A few minutes later, Dr. Vreeland drew Elliot alone into the master bedroom. “You’ll be going to an—uh—‘exotic’ bookstore off Times Square,” said Dr. Vreeland. He wrote the address on a piece of paper. Elliot took the paper, studied it a moment, then crumpled it up. “Do I have to eat this?”
“Not necessary,” said his father. “Your contact is a bald, bearded man—somewhat overweight—called ‘Al.’ As a sign you’re to ask him for a copy of Not Worth a Continental—be sure to mention my name as author. His countersign is, ‘I may sell dirty books but I don’t carry trash like that.’ Your countercountersign is, ‘What do you recommend instead?’ He will invite you into a back room and give you a package. The coins will be inside. Got all that?”
Elliot nodded. “Should I take my phone?”
“Absolutely not,” said Dr. Vreeland. “We have to assume that all our phones are being monitored, and no matter what we say or don’t say, they can be used to track our movements. I also won’t trust the Internet until we are out of the country. Alongside Night
35
I’m assuming all our eMail accounts have been compromised by now, even our anonymous remailers. The only devices I’m willing to trust are decidedly low-tech. Which brings up one important piece of low-tech hardware.”
Dr. Vreeland went to his dresser, returning with a small box, which he opened. Inside was a .38 caliber Peking revolver that he and Elliot had practiced with in New Hampshire. “Can you use it?” Dr. Vreeland asked.
Elliot picked up the pistol, swung out the cylinder—noting all six chambers loaded—and swung the cylinder back. “I can use it.”
“Good. Only, don’t.”
“What if I’m stopped by a cop?”
Dr. Vreeland took a deep breath. “Under our present situation, a police officer must be regarded in the same manner as any other potential attacker. You can’t afford to be caught with either a firearm or gold bullion. If you can talk your way free, do so: New York police must pass periodic shooting exams. But if your only chance of making rendezvous is using this gun, so be it.”
“Terrific chance I’d have.”
“The Keynesian Cops are understaffed at the moment”—
Elliot winced at the pun—”Consider themselves underpaid and overworked, and are on the verge of striking again. If they’re seen making an arrest openly, they’re as likely as not to start a riot. They are not looking for trouble. Anything else?”
Elliot made a wry face. “Do you have any more ammunition?”
36
Alongside Night
Alongside Night
37
Chapter 4
After ducking through the fire exit to avoid reporters still in the lobby, Elliot started briskly down Park Avenue, the boulevard busy even with out its usual flow of yellow taxicabs. He walked toward the thirty-block-distant Pan Am Building—
though it was no longer owned by that airline—passing seedy hotel after seedy hotel, passing a derelict structure at Sixtyeighth Street, once Hunter College. He turned west on to Fiftyninth Street—past Burger King, past Madison Avenue, past the plywood and soaped plate glass at General Motors Plaza—and continued down Fifth Avenue.
Tourists from EUCOMTO states were abundant on the avenue, buying up bargains to the bewilderment of proudly nationalistic Americans and to the delight of proprietors eager for the illegal, gold-backed eurofrancs. Where once exclusive stores had displayed apparel of quiet taste, the latest rage among the fashionable was the Genghis Khan: coats of metallic-silver leather trimmed with long, black monkey fur. A sign was posted on a lamppost at the corner of Fortyninth Street; Elliot passed by hardly noticing it. Warning!
to LOOTERS, VANDALS, MUGGERS, SHOPLIFTERS, PICKPOCKETS, and other assorted CRIMINALS. This area is heavily patrolled by ARMED GUARDS with orders to protect our businesses and customers from you BY ANY MEANS POSSIBLE.
BEWARE FOR YOUR LIVES!
—Fifth Avenue Merchant Alliance
About fifty minutes after he had left home, Elliot entered a small bookstore at 204 West Forty-second Street, just outside the Federal Renovation Zone. It was crossways to the edifice at One Times Square originally the New York Times building, 38
Alongside Night
most famous as the Allied Chemical Tower, now a federal building called, somewhat tongue-in-cheek, the Oracle Tower. The Rabelais bookstore was without customers when Elliot arrived; a man was seated on a stool behind the counter, a sign in back of him declaring in large black lettering, “BE 21 OR BE GONE.”
On one wall were such classic titles as A Pilgrim of Passion, Suburban Souls, Professional Lovers, and Saucer Sluts; the other wall offered more pedestrian titles by Salinger, Hemingway, and Joyce.