operator. Works the early-morning shift at the Fulton Street docks. But the big news has to do with Wyrm."
"What about him?"
"Well, no one will say anything concrete, you understand, but there are whispers that he did an important job for Kien a couple of days ago, a job that no one else would handle." And, after a few moments of silence, Fadeout said, "Hello, you still there? Hello?".
"Yes."
"Oh. Okay. If you want to discuss things with him personally, he'll be at Lin's Curio Emporium later this morning, about eleven or so."
"The Chinese art shop on Mulberry?"
"That's right. You've heard of it?"
Brennan grunted a noncommittal reply. Lin's was famous in the art world for its antiquities, and in the drug world as a notorious pickup spot where high-class clientele could get whatever they wanted in the way of illegal pharmaceuticals. "Say, what's all this about that Ezili chick, anyway?" Fadeout asked.
"I'll be in touch," Brennan said, then hung up. Wyrm. It had to be Wyrm. But this Morkle guy had been a thorn in his side since the start of the investigation. If Morkle worked the night shift at the docks, now would be the time to go after him. Wyrm would keep for a while.
The small shower stall was crowded when Brennan entered. The water was cool against his body. Suddenly he wasn't so tired when Jennifer began to massage him with soapy hands.
Tension and frustration swirled down the drain with the sweat and grime that had layered his body. First he'd run down the mysterious Doug Morkle, then Wyrm. But now it was just him and Jennifer. They kissed, their soapy bodies entangling as they made languorous love under the cool, soothing spray of the shower.
"It's fine if you carry on your garment bag," the woman behind the Delta ticket counter told Jay, "but I'm afraid that your animal will have to be checked."
"Yeah, sure," Jay said wearily. He lifted the cat carrier onto the luggage scale, too tired to argue. He'd been up half the night finding the damn thing.
The Delta agent stapled a claim check onto his ticket envelope and handed it across the counter. "Here you are," she said. "Nonsmoking window. The flight is already boarding."
"Thanks," Jay said. He watched as she fixed a luggage tag to the handle of the gray plastic box and shifted it to the moving belt behind her. Jay had carefully lined the interior with old newspaper so nobody could see through the air holes. There didn't seem any point in waving good-bye. When the cat carrier had vanished into the depths of La Guardia, Jay headed down the concourse toward his gate. Even at this hour of the morning, the airport was crowded, and he had to stand in line at security. A large sign by the X-ray machine warned that guns and bombs were no joking matter; Jay decided they wouldn't be amused if he mentioned that he had dynamite in his garment bag.
The flight, scheduled for 6:55, departed forty-five minutes late. Jay slept all the way to Atlanta.
9:00 A.M.
The Fulton Street docks and the fish-rendering plants and warehouses surrounding them were swarming with activity in which a man could hide out through doomsday.
"Did Fadeout say what this Morkle looks like?" Jennifer asked.
"Just that he's a heavy-equipment operator." Brennan looked around with a frustrated frown. "Must drive a forklift or something. We can eventually pinpoint him through Fadeout's union connections, but I'd hoped we'd be able to run him down today. I'd hoped."
"Let's give it a try."
They searched the docks for an hour before a man with a blue knit cap, a drooping mustache, and tattooed biceps as big as softballs nodded when Brennan mentioned the name.
"Morkle? Yeah, I think I know him. Strange fellow. He works down on Wharf 47."
"Would he be there now?"
The longshoreman shrugged. "Could be. I think he usually works the night shift."
"Thanks," Brennan said. "One last thing. How'll we spot him?"
"Can't miss him. He's the guy without the forklift."
"Without the forklift," Brennan repeated as the stevedore trundled his hand truck down the street. He looked at Jennifer and shrugged.
The ship unloading at Wharf 47 was larger than most. A steady stream of large wooden boxes was wending its way down the gangplank and heading to the processing stations and market stalls bordering the docks. The stevedore had been right. Doug Morkle was easy to spot.
He was five feet tall and almost as broad, with an immense chest and short, thick limbs. His face, Brennan