Congo stumped through the turnstile at the end of the L line. Jimmy Herf followed him looking from one side to the other. Outside it was dark, a blizzard wind whistled about their ears. A single Ford sedan was waiting outside the station.
“How you like, Meester ’Erf?”
“Fine Congo. Is that water?”
“That Sheepshead Bay.”
They walked along the road, dodging an occasional bluesteel glint of a puddle. The arclights had a look of shrunken grapes swaying in the wind. To the right and left were flickering patches of houses in the distance. They stopped at a long building propped on piles over the water. Pool; Jimmy barely made out the letters on an unlighted window. The door opened as they reached it. “Hello Mike,” said Congo. “This is Meester ’Erf, a frien’ o mine.” The door closed behind them. Inside it was black as an oven. A calloused hand grabbed Jimmy’s hand in the dark.
“Glad to meet you,” said a voice.
“Say how did you find my hand?”
“Oh I kin see in the dark.” The voice laughed throatily.
By that time Congo had opened the inner door. Light streamed through picking out billiard tables, a long bar at the end, racks of cues. “This is Mike Cardinale,” said