good dream. Makes me sing."
"Listen to me," de Gier said. "I'm part of your good dream. I'm taking this thing with me. Possession of firearms is illegal. I know you work for the city and that you're official, but only the police are supposed to be armed. I'm going to surrender the Schmeisser, but I won't tell where I found it. Yes?"
"Into the ditch with a broken neck ..."
"And I'll get your bicycle before someone lifts it."
"Then the birds will come and eat your wreck."
De Gier shook his head. "Aren't you a trifle morbid today?" He tiptoed out of the room. "Back to the living," the sergeant said when the front door closed behind him.
He returned twenty minutes later and rang the bell. A young black woman opened the door.
"Mr. Jacobs' bicycle," de Gier said. "Can I put it in the corridor?"
The woman stepped back so that he could maneuver more easily. "And where is Mr. Jacobs?"
"In bed. Didn't you hear him sing?"
"I only came home just now." The woman smiled. "Has it happened again?"
"Drunk," de Gier said. "Very. He does get drunk often, does he?"
"Not too often. He's always very nice when he's indulging. Such a lovable man, and he believes, too. That helps."
"I didn't know."
"That Mr. Jacobs believes?" the woman asked.
"No, ma'am. That believing helps."
"It does help me," the woman said. "I'm a believer myself. I believe in everything, but Mr. Jacobs limits himself.... Come with me." The woman guided him back into the street. "Turn around. What does this say?"
De Gier read the little plastic sign screwed into the doorpost: ELIAZAR JACOBS. He also read the text, clumsily lettered on a wooden strip, dangling from a single nail: "He who believes in the Good."
"You see?"
"I see," de Gier said.
\\\\ 11 ////
"D o SIT DOWN," UNCLE WISI SAID. "NOW, WHAT CAN I offer a person of your enlightened
Jacobs stumbled when he returned, holding on to chairs and guests. The waiter brought the bill. "I do believe your friend is somewhat tipsy, sir."
"Hardly surprising." De Gier paid. "I'll take him home."
Jacobs sang children's songs in the taxi, softly so as not to irritate the driver. "Hop hop horseman," Jacobs sang. "When you fall you cry." His elbow touched de Gier's side. "Which is dumb, sergeant. To fall is fine, but we shouldn't be too noisy about it."
"That's absolutely correct," de Gier said. "Here we are, driver. You do live about here, don't you, Jacobs?"
Jacobs peered out of the car's window. "Let's see, now. Yes, I believe these houses are known to me. If this is where Straight-Tree-Ditch and Bent-Tree-Ditch meet, then I do live here."
Jacobs staggered away while de Gier put a note into the driver's hand. He got out. "Wait for me, I'll see you home."
Jacobs lay on his bed, in a room that, apart from the old-fashioned iron bed, contained no more than a wobbly table, a chair, and a cupboard. He covered an eye with his hand and tried to look at de Gier. "Coffee, sergeant? There's some powder in the cupboard. The kitchen is downstairs."
"No," de Gier said, "but I would like to have a look at that Schmeisser of yours."
"Just a minute." Jacobs managed to get off the bed and crawled about on the floor. He tried to pry up a board but his finger missed the crack. De Gier knelt next to him. "Let's see if I can do that." The board veered up.
"There it is," Jacobs said, and fell back on his bed.
De Gier picked up the weapon, yanked the clip out of its grip, and pulled the chamber back. A cartridge jumped free and bounced off the floor. "Careless, aren't you? This thing was ready to go off. Jacobs?"
Jacobs' mouth sagged as he snored softly. De Gier opened the cupboard and took out a towel. He wrapped the weapon in the cheerfully striped material.
"Hop hop horseman." Jacobs' eyes were still closed.
"That's clever," de Gier said. "Singing in your sleep. I don't think too many people can do that. Or are you awake now?"
"I'm not too sure," Jacobs said. "Could be dreaming, too. Good dream. Makes me sing."
"Listen to me," de Gier said. "I'm part of your good dream. I'm taking this thing with me. Possession of firearms is illegal. I know you work for the city and that you're official, but only the police are supposed to be armed. I'm going to surrender the Schmeisser, but I won't tell where I found it. Yes?"
"Into the ditch with a broken neck ..."
"And I'll get your bicycle before someone lifts it."
"Then the birds will come and eat your wreck."
De Gier shook his head. "Aren't you a trifle morbid today?" He tiptoed out of the room. "Back to the living," the sergeant said when the front door closed behind him.
He returned twenty minutes later and rang the bell. A young black woman opened the door.
"Mr. Jacobs' bicycle," de Gier said. "Can I put it in the corridor?"
The woman stepped back so that he could maneuver more easily. "And where is Mr. Jacobs?"
"In bed. Didn't you hear him sing?"
"I only came home just now." The woman smiled. "Has it happened again?"
"Drunk," de Gier said. "Very. He does get drunk often, does he?"
"Not too often. He's always very nice when he's indulging. Such a lovable man, and he believes, too. That helps."
"I didn't know."
"That Mr. Jacobs believes?" the woman asked.
"No, ma'am. That believing helps."
"It does help me," the woman said. "I'm a believer myself. I believe in everything, but Mr. Jacobs limits himself.... Come with me." The woman guided him back into the street. "Turn around. What does this say?"
De Gier read the little plastic sign screwed into the doorpost: ELIAZAR JACOBS. He also read the text, clumsily lettered on a wooden strip, dangling from a single nail: "He who believes in the Good."
"You see?"
"I see," de Gier said.
\\\\ 11 ////
"D o SIT DOWN," UNCLE WISI SAID. "NOW, WHAT CAN I offer a person of your enlightened
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