“Oh hails yes,” she said, altering a swear word she wasn’t supposed to use.
“Good,” Aideen said, pulling her close. Finster whined with jealousy. “You’re good at it.”
CHAPTER 70
Thursday, July 14, 1977
Forty-Fourth Street and Ninth Avenue
Manhattan
1:27 a.m.
Joe and Nate rounded the corner at Ninth Avenue and turned north. There was southbound traffic on this street, about as sporadic as what they had encountered on Eighth. Between Forty-Third and Forty-Fourth they caught up with Robbie, staring at a storefront. The entrance door was intact, but the plate-glass window to its left was missing, only jagged pieces of glass in its place. The shards sparkled like diamonds in the wash of headlights. There were big pieces of plywood leaning against the building.
“Robbie?” Joe called as they approached. He looked over and frowned.
“It’s been hit already.”
“The owner’s been here also,” Nate said. “That’s what the plywood is about. He’ll be back.”
“He’s not here right now,” Robbie said, peering into the shop. “I see stuff inside, clothes on the racks. It’s worth a shot. We just need a pair of kid’s gym shorts.” He looked over to Joe and Nate. “I can see where the clothes are; I’m going in.” He stepped over the glass pieces onto a short display shelf, then into the shop.
“Come with us,” Joe said. “Just for a few seconds, so I know he’s okay.” He took Nate’s hand, a gesture he would remember as being so strange for a ten-year-old boy and yet so appropriate in the moment. Nate hesitated, then folded his bigger hand around Joe’s, and they stepped inside.
Passing headlights moving south on the avenue provided the only light, but there was enough that Nate and the boys could make out the basic layout of the store. There were the usual circular racks of clothing and platforms here and there. Most of them were bare, although a mess of discarded items and plastic hangers were all over the floor. Robbie scooped through them, pulling up shirts, socks, or individual shoes. Nate and Joe tracked Robbie’s path through the store.
“Over here,” Robbie said as a truck rumbled by and a wide stripe of yellow light passed over them. “Against the back wall, there’s stuff.” They followed Robbie mostly by feel, waiting for the next injection of light from the street. Robbie reached the back wall and found metal rods attached with rows of athletic shorts. Joe was a few feet behind. They felt their way through the remaining merchandise and found a pair of nylon running shorts that seemed the right size.
“Let’s go guys,” Nate said. “Hurry.”
“These are fine,” Joe said, stepping into them. He reached back and tore the little tag from the back. “Let’s—”
There was a scraping sound and then the sound of glass tinkling from the front of the store.
“You motherfuckers!” It came out slurred and accented. Yoo Muthafuckas. Joe froze. His eyes were adjusting, and he could see a figure moving swiftly around the racks toward them. In his peripheral vision he caught movement—it was Robbie, leaping toward a door he had pointed out earlier, a swinging door that led to a back room. Joe also caught sight of Nate, raising his hands and mouthing a whoa sound. Then the figure took shape as two cars passed the store, spreading light from right to left. It was a man, stocky and compact, wearing a pastel-colored shirt with a wide collar. Joe saw that he held a stout rifle, like a shotgun. The man snapped back a part of the gun with his left hand. It made a thick clack-clack sound.
The next thing Joe heard was like an explosion. The entire world lit up with it. The store. Nate, his eyes wide. Even the street out front. There was a ringing in Joe’s ears—he had never heard a sound so loud. He felt dust and debris rain down around him. For a long, terrible moment he felt blind and deaf.
The next few seconds seemed to pass in slow motion. Joe felt an arm land between his shoulder blades. It was Nate, pushing him in total blackness in the direction of the door through which Robbie had disappeared. Joe could feel Nate’s breath on the back of his head. Nate seemed to envelop him as they moved forward like one person, Joe carried along like something in a basket.
“Motherfuckers!” he heard above the screaming in his ears. It was tinny and distant. Nate pushed them both through the door, and for a few awful seconds they were enveloped in total darkness. Then there was a click, a spark, and a little halo of yellow light. Behind it was Robbie’s face, ghostly and pale. Mom’s lighter! Robbie held it up for a few seconds, and the storeroom began to take shape. In front of them were two narrow aisles formed by H-frame shelving units, stretching back into darkness. Most of the shelves were empty, but there were boxes and folded clothes on some of them. Robbie’s whole body was shaking. After a few seconds, the light clicked off. By that time the three of them were gathered tightly together.