Donald Westlake - The Busy Body

Engel said, “Easy. Easy.”

She stopped, held her breath, then let it out in a long sigh. “That’s over,” she said. “I’m sorry I used you this—”

“Think nothing of it.”

“You’re very sweet, and I am sorry, but I had to say it, I had to talk about it just once. Now it’s done, and I’ll never speak of it again.” She smiled bravely, and picked up her drink. “To the future,” she said.

“To the future.”

They got their table shortly after that, and she was true to her word. They talked no more about the late Murray, and concerned themselves once again with lighter and less personal topics. Once when Engel called her Mrs. Kane she insisted that from now on he call her Margo, which after that he did. From time to time she tried to find out gently what he’d been up to at the funeral parlor, but Engel continued for the fun of it to evade her questions. And while she was away to the powder room, he found himself thinking of her in Dolly-like terms once again, and once again he shoved such thoughts down and nailed the lid.

The drive back to the city was as pleasant as the drive up. She drove Engel to his door, and as they shook hands in the car and thanked one another for a lovely evening, it seemed to Engel for one fleet second she expected him to kiss her, but he put the idea down to too much night air and too much Scotch. She did say, “May I come again to see your apartment? All of it this time.”

“Whenever you want,” he said.

“I’ll call you.”

He got out of the car, and she waved and drove away.

Upstairs, he was disappointed to see no note on the door. Had Dolly given up on him? Maybe he shouldn’t have wasted tonight after all, maybe he should have been hard at work clearing up the problem at hand.

Well. Tomorrow.

He unlocked the door and went into his apartment and the lights were on. While he was still reacting to that, two of the boys came walking into view, their hands suspiciously close to their jacket lapels. Engel recognized them as organization muscle, but he didn’t recognize the expression on their faces and couldn’t figure out what they were doing here like this.

Then one of them said, “Nick Rovito wants to see you, Engel.”

“Yeah,” said the other one. “He wants to see you in a hurry.”

Engel looked from one of them to the other. Was this any way to get a message from Nick Rovito? Did this make any sense?

There was only one way a scene like this did make sense, and that way was something Engel didn’t even want to think about.

“Come on, Engel,” said the first one, moving closer and taking Engel by the elbow. “Let’s us go for a little ride.”

Engel had seen that Chevrolet before. But the last time he’d been driving the damn thing, and this time he was put in the back seat to play passenger. One of the messengers got in with him, his hand staying warily near his jacket lapel. The other one got behind the wheel.

The boy at the wheel was named Gittel and the one next to Engel in back was called Fox. They were good professional muscle, constantly on loan to Pittsburgh or Seattle or Detroit, and Engel had known them both for years.

Gittel started the car and it stalled and he said several things. Engel said, “It’s standard shift. I was just driving this car last night.”

“Shut up,” said Fox conversationally.

Gittel, starting the car again, said through clenched teeth, “When we’re done with Engel, I’m goin round a little bit with that bastard Kenny.”

“He couldn’t do any better for me either,” said Engel. “It isn’t his fault.”

“Shut up,” Fox offered, “or I’ll break your head.”

Engel looked at him. “I thought I was your friend.”

“I got a dog instead.”

Gittel had the car going again. He pulled it cautiously away from the curb and headed uptown, in first.

Engel said to Fox, “Can I tell him he oughta shift gears?”

“That’s it,” said Gittel. “That’s all I can take.” He pulled the car to the curb again, barely two blocks from Engel’s apartment.

Fox said, “Hey! You outa your mind? We’re suppose to take him to Nick Rovito first. Besides, you call this a safe place?”

Gittel got out of the car, opened the back door next to Engel, and said, “Out, you son of a bitch.”

Engel got out, slowly, looking for a chance.

Gittel shoved the car keys in his hand. “You’re so smart,” he said, “you drive the damn thing.”

Engel looked at the keys. Behind him, Fox was saying, “Gittel, that ain’t the way it’s done! The mark don’t drive the car!”

“Shut up,” Gittel told him, “or you get it.” To Engel he said, “Get behind the wheel. We’ll both be in the back seat, and you oughta know better than try something funny.”

“Not anyway till I see Nick,” Engel said. “Where you supposed to take me?”

“The mission.”

“Right.”

They all got back in the car, Engel behind the wheel this time, and once more headed north. Engel by this time was somewhat used to the car, and all the way uptown he only stalled it twice.

The mission was on East 107th Street, in an old store front that had housed a tiny Jewish tailor until some of the neighborhood children had set fire to him. The owner had had a tough time finding another businessman to take the place over, and had been glad finally to rent it to the Jesus Loves You Mission, Incorporated, one of those fringe organizations that specialize in giving hot soup and mismatched shoes to alcoholics. Since this was one of the blocks where people started throwing bottles, garbage, furniture and each other out the windows at the mere sight of a cop, one of the blocks where the rat population exceeded the human and the rats kept it that way by constantly biting babies, one of the blocks the social workers just didn’t want to discuss, there was nothing unusual about a store-front mission opening up there. In fact, not even the owner of the building knew the Jesus Loves You Mission, Incorporated, was a front for the organization.

What safer place could there be in a slum for the neighborhood narcotics peddler than the hot-soup counter at a mission? Customers didn’t even have to go home to shoot up. And since the mission had a dormitory upstairs like any other mission, the customers didn’t have to go home after they shot up either.

Engel parked across the street from this mission now, and he and Gittel and Fox got out of the car. They crossed the rubbish-strewn street, Engel in the middle, and went into the mission.

The front windows of the mission had been whitewashed, and the name of the joint had been put on them in red-painted and very shaky lettering. A notice on the front door — grease pencil on a shirt cardboard — informed the public, with many misspellings, that organ recitals and hymn-singings took place every Friday and Saturday evening at ten o’clock. All welcome.

A half-dozen tottering brittle-boned winos had been clustered outside the door, looking like those who’d been called but not chosen, and at least two dozen more of the same were sprawled around on folding chairs within, in the long main meeting room just inside the door. Religious mottoes were everywhere along the walls, and at the far end, on a slightly raised platform, stood a podium and a small electric organ.

Aside from being an organization front, this place was also a legitimate mission, having as much hot soup and as many mismatched shoes as any other mission in New York, and counters to dispense these items were along the left wall. Juvenile delinquents, looking dangerously bored, manned these posts with less than apparent devotion.

At the far end of the room, near the organ, was a battered brown door with gold lettering on it seemingly done by the same shaky hand that had identified the front windows in red. The lettering announced: