Rosecranz was older than sixty and younger than a hundred, and had evaded Cossacks and an NKVD hit squad in order to come to America, if he hadn’t gotten all his stories out of the adventure pulps he used to teach himself English. I hoped he hadn’t, because without them he was just a worn pair of overalls sitting in a little room filled with old-man fug and dusty shawls on every surface. He told me no one but the building cleaning crew was allowed inside the offices in the tenants’ absence. Under cross-examination, he admitted doors were left open for indefinite periods while the workers went out to empty wastebaskets and borrow supplies from one another, and that the turnover in personnel provided a constant stream of unfamiliar faces. An unauthorized stranger wouldn’t have had to train too hard to penetrate the inner sanctum. “Something is missing?” he asked. “No, something is added.” He thought about that. Then he blew his nose rattlingly into a blue bandanna handkerchief and shook his head.
What do You think about Loren D. Estleman - Amos Walker 17 - Retro?
