The man knew what he meant. “Bullet. I was rolling, trying to get to cover, bullet went into the toe of my damned boot.”
“Through the steel toe cap?”
“I wasn’t wearing steel toe caps,” the man said, smiling. “This didn’t happen to me in the army.” He was leading Reeve through the shop. The store was narrow but went back a long way. They came to a section of clothing: disruptive patterns, plain olive greens, stuff from all over the world. There were boots, too, and a lot of equipment for wilderness survivaclass="underline" compasses and stoves and pup tents, binoculars, reels of filament for making trip wires, rifle sights, crossbows, balaclavas…
This, Reeve realized, was going to take more than the twenty minutes his cabbie had allotted him. “No guns?” he asked.
“I’m not licensed for them.”
“Can you get them?”
“Maybe if I knew you better. Where you from anyway?”
“Scotland.”
“Scotland? You guys invented golf!”
“Yes,” Reeve admitted, not sure why the hulk was suddenly so excited.
“Ever played St. Andrews?”
“I don’t play golf.” The hulk looked bemused by this. “Do you?”
“Hell, yes, got me a five handicap. I love golf. Man, I’d like to play some of those courses over there.”
“Well, I’d be happy to help you.”
“But you don’t play.”
“I know people who do.”
“Well, man, I would surely love to do that someday…” He unlocked a door at the back of the store. It had three locks, one of them a padlock attached to a central bolt.
“Not the rest rooms?” Reeve said.
“Yeah, the head’s back here, but then so is a lot of other stuff.”
They entered a small storeroom with barely enough space for the two of them. There were three narrow doors with piles of boxes in front of two of them. A box sat on the small table in the middle of the room.
“I already looked these out; thought they might be more your thing.” He lifted the lid from an innocuous brown cardboard box, the size of a shoe box. There were layers of oiled cloth inside, and between the layers lay the knives.
“Nice balance,” Reeve said, handling one. “Bit too short, though.” After handling each knife, he handed it to the hulk for repolishing. Reeve peeled off another strip of cloth near the bottom of the box and saw what he’d been looking for: an eight-inch blade with five-inch handle. He tried it for weight and balance. It felt almost identical to his German knife, his Lucky 13.
“I like this one,” he said, putting it to one side. He checked the remaining knives out, but none came close. “No,” he said, “it has to be this one.”
“That’s a good knife,” the hulk agreed, “a serious knife.”
“I’m a serious person.”
“You want a scabbard for it?”
Reeve considered. “Yes, a scabbard would be useful. And I want to check out some of your other lines, too…”
He spent another hour in the front of the shop, adding to his purchases. The hulk had introduced himself as Wayne and said that he used to be a professional wrestler, on TV even. Then he asked if Reeve was still interested in a gun.
Reeve wasn’t sure. It turned out all Wayne had to offer was a revolver, a pump-action and an assault rifle, so Reeve shook his head, glad the decision had been taken for him.
Wayne handed him some leg straps so he could fasten the scabbard onto his leg if he wanted. “On the house,” he said.
Then he added up the total, and Reeve took out some cash.
“Running around Queens with a bankroll,” Wayne said, shaking his head, “no wonder you need a knife.”
“Could you call me a cab?” Reeve asked.
“Sure. And hey, write down your address, just in case I ever do make that trip.” He pushed a pad of papers towards Reeve.
Reeve had already given a false name. Giving a false address was easy.
The rest of the day was quiet. Reeve stayed in his room, slept for as long as he could, and exercised when he couldn’t. About midnight, feeling fine, he walked the streets around the hotel and up as far as Times Square. The city felt more dangerous at night, but still not very dangerous. Reeve liked what he saw. He liked the way necessity had reduced some of the people to something edgier, more primeval than you found in most British cities. They all looked like they’d stared into the abyss. More than that, they looked like they’d bad-mouthed it as well. Reeve was not offered drugs-he didn’t look the type-but he was offered sex and other sideshows. He stood on the fringes watching a man play the three-card trick. He couldn’t believe people were making bets, but they were. Either they had money they didn’t need, or they needed money very badly indeed. Which just about summed up the people hesaw.
There were tourists about, looking like tourists. They were getting a lot of attention. Reeve liked to think that after a day in the city, he was fitting in, picking up less attention, fewer stares. Here he was, behind enemy lines. He wondered if the enemy knew it yet…
Next morning, he took a bus south 235 miles to Washington, DC. This was where Alliance Investigative had its headquarters, according to Spikehead. The private eye might have been lying, but Reeve didn’t think so.
Reeve’s own hotel in New York had a sister hotel in Washington, but that would have made him too easy to trace. Instead, he called a couple of other chains until he found one with a room in its Washington hotel.
He took a cab to the hotel itself, and asked at reception for a street map. In his room he got out the phone directory and looked up Alliance Investigative, jotting down the address and telephone number. Spikehead hadn’t been lying. He found the address on his map but didn’t mark it, committing it to memory instead. He looked up Dulwater next, but didn’t find an entry. The man who had been Spikehead’s contact at Alliance was ex-directory. Knowing what he was going to do, he heaved the Yellow Pages onto the bed and looked at the list of private investigation agents and agencies. There were plenty to choose from. Alliance had a small, understated ad which only said that they specialized in “corporate management.” He went for one of the small ads, and steered clear of anything that boasted having been “long established.” For all he knew, PIs were every bit as clubby as lawyers or accountants. He didn’t want to contact a PI only to have that PI telephone Alliance with the news.
As it turned out, he chose remarkably well.
“You’ve come to the right person, Mr. Wagner.”
Reeve was calling himself Richard Wagner. He was sitting in the rented office of a Mr. Edward (“please, call me Eddie”) Duhart. Duhart was interested to speak to a European. He said he’d been researching his name and was positive it was originally DuHart and that he was somehow related to a big Bordeaux distillery.
“I think you mean vineyard,” Reeve had said.
Eddie Duhart was in his late twenties, nicely enough dressed but not wearing the clothes with ease. He kept moving in his chair, like he couldn’t get comfortable. Reeve wondered if the guy was a cokehead. Duhart had cropped blond hair, shiny white teeth, and baby-blue eyes. You could see the child in him peering out from a college-football body. “Well, yeah, vineyard. Sure I mean vineyard. See, I think these Duharts came over here to further their, you know, trade. I think they settled here, and”-he opened his arms wide-“I’m the result.”
“Congratulations,” said Reeve. The office was small and looked impermanent. There was a desk and a filing cabinet, a fax ma-chine, and a coatrack on which hung something looking suspiciously like a fedora. There was no secretary, probably no need for one. Duhart had already informed him that he was “fairly fresh” to the business. He’d been a cop three years but got bored, liked to be his own operator. Reeve said he knew the feeling. Duhart said he’d always loved private-eye stories and movies. Had Reeve ever read Jim Crumley or Lawrence Block? Reeve admitted the gap in his education. “But you’ve seen the movies, right? Bogart, Mitchum, Paul Newman…?”