the only record left. It is now the most complete story of the workings of justice in the City.”
Van Vossen thought about this, staring into his glass as he swirled the dark liquid in circles. Puskis had wondered what the reaction would be. Would the gravity of this responsibility intimidate, or would Van Vossen find pride, even exhilaration, in this duty?
“I’m having a difficult time organizing the book,” he said.
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, how do you organize a work like this? What is the organizing principle? Surely not time.”
This surprised Puskis. “In the Vaults, we organized by—”
“In the Vaults,” Van Vossen said peevishly, “you organized by whim.”
Puskis felt his temper rising. “By whim? The system of organization in the Vaults is a complex, organic system. It is the closest reflection of the very nature of crime.”
Van Vossen gave a disgusted laugh. “Is that what it is, Mr. Puskis? Are you sure that you don’t force events into categories that bear only certain of the essential characteristics? Are crimes really that similar?”
Puskis’s reflexive answer was yes, but he stifled it. The question was not adequately answered with a single word. Yet, if he was unable to answer the question affirmatively, what had been the point of the Vaults or his three decades of work therein?
“How well did you know Abramowitz?” Van Vossen asked, seeming to change tack.
“He was my mentor.”
“Did you know him before his decline?”
“Well, I didn’t have anything to compare it to, but I imagine that he was already, um, troubled, by the time I worked with him.”
“Do you know why he went insane?”
Puskis didn’t respond. He had pondered the question for almost twenty years. He had no idea.
“He went insane because he was looking for a pattern. He was looking for a pattern or a theory or some kind of organizing principle to explain the crime and evil that passed through his hands every day and every week and every year. He tried to find a design, you see, and it drove him insane because in the end there was no design. He looked for God in the deeds of man, and he discovered that all there was were the independent acts of thousands of people. No pattern, no design, no sense. So, as I said, I am having a difficult time organizing my book.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
The signing gala was being held at the former armory, which had been converted to a cavernous ballroom. Red Henry leaned against the temporary bar and watched the workers as they made preparations for the evening. Already, giant American and Polish flags alternated along the walls. Tables were appointed in red and white, and red, white, and blue. Caterers scurried back and forth, carrying crates of glasses, putting out place settings, and carting food to the kitchen. Henry glowered at the lot of them and was rewarded with their nervousness and, in some cases, fear.
A polka band was setting up on the stage at the far end of the room, the musicians tuning their instruments and playing brief phrases that Henry vaguely recognized. The music added to the cacophony of clanking dishes and slamming doors and chatter in a half dozen languages. Henry took a long draft off a pint of beer. He was getting drunk and comfortably aggressive.
He heard the maintenance door slam and footsteps approach. He turned to find Peja striding reluctantly toward him. Henry scratched his head with his free hand, knowing he was about to get some news he didn’t want to hear. He could tell by Peja’s eyes.
“Out with it,” he growled by way of greeting.
Peja avoided his eyes. “Okay, sir. The Poles, well, the Poles aren’t coming.”
Henry stared at a spot twenty feet behind Peja, focusing on maintaining his temper. “The Poles aren’t coming?” he said, carefully enunciating each word.
“My understanding is that they’re backing out of the deal. They don’t want to sign the contract.”
Henry considered this for a moment, finished his beer, and threw the empty glass down hard on the floor, where it shattered into tiny shards. Peja flinched, then gathered himself.
“Is this just your understanding or is this a fact?”
“It’s a fact, sir. I heard it from Rinus himself.”
Henry spoke with chilling calm. “Why, in your opinion, have they changed their minds at this late date?”
“I checked into that. The officers who had surveillance at the Poles’ hotel said that the woman from the strike at Bernal’s had been to the hotel. Presumably she met with Rinus.”
“ ‘Presumably she met with Rinus,’