Читать книгу Glory Boys - Harry Bingham - Страница 30

As problems went, it ought to have been a small one.

The Association of Orthodox Synagogues was expecting a consignment of ‘Sacred Books and Sacramental Materials’ from a Long Island based import-export outfit. The documents were in good order. The goods were in Long Island, ready for delivery. Insurance and transportation arrangements had been settled. But there was a problem.

The customer named on the delivery note was the Association of Orthodox Synagogues. But the beneficiary named in the insurance documentation was the Associated Synagogues of New York. Did it matter? Maybe not. But if there was a screw-up and Powell Lambert took a hit, then it would be Willard who suffered, no one else.

Larry Ronson wasn’t around at the time Willard ran into the issue. Willard didn’t like Leo McVeigh and didn’t want to ask him. Iggy Claverty and Charlie Hughes were both there, but Willard guessed Claverty was bound to be flippant and Hughes fussy and nervous. Sunshine cut across the room, hurting Willard’s eyes, reminding him of his time in the cockpit, when throwing the plane around in the sky made the sun bob and spin like a wild thing…

He strode across the room and pulled down a blind. Annie caught his eye and smiled at him. She smiled at him more than at Ronson now. Willard noticed and was pleased. He went back to his desk. The problem was still there. Sunshine still swam in through a flaw in the blind. The Association of Orthodox Synagogues? The Associated Synagogues of New York? Which? Willard dialled a number, got no reply. To hell with it.

The documents both contained the same address, which was only a short walk away on the Lower East Side. Willard jumped up.

‘I’m going out, Annie. Shan’t be long.’

She smiled at him again and tucked a strand of light brown hair behind her ear. It was a menace that strand: always falling loose and needing to be put back, especially when she knew he was watching her. Willard didn’t flatter himself that she was flirting, but he knew that she was very aware of his presence.

In a rare good mood, he strode north, but as he got closer, his mood evaporated. The neighbourhood was a poor one. There was something edgy in the air: smells of bad plumbing, decaying masonry, conversations that fell silent as he approached. He found the address: a shabby doorway at the bottom of a concrete staircase. A domestic argument droned angrily from a nearby room. There was no plate on the door. Split green linoleum rippled underfoot – Willard noticed it particularly, because he had just taken delivery of half a dozen pairs of handmade shoes. He was wearing a pair now, and his feet were sore and uncomfortable in the stiff new leather. He rang the bell.

No answer. He rang again. Then, just as he was about to give up and go, an Irishman, unshaved, wearing trousers and his undervest came to the door.

‘Yeah?’

‘Oh… Excuse me, I believe I must have the wrong address.’

‘Who d’you want?’

‘I understood that a Jewish religious organisation was based here. As I say, I must –’

‘Huh? Kikes?’

There was a muffled shout from the dark interior beyond the Irishman’s shoulder. ‘Uh … wait a moment, will you,’ he said, and disappeared.

When he came back, he’d found a shirt from somewhere, but hadn’t bothered to button it.

‘Sure, you’re right. At least, they’re not here exactly, but… What d’you say your name was?’

‘My name is Willard Thornton, representing the Trade Finance department of Powell Lambert.’

Willard handed the man a card, who blinked at it, and stuffed it into a greasy pocket. ‘Jesus!’ He pronounced the name the Irish way, Jay-sus.

‘You can get a message to them?’

‘I can, sure. There’s a fellow, black coat and that, a rabbi. I guess he’ll give you a call, maybe. Is that all you’ll be wanting? OK.’

The door slammed shut. From inside, a burst of laughter crashed against the shabby plywood. Willard was suddenly angry. Whatever had just happened, he had the sense of being made a fool of. He folded his fist, wanting to smash it through the door, wanting a fight.

He didn’t, of course, but when he got back to Powell Lambert, he sought out Ronson. Willard explained the problem in angry, affronted tones. Ronson looked serious.

‘You think there might be a problem with this outfit?’

‘It was no place to find a bunch of…’ Willard swallowed the word ‘kikes’ and used the word ‘rabbis’ instead. ‘The place was a shithole, Larry, honestly.’

‘You worry somebody’s playing us for suckers? That’s your worry?’

‘Well, good Lord, something didn’t add up.’

‘Maybe. On the other hand, there’s no law against shitholes. And the thing with the insurance note, I’ve had that before. The insurance clerks just scribble down whatever the hell they want. No attention to detail. Now what I’d do if I were you…’

The conversation drifted into the comforting detail of paperwork and insurance forms. Willard was grateful to Ronson for his help. Iggy Claverty came over and helped out too. The problem seemed resolved.

And that was all.

Or almost.

Going home that evening, Willard happened to ride in the same elevator as McVeigh. The two men exchanged a couple of words, then fell silent. The elevator moved slowly, people got in, got out. The compartment emptied. All the time, Willard felt McVeigh’s heavy gaze pressing on him. When Willard turned, the big man, with his cropped red hair and football player’s neck, was looking squarely at him, unblinking.

‘Yes?’ said Willard.

McVeigh shook his head.

‘You’ve been staring at me all the way down,’ Willard persisted.

McVeigh paused a second, then stepped half a pace closer. His head was too close. Though Willard weighed in at an athletic one hundred and eighty pounds, McVeigh must have had another forty pounds on him at least. There was something directly threatening in his attitude. Willard’s anger flared. Whatever McVeigh’s problem was, Willard had no intention of backing down.

‘Careful,’ said McVeigh. ‘Asking questions, like you were today.’

‘What d’you mean?’

McVeigh shrugged.

‘What d’you mean? Why the hell shouldn’t I ask questions?’

McVeigh came a little closer still. He had small blue eyes, lost beneath a broad expanse of forehead. ‘Just be careful what you ask and who you ask. You wouldn’t want to…’

The elevator hit the ground floor. Willard clanked open the inner door, then the outer one. The two men held their pose of near-aggression a second longer.

‘I’ll ask who I want, what I want, and I don’t suppose I need to ask your permission, Leo.’

‘That’s up to you.’ McVeigh looked like he was trying to take some of the heat out of the situation, but a muscle continued to clamp and unclamp in his jaw. ‘You do what you like. Just remember … anyhow, goodnight.’

McVeigh turned and walked away. For a big man, he was light on his feet and fast. Willard found himself thinking that man could be dangerous. For the second time that day, he found his fist curled into a ball, wanting to thump something.