The Reapers

“Like I said, we’ll be back,” he told Willie.

“We’ll be here,” said Willie.

As the two agents departed, Arno appeared beside him.

“Gee, that lady was tense,” he said. “I liked her, though. We had a nice talk.”

“About what?”

“Ethics.”

“Ethics?”

“Yeah, you know. Ethics. The rights and wrongs of things.”

Willie shook his head. “Go home,” he said. “You’re making my head hurt even more.”

He called Arno’s name just as the little man was preparing to disappear into the night. “Be careful what you say on the telephone,” he told him.

Arno looked puzzled. “All I ever say on the telephone is ‘It’s not ready yet,’” he said. “That, and, ‘It’s going to cost you extra.’ You think the FBI might be interested in that?”

Willie scowled. Everybody, it seemed, was a comedian. “Who knows what they’re interested in,” he said. “Just watch what you say. Don’t speak to any of those reporters outside. And show some respect, dammit. I pay your wages.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Arno as the door closed slowly behind him. “Me, I’m go

Louis made the call just as soon as the bodies had been disposed of. It was a matter of priorities. He left his name with the answering service, thinking, as he did so, that the voice on the end of the line sounded very similar to that of the woman who answered all calls for Leroy Frank. Maybe they incubated them somewhere, like chickens.

His call was returned ten minutes later. “Mister De Angelis says he will be available at twelve twenty-six tomorrow, around seven,” the neutral female voice told him.

Louis thanked her, and said that he understood perfectly. As he hung up the phone, memories of previous meetings flooded back to him, and he almost smiled. De Angelis: of the angels. Now there was a misnomer.

Shortly after seven the next evening, Louis stood on the corner of Lexington and 84th. It was already dark. The sidewalks on this odd little stretch of the city’s thoroughfares were relatively quiet, for most of its businesses, the odd bar and restaurant excepted, were already closed. A damp mist had descended over Manhattan, presaging rain and lending an air of unreality to the vista, as though a photographic image had been placed over the cityscape. To the left, the vintage sign over Lascoff’s drugstore was still illuminated, and if one squinted, it was possible to imagine this stretch of Lexington as it might have looked more than half a century earlier.

The Lexington Candy Shop and Luncheonette was a throwback to that era. In fact, its roots were older still: it had been founded by old Soterios in 1925 as a chocolate manufactury and soda fountain, then passed on to his son, Peter Philis, who had, in turn, passed it on to his son, the current owner, John Philis, who still operated the register and greeted his customers by name. Its windows were filled with special edition Coca-Cola bottles, along with a plastic train set, some photos of celebrities, and a bat signed by the Mets’ pure hitter Rusty Staub. It had been known as “Soda Candy” to generations of children, for that was what was written above its door, and its façade had remained unchanged for as long as anyone could remember. Louis could see two of its white-coated staff still moving around inside, although the front door was now locked, for the Lexington Candy Shop and Luncheonette only opened from seven until seven, Monday to Saturday. Nevertheless, the green plastic mat remained outside the door, waiting to be taken in for the night. On it was written Soda Candy’s numerical address: 1226.

Louis crossed the street and knocked on the glass. One of the men cleaning up glanced sharply to his left, then emerged from behind the counter and admitted Louis, acknowledging him only with a nod. He closed and locked the door before he and his companion abandoned their tasks and disappeared behind another door at the back marked “No Admittance. Staff Only.”

The place was just as Louis remembered it, although it had been many years since he had been inside. There was still the green counter, its surface marked by decades of hot plates and cups, and the green vinyl stools that rotated fully on their base, a source of endless amusement to children. Behind the counter stood twin gas-fired coffee urns, and a green 1942 Hamilton Beach malted machine and matching Borden’s powdered malt dispenser, along with an automatic juicer from the same period.

Soda Candy was famous for its lemonade, made to order, the lemons squeezed while you watched, then stirred with sugar syrup and poured into a glass with crushed ice. Two glasses of that same lemonade now stood before the man who occupied the corner booth. The staff members had dimmed the fluorescents before they left, so it seemed to Louis that the old man who waited for him had somehow sucked the illumination from the room, like a black hole in human form, a fissure in time and space absorbing everything around him, the good and the bad, light and not-light, fueling his own existence at the cost of all who came into his sphere of influence.

It had been some years since Louis and the man named Gabriel had met, but two men whose lives had once been so closely linked could never truly sever the bond between them. In a sense, it was Gabriel who had brought Louis into being, who had taken a boy with undeniable talents and forged him into a man who could be wielded as a weapon. It was to Gabriel that those who needed to avail themselves of Louis’s services had once come. He was the point of contact, the filter. His precise status was nebulous. He was a fixer, a facilitator. There was no blood on his hands, or none that one could see. Louis trusted him, to a degree, and distrusted him to a larger degree. There was too much about Gabriel that was unknown, and unknowable. Still, Louis was conscious of something that resembled affection for his old master.

He was smaller than Louis remembered, shrinking with age. His hair and beard were very white, and he seemed lost in his big black overcoat. His right hand trembled slightly as he gripped his glass and raised it to his lips, and some of the lemonade slopped onto the table-top.

“It’s cold for lemonade, isn’t it?” said Louis.

“Cold doesn’t trouble me,” Gabriel replied. “And one can get coffee anywhere, even if the coffee here is particularly good. I suspect it may be to do with the gas urns. But great lemonade, well, that is rarer, and one should grasp the opportunity to taste it when it arises.”

“If you say so,” said Louis as he slipped into a seat opposite, careful to keep both the staff exit and the main door in view, and placed the newspaper he had been holding in the center of the table. He didn’t touch the glass.

“You know, they filmed parts of Three Days of the Condor here? I think Redford sat just where you are sitting now.”

“You told me that before,” said Louis. “A long time ago.”

“Did I?” said Gabriel. He sounded regretful. “It seemed appropriate to mention it, given the circumstances.” He coughed. “It’s been a long time: a decade or more, ever since you discovered your conscience.”

“It was always there. I just never paid too much attention to it before.”

“I knew I was losing you long before our paths diverged.”

“Because?”

“You started asking ‘Why?’”

“It began to seem relevant.”

“Relevance is relative. In our line of work, there are those who consider the question ‘Why?’ to be a prelude to ‘How deep would you like to be buried?’ and ‘Roses or lilies?’”

“But you weren’t one of those people?”

Gabriel shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that. I just wasn’t ready to feed you to the dogs. I tried to ease your concerns, though, before I allowed you to go free.”

“‘Allowed’ me?”

“Permit an old man to indulge himself. After all, not everyone got to walk away.”