Meyer walked from the office out upon the dock. The warehouse, in past years a meat packing depot, was huge, dark, thickwalled with brick of various blood shades. It sat off North Grand, abutted to the railroad bridge crossing the river just north of DeSiard street. Something of a public storage warehouse, where Meyer rented space and ran a courier/delivery service.
A section of the rear wall sat perilously close to a river bank cave-in, though you couldn't tell without walking around back, an uninviting prospect due to the mud and vines and trash. Mac had a chalk line drawn on the concrete floor to remind himself to stay away from that area. The space inside was largely empty, cold, with metal sprinklers dangling like overhanging vines in the black forest.
The place, to Mac, was scary.
Meyer waited for Mac to get out of the Fury, his patience none too generous. Meyer's office was a frame enclosure at the end of the dock. Cooper, the other delivery driver, slid a few boxes randomly in order to appear something close to busy. He observed the rarity of Meyer actually venturing outside. "Armageddon, Mac-boy." Comical inverted face.
"You got a message." In exaggerated confusion Mac looked around for whoever Meyer might be talking to. "Said it was your brother, for you to call him at his office."
"Can't you come over now?""I got another run to make. Not until after six, at least."
"Shit."
"I'll go over to your house then."
"Hell no. Chandra's—she'll be there. Meet me at a bar. Ledbetter's. Six thirty. No. Six thirty-five."
Mac was dressed wrong. His brother took him to an ill-lit booth. John wore his suit from work, insurance-guy charcoal shade."Hey," he called the bartender, who looked hardly old enough to be inside the place. "Could you cut that muzak and put the dial on 940?"
A puzzled look. "You know, AM? You ever heard of that?"
Soon John was following the local talk radio. Discussion included the discovery of an eight year old girl, raped and left in a dumpster under a pile of cinderblocks. She was currently still alive.
"Been on all day. Nothing else. But she was like, black, you know. Your buddy, the reporter guy, what does he say?"
"I ain't seen him. But I know that dumpster they mean."
"What are you trying to say?"
"I just know where it is. Out there by these mini storage warehouses on 80—"
"What about that drifter guy who got his nose eaten off, do they know where he was?"
"Huh? Jimmy Lee? It's only half his nose, and he stays out under the interstate bridge. But he wouldn't hurt a fly. I swear."
"Yeah, OK. Listen, I have to be quick here. Listen to this."
By thoroughly arcane and baffling routes his brother explained why he wanted to use Mac's name instead of his own for participation in the venture. It was imperative none of this leak out to Chandra. "I'll cut you in for three per cent. If it's not dry—of my share I mean. If it is, you won't have to pay out a thing. But it won't be dry. There's no way, son. I know this guy with Halliburton, and they logged not one hundred feet away. I'm telling you. All we got to do is find five people, and they each find five people. Who in hell can't do that?"
Mac agreed in a vague but enthusiastic way. John was in a hurry. He paid for the drafts immediately.
"Hey, wait—have you seen Connie?"
John was flat, evasive.
"You know where she's living now?"
"Mac—she'd shit if she saw you—either of us. Don't bug her."
He slid out of the booth, refraining to look at Mac.
Mac followed him to the Saab. "You know where she lives, don't you. She probably didn't even move."
"You're not going to find out—don't worry." A reprisal of some archaic backyard play. John slammed the door. He finally glanced at Mac: sorry, ol' bud.
Mac stood impassive for several moments, then motioned for him to roll the window down.
"Hey—you think you're really going to use my name? Somebody'll call, ask me stuff?"
