When the Sacred Ginmill Closes by Lawrence Block Page A
Authors: Lawrence Block
Tags: thriller
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Spanish-language newspapers. I asked for Herrera's room.
"Twenny-two," she said, and pointed upstairs. "But he's not in." Her eyes fixed on mine. "You know where he is?"
"Yes."
"Then you know he is not here. His door is lock."
"Do you have the key?"
She looked at me sharply."You a cop?"
"I used to be."
Her laugh was loud, unexpected. "Wha'dyou get, laid off? They got no work for cops, all the crooks in jail? You want to go in Angel's room, come on, I let you in."
A cheap padlock secured the door of Room 22. She tried three keys before finding the right one, then opened the door and entered the room ahead of me. A cord hung from the bare-bulb ceiling fixture over the narrow iron bedstead. She pulled it,then raised a window shade to illuminate the room a little more.
I looked out the window, walked around the room,examined the contents of the closet and the small bureau. There were several photographs in drugstore frames on top of the bureau, and half a dozen unframed snapshots.Two different women, several children. In one snapshot, a man and woman in bathing suits squinted into the sun, the surf behind them. I showed the photograph to the woman and she identified the man as Herrera. I had seen his photo in the paper, along with Cruz and the two arresting officers, but he looked completely different in the snapshot.
The woman, I learned, was Herrera's girlfriend. The woman who appeared in some of the other photos with the children was Herrera's wife inPuerto Rico. He was a good boy, Herrera was,the woman assured me. He was polite, he kept his room neat,he didn't drink too much or play his radio loud late at night. And he loved hisbabies, he sent money home toPuerto Rico when he had it to send.
FOURTH Avenue had churches on the average of one to a block- Norse Methodist, German Lutheran, Spanish Seventh-Day Adventists, and one called the Salem Tabernacle. They were all closed, and by the time I got to it, so was Saint Michael's. I was ecumenical enough in my tithing, but the Catholics got most of my money simply because they kept longer hours, but by the time I left Herrera's rooming house and stopped for a quick one at the bar on the corner, Saint Michael's was locked up as tight as its Protestant fellows.
Two blocks away, between a bodega and an OTB parlor, a gaunt Christ writhed on the cross in the window of a storefrontiglesia. There were a couple of backless benches inside in front of a smallaltar, and on one of them two shapeless women in black huddled silent and motionless.
I slipped inside and sat on one of the benches myself for a few moments. I had my hundred-fifty-dollar tithe ready and I'd have been as happy giving it to this hole in the wall as to some more imposing and long-established firm, but I couldn't think of an inconspicuous way to manage it. There was no poor box in evidence, no receptacle designed to accommodate donations. I didn't want to call attention to myself by finding someone in charge and handing him the money, nor did I feel comfortable just leaving it on the bench, say, where anybody could pick it up and walk off with it.
I walked out of there no poorer than I'd walked in.
I spent the evening inSunsetPark.
I don't know if it was work, or if I even thought I was doing TommyTillary any good. I walked the streets and worked the bars, but I wasn't looking for anyone and I didn't ask a lot of questions.
OnSixtieth Street east ofFourth Avenue I found a dark beery tavern called the Fjord. There were nautical decorations on the walls but they looked to have accumulated haphazardly over the years- a length of fishnet, a life preserver, and, curiously, a Minnesota Vikings football pennant. A black-and-white TV sat at one end of the bar, its volume turned down low. Old men sat with their shots and beers, not talking much, letting the night pass.
When I left there I flagged a gypsy cab and got the driver to take me toColonial Road in Bay Ridge. I wanted to see the house where TommyTillary
"Twenny-two," she said, and pointed upstairs. "But he's not in." Her eyes fixed on mine. "You know where he is?"
"Yes."
"Then you know he is not here. His door is lock."
"Do you have the key?"
She looked at me sharply."You a cop?"
"I used to be."
Her laugh was loud, unexpected. "Wha'dyou get, laid off? They got no work for cops, all the crooks in jail? You want to go in Angel's room, come on, I let you in."
A cheap padlock secured the door of Room 22. She tried three keys before finding the right one, then opened the door and entered the room ahead of me. A cord hung from the bare-bulb ceiling fixture over the narrow iron bedstead. She pulled it,then raised a window shade to illuminate the room a little more.
I looked out the window, walked around the room,examined the contents of the closet and the small bureau. There were several photographs in drugstore frames on top of the bureau, and half a dozen unframed snapshots.Two different women, several children. In one snapshot, a man and woman in bathing suits squinted into the sun, the surf behind them. I showed the photograph to the woman and she identified the man as Herrera. I had seen his photo in the paper, along with Cruz and the two arresting officers, but he looked completely different in the snapshot.
The woman, I learned, was Herrera's girlfriend. The woman who appeared in some of the other photos with the children was Herrera's wife inPuerto Rico. He was a good boy, Herrera was,the woman assured me. He was polite, he kept his room neat,he didn't drink too much or play his radio loud late at night. And he loved hisbabies, he sent money home toPuerto Rico when he had it to send.
FOURTH Avenue had churches on the average of one to a block- Norse Methodist, German Lutheran, Spanish Seventh-Day Adventists, and one called the Salem Tabernacle. They were all closed, and by the time I got to it, so was Saint Michael's. I was ecumenical enough in my tithing, but the Catholics got most of my money simply because they kept longer hours, but by the time I left Herrera's rooming house and stopped for a quick one at the bar on the corner, Saint Michael's was locked up as tight as its Protestant fellows.
Two blocks away, between a bodega and an OTB parlor, a gaunt Christ writhed on the cross in the window of a storefrontiglesia. There were a couple of backless benches inside in front of a smallaltar, and on one of them two shapeless women in black huddled silent and motionless.
I slipped inside and sat on one of the benches myself for a few moments. I had my hundred-fifty-dollar tithe ready and I'd have been as happy giving it to this hole in the wall as to some more imposing and long-established firm, but I couldn't think of an inconspicuous way to manage it. There was no poor box in evidence, no receptacle designed to accommodate donations. I didn't want to call attention to myself by finding someone in charge and handing him the money, nor did I feel comfortable just leaving it on the bench, say, where anybody could pick it up and walk off with it.
I walked out of there no poorer than I'd walked in.
I spent the evening inSunsetPark.
I don't know if it was work, or if I even thought I was doing TommyTillary any good. I walked the streets and worked the bars, but I wasn't looking for anyone and I didn't ask a lot of questions.
OnSixtieth Street east ofFourth Avenue I found a dark beery tavern called the Fjord. There were nautical decorations on the walls but they looked to have accumulated haphazardly over the years- a length of fishnet, a life preserver, and, curiously, a Minnesota Vikings football pennant. A black-and-white TV sat at one end of the bar, its volume turned down low. Old men sat with their shots and beers, not talking much, letting the night pass.
When I left there I flagged a gypsy cab and got the driver to take me toColonial Road in Bay Ridge. I wanted to see the house where TommyTillary
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