Dead Street

Hell, all I had to do was read the papers. Who wanted atomic energy? Not the kind that could run productive factories or be used in scientific experiments or be beneficial to the citizens of the world.

Somebody wanted the destruction it could bring to cultures they hated. Progress was the 9-11 debacle, the terroristic political regime of Iran and neighboring nations of the same bent. Nothing was hidden any more. All their vicious desires were out in the open now, horrific endeavors barely disguised behind religious themes. With one blast of atomic power there wouldn’t be any need for suicide bombings or driving hijacked aircraft into huge commercial buildings. One big city, one gigantic explosion, one tremendous death quotient and their demonic point would be made.

The government had agencies to handle a crisis like this. But the government had agencies that moved as fast as a garbage scow with anchors down. And the government would never think that an almost dead street in Manhattan might be the breeding ground for a great catastrophe.

I ran my fingers through my hair and wondered where all the wild ideas came from. Ideas weren’t real — but they preceded reality.

I heard the bells from the ice cream truck coming down Kenneth Avenue. I left bleak thoughts behind and went outside and bought three vanilla super-cones from a kid with a ring in his nose and brought them over to Bettie’s house.

Tacos let out those race-dog yips and when Bettie opened the door he nearly took his own personal cone out of my hand, along with my fingers.

Bettie just stood there smiling in her see-through nightie, her untrimmed delta a refreshing pleasure in these days of bizarre pubic buzz cuts.

“Why do I like you?” she asked.

“Because I bring you expensive presents. Like ice cream cones.”

The dog had already dropped his on the floor and was busy licking up the mess. I got a paper towel and wiped out the tongue marks from the flooring.

Bettie said to me, “That’s the first time they came down this street.”

“You said they got fresh, before...?”

“Those drivers were always making remarks to me from the village area.”

“You’re worth whistling at any place, kid.”

“They aren’t from around here, you know.”

“Now how would you know that?”

“From being blind,” she said quietly. “My ears hear things... like dialects, that other people might not recognize. All those drivers have New York accents.”

“Most of the people down here are escapees from the big city.”

“Sure,” she agreed. “But those people have money.” She paused. “Do ice cream truck drivers get paid much?”

I shrugged. It was an oddball question. I asked her why.

She told me, “Darris said he thought he saw one of them in Sarasota driving a new Porsche convertible. He had a real snazzy blonde with him, too.”

I frowned at that. Porsches don’t come cheap, and neither do snazzy blondes.

Of course, Darris could have made a mistake. Except old ex-cops don’t make those kinds of mistakes.

I picked up the phone, got Darris on the other end and asked Darris about the ice cream dealer in the Porsche.

There didn’t seem to be any doubt in his mind. “I was positive it was him, all right. Maybe I wouldn’t swear to it in court, but it sure looked like him.”

“You meet him often?”

“When they were getting permission to operate here, I had a half-hour discussion with him. He checked out at his last job up north. Want me to get out his file?”

“Sure do.”

I heard a metal door slide open, the rustling of papers and Darris said, “Here’s the skinny on the group that sells the ice-cream product over here.”

He read off five names, giving me their backgrounds and I stopped him in mid-sentence with, “Who was that last one, Darris?”

He checked back and said, “Romero Suede. Suede — like the shoes.”

“Late twenties, six feet tall, dark, pockmarked complexion?”

“Sounds like the very beauty,” Darris replied. “You know him?”

“If it’s the same Suede, my old partner nailed him twice for possession of narcotics. He got six months on Riker’s Island, did four and was turned loose.”

“Who got him off?”

“That came at the request of the city. The place was overcrowded and they needed the space.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll check it out. Incidentally, where’s home base for that ice cream business?”

“That’s one of the Garrison projects.”

“You know anything about that operation?”

“No,” he told me, “But if you want to take a ride to the county seat with me, we can check out the tax rolls and see if we recognize any names.”

“You’re on, Darris. Pick me up in the morning. You’ll give a nice official overtone to the inquiry.”

And he did.

Sunset Lodge was a well-respected development and the nature of our requests was simply to see who we might contact to share mutual interests in expansion possibilities.

We got what we needed.