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By Root 287 0

were afraid Richards would change his mind. Richards came in. They were in Molie’s place behind the store, which was a rat warren of old newsies, stolen musical instruments, stolen cameras, and boxes of black-market groceries. Molie was by necessity something of a Robin Hood; a pawnbroker south of the Canal did not remain in business long if he became too greedy. Molie took the rich uptown maggots as heavily as he could and sold in the neighborhood at close to cost—sometimes lower than cost if some pal was being squeezed hard. Thus his reputation in Co-Op City was excellent, his protection superb. If a cop asked a South City stoolie (and there were hundreds of them) about Molie Jernigan, the informant let it be known that Molie was a slightly senile old-timer who took a little graft and sold a little black market. Any number of uptown swells with strange sexual tendencies could have told the police differently, but there were no vice busts anymore. Everyone knew vice was bad for any real revolutionary climate. The fact that Molie also ran a moderately profitable trade in forged documents, strictly for local customers, was unknown uptown. Still, Richards knew, tooling papers for someone as hot as he was would be extremely dangerous.

“What papers?” Molie asked, sighing deeply and turning on an ancient gooseneck lamp that flooded the working area of his desk with bright white light. He was an old man, approaching seventy-five, and in the close glow of the light his hair looked like spun silver.

“Driver’s license. Military Service Card. Street Identicard. Axial charge card. Social Retirement card.”

“Easy. Sixty-buck job for anyone but you, Bennie.”

“You’ll do it?”

“For your wife, I’ll do it. For you, no. I don’t put my head in the noose for any crazy-ass bastard like Bennie Richards.”

“How long, Molie?”

Molie’s eyes flashed sardonically. “Knowin your situation as I do, I’ll hurry it. An hour for each.”

“Christ, Five hours…can I go—”

“No, you can’t. Are you nuts, Bennie? A cop comes pullin up to your Development last week. He’s got a envelope for your ol lady. He came in a Black Wagon with about six buddies. Flapper Donnigan was standin on the corner pitchin nicks with Gerry Hanrahan when it transfired. Flapper tells me everythin. The boy’s soft, you know.”

“I know Flapper’s soft,” Richards said impatiently. “I sent the money. Is she—”

“Who knows? Who sees?” Molie shrugged and rolled his eyes as he put pens and blank forms in the center of the pool of light thrown by the lamp. “They’re four deep around your building, Bennie. Anyone who sent to offer their condolences would end up in a cellar talkin to a bunch of rubber clubs. Even good friends don’t need that scam, not even with your ol lady flush. You got a name you want special on these?”

“Doesn’t matter as long as it’s Anglo. Jesus, Molie, she must have come out for groceries. And the doctor—”

“She sent Budgie O’Sanchez’s kid. What’s his name.”

“Walt.”

“Yeah, that’s it. I can’t keep the goddam spics and micks straight no more. I’m gettin senile, Bennie. Blowin my cool.” He glared up at Richards suddenly. “I remember when Mick Jagger was a big name. You don’t even know who he was, do ya?”

“I know who he was,” Richards said, distraught. He turned to Molie’s sidewalk-level window, frightened. It was worse than he thought. Sheila and Cathy were in the cage, too. At least until—

“They’re okay, Bennie,” Molie said softly. “Just stay away. You’re poison to them now. Can you dig it?”

“Yes,” Richards said. He was suddenly overwhelmed with despair, black and awful. I’m homesick, he thought, amazed, but it was more, it was worse. Everything seemed out of whack, surreal. The very fabric of existence bulging at the seams. Faces, whirling: Laughlin, Burns, Killian, Jansky, Molie, Cathy, Sheila—

He looked out into the blackness, trembling. Molie had gone to work, crooning some old song from his vacant past, something about having Bette Davis eyes, who the hell was that?

“He was a drummer,” Richards said suddenly. “With that English group, the Beetles. Mick McCartney.