The Second Saladin by Stephen Hunter

Author:Stephen Hunter [Hunter, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Suspense, Fiction
ISBN: 0440221862
Google: nZkOLm3B_iYC
Amazon: B00413QALA
Publisher: Dell
Published: 2010-09-08T05:00:00+00:00

27

“Goodbye, Leah,” he said. “God will be kind to you.”

“Baby,” she said, “you be careful. Don’t you do nothing stupid. Don’t let no cop bust your head. Stay away from cops, you hear?”

“I do,” he said.

The city was huge. It was no Baghdad, nor even any of the other American cities he’d seen, but something, more America than he’d seen in one place, America piled high, America all over the place, America crazy, bewildering, America spinning itself out. There was no rhythm to this place. It was all one speed, which was fast, and one tone, which was loud.

“Don’t let no big-city boys take you to town,” she said. Behind, a cab honked. The traffic fled by. The air was gray and cold and dirty and smelled of exhaustion. He looked down a canyon of buildings and the details were too multitudinous to be absorbed. His head sang in pain; sullen men on the sidewalk looked at him.

“Jim,” she said, “honey, ain’t nothing here for you. Come on back. Come on back to Dayton.”

“I can’t.”

“You got that same look as the time you went up them tracks. You got Bobby’s look. You come back to me. You hear? You come back to Leah. You promise me that.”

“I will, Leah. By my eyes, I will.”

“Don’t know nothing ’bout no eyes, Jim. I just want you back.”

“I’ll come,” he said, and stepped to the curb and she drove away.

He was near the bus station and he found another small, dirty hotel. She had given him $100 and he paid the clerk $15 for the night. He stayed in the room for a long time, two days. The next part of the trip would be the most difficult.

It took him a long time to find the right place. He knew the name, the address even—from the telephone book—and one night, late, he found a black man.

“I want to find a place. This place.” He showed him the page ripped from a phone book.

“Jack, you talkin’ to the wrong man.”

“Tell me how to get there.”

“Man, you gotta take a bus. Make a transfer. Take another bus. Jack, that’s enemy territory. Ain’t no way I’m going there.”

“What bus? Tell me of this bus.”

“Jack, back way down. Take a cab rent a Hertz car, ride the train or the subway. Man, stay away from me.”

“You must help.”

“No way, Jack.”

Ulu Beg shoved some money at him. “Here. Show me. Show me.”

“Jesus, Jack, you must be hungry.”

It was a small place, tucked away in an obscure old section of the city. He memorized the route, returned late the next night. The neighborhood was quiet then. He waited across the street, watching in the shadows until he was sure the place was empty. Then, at last convinced, he ran across the street and hid in the back another ten minutes. Occasionally a car rolled by, and once a police vehicle crept down the alley, but he lay still until it passed. He stood finally and tested the door, which did not give to his effort.

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