A Diet of Treacle by Lawrence Block Page B

having a hard time. He was also beginning to feel thoroughly annoyed.
    The Kitchen was a fairly dismal slum but this failed to dismay Shank. Nor did the slum’s inhabitants—Irish, Italian, and a sprinkling of Puerto Ricans—affect Shank either. But the juveniles of the area were another story. He was close enough to them in age to be a possible member of an alien gang. At one point two teenagers approached him, their eyes wary. He was on their turf, and that might to them mean an invasion. Shank remembered the protocol of the Royal Ramblers and now the routine struck him as ridiculous. But Shank knew the language and he was ready.
    “Who are you, man?” He looked the taller of the two in the eyes. “I’m looking for Basil,” he said. “You know him?”
    Shank read the expression. They knew Basil. But they were too small to deal with him. Basil was big and they were little. They bought what they used, if they used, from someone not nearly so tall as Basil. Someone like Shank, perhaps.
    “You got business with him?” the taller one said.
    “I buy,” Shank said. “I sell.”
    “You swing with a gang?”
    “Years ago but no more.”
    It was satisfactory. They let him alone because they knew he was not in their way. But they did not know Basil’s whereabouts.
    Nobody did. The mystery was becoming a drag. Finally Shank entered the coffee pot where, by all the rules, Basil should have been. Shank sauntered to the counter and studied the girl behind it. He asked for Basil and her eyes informed him she knew both the name and the man.
    “I don’t know him,” the girl said.
    “Call him.” Shank said. “Tell him somebody wants to see him.”
    “I don’t know him.”
    “Crap,” Shank said. “You pour me a cup of coffee. Cream and sugar. Then you get your butt over to the phone and you call him. Fast.”
    “I don’t know you,” she said. “Maybe you’re law.”
    “I look like law?”
    She shrugged.
    But for the girl and Shank, the diner was empty. Shank walked around the counter and moved in on the girl. She seemed vaguely frightened but obviously did not know what to do next. There was nobody to call on for help.
    Shank took out the knife. He sprang the blade, and the girl’s eyes widened. He moved the blade until it was about an inch away from her stomach.
    “Law doesn’t carry blades,” he said. “But you go right on thinking I’m law, and you go right on giving me a hard time. Then I’ll have to prove to you I’m not law. You know how I’ll do it?”
    Her mouth made an O.
    “I’ll cut your tits off,” he said gently. “Wouldn’t you rather call Basil?”
    She nodded. She started for the phone.
    “First the coffee. Cream and sugar.”
    She poured the coffee. Then she found the phone and dropped a dime into it and dialed. He sat at the counter and sipped coffee, pleased.
    “He’s on his way,” she told him.
    Shank nodded. He waited. Less than five minutes later the man called Basil stepped into the diner. He was a small man, five-and-a-half feet short, small-boned, bald. He had nervous eyes. He was well-dressed and over-dressed, as many small men are. His hat was black and short-brimmed, his topcoat an expensive tweed. His Italian loafers were highly shined.
    “You wanted to see me?” Basil’s voice was low.
    Shank nodded. “Can we go somewhere?”
    “First let me know who you are.”
    “You can call me Shank.”
    “I never made that handle.”
    “You do now. You used to know somebody named Mau-Mau. So did I.”
    “Ancient history,” Basil said.
    “That’s the point. You also know a guy named Billy-Billy and a girl named Joyce. So do I.”
    “Billy-Billy’s a fine fellow,” Basil said thoughtfully. “He and Joyce make a good couple.”
    “Billy-Billy’s gay as a jay,” Shank said. “Joyce is a hustler for somebody uptown. Do I pass?”
    “You pass,” Basil said, amused. “Follow me.”
    They walked along 39th Street to Tenth Avenue, turned up Tenth to 40th, then