Angels in Heaven

plant,” he
said. “On a band-saw, making wooden crates to pack their bloody rope in.”
    “That’s a drastic way of giving
someone the finger,” I said. “Apart from the hand, how’re you feeling, Billy?
Can you make it? We got a lot of traveling to do, starting now.”
    “I can make it,” he said grimly. “I
may be feeling shitty but I’m feeling terrific too. So let’s go, Injun Joe.”
    “You go on tiptoe,” I said. “They
might actually believe one of us stayed behind.” I locked the front door, just
to make it as difficult as possible for any rescuers, gave the keys to Billy,
then picked up Sara as gently as I could. Billy retrieved my jacket and Sara’s
wig, which we had overlooked. He locked the door that connected the offices so
the boys couldn’t try rolling together and untying each other, then the back
door behind us. Halfway down the stairs Sara gave a little moan. I turned my
head to look at her; her face was cradled against my shoulder and she looked
about six. Her eyes fluttered, then opened, then peered into mine from a
distance of maybe a couple of inches.
    “Prof?”
    “Right here, darlin’,” I whispered.
“It’s all OK and we’re on our way.”
    “Phew,” she said groggily. “Did I go
out like a light.”
    “Did you ever,” I said, starting down
the last flight, hoping it wasn’t Fred’s day to take down the garbage or
Ethel’s day to smuggle up her mestizo lover. “Just hang on tight, ol’ Uncle
Vic’s got you.”
    “It hurts, Vic,” she whimpered. She
started to close her eyes again. I blinked once or twice; that stairwell hadn’t
been dusted for an era.
    Just before she dozed off again, I
thought I heard her murmur, “Who turned on the waterworks, Prof?” Waterworks?
From me? I was going to tell her that the last time V. Daniel shed a tear was
at his circumcision, when a guy really has a reason for tears, not just because
some skinny twerp gets a little bump on the noggin, but she was gone again.
     
     
     

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
     
    When we got to the bottom of the
stairs, Billy opened the back door and we cautiously peered out. The Chevy was
parked at the curb directly in front of us. Its motor was running. There was no
lurking guard awaiting us. The street was almost deserted. Everything was
ready. Only thing was, there was no Benny.
    Fine time to take a leak, Benny, I
thought. Fine start, I thought, to our carefully orchestrated getaway in which
every moment was precious.
    Billy sauntered out casually and
opened the rear door for us; I was pleasantly surprised Benny had remembered to
unlock it. No one seemed to be paying us any attention, so I crossed the few
feet of sidewalk, deposited Sara in the backseat, and hopped in after her.
Billy got in the front.
    “Now what?” he inquired. “I don’t
want to be an alarmist, but we are in a sort of hurry.”
    “If I knew what to do I’d be doing it
already,” I said. “You got any bright ideas?”
    Luckily, Benny ambled around the corner
just then and headed our way. He jumped in beside Billy and we took off.
    “And may one ask what you were
doing?” I said. “Aside from giving us heart failure? Maybe you just couldn’t
tear yourself away without a farewell kiss from Ethel.”
    “Sorry,” he said cheerfully, taking a
brisk left turn onto 56th. “Thought it might be a good idea to tell the driver
that the lieutenant and party would be another half-hour at least, so why
didn’t he get himself a quick bite somewhere. That way he won’t get antsy and
come looking for us for a while.”
    “Oh,” I said, somewhat mollified.
    “Also wanted to go by a mailbox,” he
said.
    “You could have mailed your postcards
earlier, Benny, like we did.”
    “It was a letter to Fred,” he said,
taking another left onto 55th.
    “I didn’t even know you were pen
pals.”
    “I asked him to call the furniture
rental people to take back their goods and told him to keep all the office
supplies and other stuff for his trouble.”
    “Oh,” I said. “Are we going fast
enough?”
    “I’d say so,” said Billy. “We don’t
want to attract too much attention. Where’re we going, anyway?”
    “South to Cancún,” said our chauffeur,
“after a change of vehicles.”
    “Then what?”
    “Then Puerto Morelos, down the coast,
I hope,” I said. “Then the good ship Lollipop, unless something comes
up. Then Belize Island, if we’re still afloat. Then a ferry ’cross the Mersey to the mainland. Then some