A Dangerous Game. Heather GrahamЧитать онлайн книгу.
let him get chummy and find a bar chair.
Swinging around the end of the bar—and nearly hopping over the little gate—she hurried to catch him. “I need you—some food coming out, drinks good for now, Brian probably ready for his coffee soon, doesn’t need cream!”
She didn’t give her baby brother a chance to protest.
She shoved him back, handing him the bar rag as she did so, and raced for the door. Bursting out onto the sidewalk, she was ready to run.
She didn’t need to. Sister Teresa—in her complete “penguin” outfit, as they had always called the nuns’ traditional habits—was waiting for her, studying the list of fresh smoothies on the menu of the fruit stand just a few feet away.
“What took you?” she asked Kieran.
Kieran’s brows shot up in surprise. “I’m sorry! I...you... I didn’t expect to see you. I’m so sorry. I guess you would have been uncomfortable coming in? The pub is quite nice—we have religious groups meet here now and then. Even a few rabbis!”
“Oh, honey, I have no problem going into a pub. Sometimes, when people see us, they get uncomfortable. I didn’t want to distress any of your customers, child, that’s all. Then again, it’s best to talk in private sometimes, too,” Sister Teresa told her. “And not be terribly conspicuous.”
“Yes, certainly,” Kieran said, curious—and anxious. She had felt that there was something going on at the soup kitchen. Sister Teresa’s presence here now seemed to solidify what she’d believed.
“And yes, sometimes it’s good to speak in private,” Kieran agreed. But, just how inconspicuous they could be—herself and a fully draped nun in front of the pub door—she wasn’t certain.
Sister Teresa waved a hand in the air as if reading her mind. “Never mind—I just don’t want people walking out on your lovely place of business. So, anyway, here’s the thing—are you going to be coming back to the soup kitchen?”
“Oh, yes. I was very impressed,” Kieran told her.
“We are impressive,” Sister Teresa said flatly. “But, may I suggest that you return sooner than next Saturday? You are employed Monday through Friday—Mary Kathleen filled me in on you, so I know—but we are open tomorrow, as well.”
“And I would come back because...?” Kieran asked.
“You have a way with a soup ladle?” Sister Teresa retorted sarcastically. “My dear Miss Finnegan! One of our young ladies—a very shy one at that!—asked if I knew you. If you would be back. I assured her that you would be. It is not at all nice to make a liar out of a nun. I am assuming she wishes to speak with you. And—since Mary Kathleen did fill me in on quite a bit—I believe this young woman might be looking to you for assistance, and help in what may be a criminal matter having to do with a beautiful baby girl.”
Kieran stared at her and blinked. “Sister Teresa, if you can tell me—”
“I can’t tell you anything. I am only suggesting that you come to the facility at about ten tomorrow. We open after the early masses—services and such for some of our partners of other persuasions—and we work until three or four. I’m also going to suggest that you be incredibly discreet—as I said, this young lady is very shy.”
“Of course,” Kieran said.
Discreet! Like standing with a nun on Broadway!
“Don’t dillydally,” Sister Teresa said, and for a moment, she felt as if she was dealing with Mary Poppins—had Mary Poppins decided to join a convent. “Get yourself in there early. It’s not like anyone has given me a timetable or anything.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what, young woman?”
“Of course, yes, I’ll be there, Sister Teresa!” Kieran promised.
“Excellent.”
The nun nodded sagely, turned and fluttered her way down Broadway.
“Hey, what do you think? Maybe we should have gotten some surfboards, eh?” Mike asked Craig.
There were a few boards leaning against the wall in the Cranky Crab. The place was something of a tiki hut, large and sprawling, up on wooden pilings, and actually on the beach. It was large, with a seating capacity of about four hundred.
“Maybe we should have,” Craig said.
“I was being a wiseass.”
“So was I.”
The clientele of the restaurant was intriguing and included young women with cover-ups over scanty bikinis that didn’t really cover up much accompanying muscle-bound young males, all the way up to older folks, some of the men with traditional Hasidic locks and facial hair and some of the women in wigs or scarves and long black dresses that concealed them almost entirely. And there was every mode of apparel in between, as well. And still, the place advertised very importantly that it was completely kosher.
Mike was glad that the two of them hadn’t gotten carried away. They were in board shorts and T-shirts, just a couple of guys out to catch one of the first days of nice warm spring sun. It was that time of year when the weather could come and go quickly...winter not so far past that it didn’t whisper now and then about a return to cold and ice. They ordered light beers and a house specialty—borscht—and kept their conversation to sports. How about those Jets? And what was going on with the Yankees and the Mets? Of course, then, well, hell, they could talk about the Giants...
Mike went passionately into hockey as their food arrived. It was about then that Craig saw Jacob bussing a table and knew Jacob had seen them, as well. He headed over to their table, clearly ready to join the passionate hockey discussion. If they were noted by others in the restaurant, they were quickly dismissed.
Before Jacob walked away—after vociferously agreeing with every word Mike had to say about hockey, but quietly imparting plans—they knew to meet in an hour in a safe house about two blocks away.
They rose to leave; Craig thanked their pleasant waitress.
“Spasiba,” Mike said. “Do svidaniya.”
He actually sounded damned good. Almost as if he had an edge on the accent.
She smiled and returned his words.
“Thank you and goodbye,” Craig said. “A little Russian, huh?”
“It never pays to give away everything you know—haven’t I taught you that, kid?” Mike teased.
“A good lesson to remember,” Craig assured him.
They wandered the streets for a bit, and as they did so, Craig thought about the city and realized that he was a New Yorker through and through—passionate about his home. Prejudice had probably existed since Homo sapiens had first met another tribe of Homo sapiens. And it had seldom been easy for the different nationalities that had poured into New York, nor was it easy now. So many different nationalities and ethnicities came, and they often came in great waves. At the moment, one of the largest influxes comprised various Asian countries, but that didn’t mean that many others weren’t coming at tremendous rates, including those from Eastern Europe and many war-ravaged areas of the Middle East.
“Land of dreams and nightmares,” Craig murmured under his breath.
“Pardon?” Mike said.
“I keep thinking—I love this city. I love our country. We’re a work in progress, always, and we’re where you come to escape poverty, war, persecution, and so on. But I have friends working down in the Florida area who in their work have witnessed the tragedy of refugees drowning in the Florida Straits trying to get to the States on rafts made out of anything