"Thanks again," she told him.
Snyder looked inside then glanced at his watch. He said to Sachs, "Not many of these old places left in Times Square. . . . I used to work the Deuce. You know--"
"Forty-second Street. I walked it too." She looked back again toward Eighth Avenue. The black car was gone.
He was staring into the pool hall, speaking softly. "I remember the summers most. Some of those August days. Even the gangbangers and chain snatchers were home, it was so hot. I remember the restaurants and bars and movie theaters. Some of 'em had these signs up, I guess from the forties or fifties, saying they were air conditioned. Funny, a place that advertised they had air-conditioning to get people inside. Pretty different nowadays, huh? . . . Times sure change." Snyder pulled open the door and stepped into the smoky room. "Times sure as hell change."
Chapter 19
Their new car was a Buick LeSabre.
"Where'd you get it?" Vincent asked Duncan as he climbed into the passenger seat. The car sat idling at the curb in front of the church.
"The Lower East Side." Duncan glanced at him.
"Nobody saw you?"
"The owner did. Briefly. But he's not going to be saying anything." He tapped his pocket, where the pistol rested. Duncan nodded toward the corner where he'd slashed the student to death earlier. "Any police around?"
"No. I mean, I didn't see any."
"Good. Sanitation probably picked up the Dumpster and the body's halfway out to sea on a barge."
Slash their eyes . . .
"What happened at the garage?" Vincent asked.
Duncan gave a slight grimace. "I couldn't get close to the Explorer. There weren't that many cops, but some homeless man was there. He was making a lot of noise and then I heard shouting and cops started running into the place. I had to leave."
They pulled away from the curb. Vincent had no idea where they were going. The Buick was old and smelled of cigarette smoke. He didn't know what to call it. It was dark blue but "Blue-mobile" wasn't funny. Clever Vincent wasn't feeling very witty at the moment. After a few minutes of silence he asked, "What's your favorite food?"
"My--?"
"Food. What do you like to eat?"
Duncan squinted slightly. He did this a lot, considered questions seriously and then recited the answers he'd planned out. But this one flummoxed him. He gave a faint laugh. "You know, I don't eat that much."
"But you must have some favorite."
"I've never thought about it. Why're you asking?"
"Oh, just, I was thinking I could make us dinner sometime. I can cook a lot of different things. Pasta--you know, spaghetti. Do you like spaghetti? I make it with meatballs. I can make a cream sauce. They call that Alfredo. Or with tomato."
The man said, "Well, I guess tomato. That's what I'd order in a restaurant."
"Then I'll make that for you. Maybe if my sister's in town, I'll have a dinner party. Well, not a party. Just the three of us."
"That's . . ." Duncan shook his head. He seemed moved. "Nobody's made me dinner since . . . Well, nobody's made me dinner for a long time."
"Next month, maybe."
"Next month could work. What's your sister like?"
"She's a couple years younger than me. Works in a bank. She's skinny too. I don't mean you're skinny. Just, you know, in good shape."
"She married, have kids?"
"Oh, no. She's really busy at her job. She's good at it."