“Oh,” said Chin. “A banner is an inconspicuous signal that allies use to flag one another during face-to-face contact. It’s useful only at street level where the sheer number of transactions makes heavy police infiltration improbable. If you want further confirmation, the two of you can head off to a pay phone 138
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for a conference call to the Cadre, call in each of your identification codes, and have the Cadre return your confirmed names.”
“I take it the current banner is a ring-twirling code?”
“That’s right, based on Morse Code. But I thought you didn’t—”
Elliot interrupted: “I saw it used twice in the same day. Once by a tzigane driver and once by …someone else.”
After pulling a hologram data cartridge out of his computer, sticking it into a pocket for safekeeping, Chin led Elliot, Lorimer, and two other couples out to a windowless garage in which were parked half a dozen panel trucks painted like commercial delivery vans. The van to which they were taken read
“Hot Bialys” on the side. “A gambling joint or a nightclub?”
Lorimer asked Elliot.
“You aren’t a New Yorker, are you?”
She shrugged. “Sounds like someone in a Damon Runyon story.”
Inside the van were two side couches facing across, seatbelts for three on each side. There was a steel partition between the rear and the driver’s compartment—in the back, again, no windows.
After a last “laissez-faire” to Chin, the six climbed into the truck and fastened their belts. Elliot found himself with Lorimer on his left and a plump, fiftyish woman with frosted hair on his right. With his coat on—for it was chilly—he felt like a slice of turkey sandwiched between two slices of bread—
one wheat, the other rye.
It did not help that after Chin had slammed the doors—a heavy, metallic whoomph making ears pop—it now sounded as if they were in a recording studio. Elliot tried knocking on the sides to produce an echo; all he got for his troubles was sore knuckles: the space was absolutely dead. The situation did not improve when the van started moving; he felt changes Alongside Night
139
in momentum but little vibration and no road noise—not even the comforting whine of turbines.
The bleached-blonde woman across from Elliot—middle twenties—tried starting a conversation with her male companion, an emaciated chain smoker whom Eliot thought tubercular, but the acoustics inhibited not only sound but conversation as well. Lorimer also lit up immediately. The hour in transit was spent in smoky, but silent, meditation—transcendental or otherwise. When the van came to a halt, a gravely voice came back through an intercom: “Last stop. Get ready to leave when I give you the word.” Everyone unstrapped, lifting luggage onto their knees; Lorimer slung her travel bag over her shoulder. Elliot noticed a wire—running from the door forward to the driver compartment—suddenly tighten. “Ready … ready … go!”
With a muffled crack, the van’s double doors swung open into the frosty night air. They were behind the Pan Am Building and Grand Central Station; Forty-fifth Street was deserted. Lorimer jumped out, followed immediately by Elliot and the Smokers Anonymous advertisement, the two young men helping the remaining three passengers out while Lorimer kept watch.
As soon as the Grande Dame’s feet were on solid ground, the van sped off around the corner, its double doors swinging shut as it turned. None of the passengers had even glimpsed the driver.
Leaving Elliot and Lorimer with only another “laissez-faire,”
the two other couples started post-haste to the front of Grand Central Station; Chin had mentioned that tzigane cabs were lining up during the strike without police interference. “Think we ought to phone the rooming house?” Elliot asked Lorimer.
“Probably a good idea, but I wouldn’t mind eating first. Anyplace good around here?”
“Best choices are over on Fifth Avenue or down in the Vil-140
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lage. Which way?”
“Fifth Avenue,” Lorimer said. “I’ve never been there on Saturday night. I hear it’s a real witches’ Sabbath.”
Elliot pondered this a moment.
“That’s almost adequate,” he said.
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141
Chapter 15
The headline on The New York Times Sunday edition—just then hitting the street—read: “PRESIDENT URGES DIPLOMATIC RECOGNITION OF TEXAN REPUBLIC.”
Elliot handed the Forty-fifth Street newsdealer two quarter vendies, checking the Times to ensure all sections present.
“Well, it’s Saturday night, all right,” he told Lorimer, then checking his watch against the newsdealer’s, determined that it was seven fifteen by all accounts.