I asked where the pastor was.
"That's me," he said, straightening up. "How can I help you?"
I said I understood he'd had some minor vandalism in the basement the previous evening. He grinned at me. "Is that what it was? Someone seems to have shot up our light fixture. The damage won't amount to much. Would you like to see where it happened?"
We didn't have to use the stairs I'd gone down last night. We walked down an inside staircase and a hallway, entering the room through the curtained archway our wigged and bearded friends had used to make their departure. The room had been straightened since then, the chairs stacked, the tables folded. Daylight filtered in through the windows.
"That's the fixture, of course," he said, pointing. "There was glass on the floor but it's been swept up. I suppose you've seen the police report."
I didn't say anything, just looked around.
"You are with the police, aren't you?"
He wasn't probing. He simply wanted to be reassured. But something stopped me.Maybe the tail end of my conversation with Eddie Koehler.
"No," I said. "I'm not."
"Oh? Then your interest is-"
"I was here last night."
He looked at me, waiting for me to go on. He was, I thought, a very patient young man. You sensed that he wanted to hear what you had to say, and in your own good time. I suppose that quality would be a useful one for a minister.
I said, "I used to be a cop. I'm a private detective now."That was perhaps technically incorrect, but close enough to the truth. "I was here last night on behalf of a client, seeking to exchange money for some goods of the client's that were being held for ransom."
"I see."
"The other parties, the criminals who had stolen my client's goods in the first place, selected this location for the exchange. They were the ones who did the shooting."
"I see," he said again. "Was anyone… shot? The police looked for bloodstains. I don't know that all wounds bleed."
"No one was shot. There were only two shots fired and they both went into the ceiling."
He sighed. "That's a relief. Well, Mr. Uh-"
"Scudder.Matthew Scudder."
"And I'm NelsonFuhrmann. I guess we missed introducing ourselves earlier." He ran a hand over a freckled forehead. "I gather the police don't know about any of this."
"No, they don't."
"And you'd rather they didn't."
"It would certainly be simpler if they didn't."
He considered, nodded. "I doubt I'd have occasion to communicate it to them anyway," he said. "I don't suppose they'll come around again, do you? It's no major crime."
"Somebody might follow up. But don't be surprised if you never hear further."
"They'll file a report," he said, "and that will be that." He sighed again. "Well, Mr. Scudder, you must have had a reason to take the chance that I would mention your visit to the police. What is it you're hoping to find out?"
"I'd like to know who they were."
"The villains?"He laughed. "I don't know what else to call them. If I were a policeman I suppose I'd call them perpetrators."
"You could call them sinners."
"Ah, but we're all that, aren't we?" He smiled at me. "You don't know their identity?"
"No. And they wore disguises, wigs and false beards, so I don't even know what they looked like."
"I don't see how I could help you. You don't suppose they're connected with the church, do you?"
"I'm almost certain they're not. But they picked this place, ReverendFuhrmann, and-"
"Call me Nelson."
"- and it suggests a familiarity with the church, and with this room in particular. Did the cops find any evidence of forced entry?"
"I don't believe so, no."
"Mind if I look at the door?" I examined the lock of the door leading to the outside stairs. If it had been tampered with, I couldn't see it. I asked him what other doors led to the outside, and he took me around and we checked, and none of them bore the scars of illegal entry.
"The police said a door must have been left open," he said.
"That would be a logical guess if this were just a case of vandalism or malicious mischief. A couple of kids happen to find a door left unlocked, go inside, horse around a little. But this was planned and arranged. I don't think our sinners could count on the door being left open. Or is locking up a hit-or-miss business here?"
He shook his head. "No, we always lock up. We have to, even in a decent neighborhood like this one. Two doors were open when the police arrived last night, this one and the one in the rear. We certainly wouldn't have left both doors unlocked."
"If one was open, the other could be unlocked from inside without a key."
"Oh, of course.Still-"
"There must be a lot of keys in circulation, reverend. I'm sure a lot of community groups use the space."
"Oh, absolutely," he said. "We feelit's part of our function to make our space available when we don't require it for our own purposes. And the rent we collect for it is an important part of our income."
"So the basement is often in use at night."
"Oh, it certainly is. Let's see, AA meets in this room every Thursday night, and there's an Al-Anon group that uses the room on Tuesdays, they'll be here tonight, come to think of it. And Fridays, who's here Fridays? This space has been put to no end of uses in the few years I've been here. We had a little theater group doing their rehearsals, we have a monthly cub scout meeting when the whole pack assembles together, we have- well, you can see that there are a lot of different groups with access to the premises."
"But no one meets here on Monday nights."
"No. There was a women's consciousness-raising group that met here Mondays up until about three months ago, but I believe they decided to meet in one another's homes instead." He cocked his head. "You're suggesting that the, uh, sinners would have had to be in a position to know the space would be empty last night."
"I was thinking that."
"But they could have called and asked. Anyone could have called and posed as someone interested in the space, and checking on its availability."
"Did you get any calls like that?"
"Oh, we get them all the time," he said. "It's not something anyone here would bother to remember."
"WHY are youcomin ' around here all the time?" the woman wanted to know."Askin' everybody about Mickey Mouse."
"Who?"
She let out a laugh. "MiguelitoCruz.Miguelito means Little Michael, you know? Like Mickey. People call him Mickey Mouse. I do, anyway."
We were in a Puerto Rican bar onFourth Avenue, nestled between a shop that sold botanicals and one that rented formal wear. I'd gotten back on the N train after my visit to the Lutheran church inBensonhurst, intending to ride it back into the city, but instead I found myself rising abruptly atFifty-thirdStreet inSunsetPark and leaving the train there. I had nothing else to do with the day, no logical direction to take in Skip's behalf, and I thought I might as well put in some time justifying my fee from TommyTillary.
Besides, it was lunchtime, and a plate of black beans and rice sounded good to me.
It tasted as good as it sounded. I washed it down with a bottle of cold beer, then ordered flan for dessert and had a couple of cups of espresso. The Italians give you a thimble of the stuff; the Puerto Ricans pour you a full cup of it.
Then I barhopped, staying with beers and making them last, and now I'd met this woman who wanted to know why I was interested in Mickey Mouse. She was around thirty-five, with dark hair and eyes anda hardness to her face that matched the hardness in her voice. Her voice, scarred by cigarettes and booze and hot food, was the sort that wouldcut glass.
Her eyes were large and soft, and what showed of her body suggested that it would have a softness to match the eyes. She was wearing a lot of bright colors. Her hair was wrapped up in a hot-pinkscarf, her blouse was an electric blue, her hip-hugging slacks canary yellow, her high-heeled shoes Day-Glo orange. The blouse was unbuttoned far enough to reveal the swell of her full breasts. Her skin was like copper, but with a blush to it, as if lighted from within.