A Devil Is Vaiting

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It was late afternoon on Garrison Street, Brooklyn, as Daniel Holley sat at the wheel of an old Ford delivery truck, waiting for Dillon. There were parked vehicles, but little evidence of people.

Rain drove in across the East River, clouding his view of the coastal ships tied up to the pier that stretched ahead. A policeman emerged from an alley a few yards away, his uniform coat running with water, cap pulled down over his eyes. He banged on the truck with his nightstick.

Holley wound down the window. Can I help you, Officer?

I should imagine you could, you daft bastard, Sean Dillon told him. Me being wet to the skin already.

He scrambled in and Holley said, Why the fancy dress? Are we going to a party?

Of a sort. You see that decaying warehouse down there with the sign saying Murphy Son Import-Export?

How could I miss it? What about it? Holley took out an old silver case, extracted two cigarettes, lit them with a Zippo, and passed one over. Get your lips round that, you re shaking like a leaf. What s the gig?

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