I didn’t stumble on any dopers. The only signs of life beyond the expressway traffic were the frogs I disturbed in the rank grass and the occasional glow from a passing barge. I slipped behind Gammidge Wire, Diamond Head Motor’s nearest neighbor, to where a narrow lip of cement abutted the canal.
Gammidge had a single night-light shining on their back entrance. I shrank back against their heavily padlocked door to keep from casting a shadow. The noise from the expressway and the canal would drown any sound I made on the ledge, but I found myself tiptoeing, clinging to the corrugated metal of the Gammidge walls. On my right a barge suddenly hooted. I jumped and stumbled. I could see the guys in the pilothouse laughing and waving. If anyone was waiting around the corner, I hoped they assumed the signal was directed at them.
My cheeks burning, I continued my stealthy approach along the lip of the canal. When I got to the clearing between Gammidge and Diamond Head I dropped low into a thick clump of prairie grass to look around the corner.
Trucks were backed up to three of Diamond Head’s loading bays. Their engines were running, but the bays behind them were shut. No lights were on. Cautiously lying on the damp ground, I squinted through the grass. From this distance, in bad light, I couldn’t make out any legs or other human appendages.
I hadn’t seen trucks at the place since my first visit there last week. Since I didn’t know anything about Diamond Head’s business flow, I couldn’t speculate on whether that meant orders were slow. And I couldn’t guess why the diesels were running—whether preparatory to picking up a morning load, or waiting for someone to empty them.
I was tempted to hoist myself onto the loading platform in hopes of finding a way in through the bays. The thought of Mrs. Polter made me cautious. It seemed pretty clear that she was watching me for someone. If it was Chamfers maybe he’d promised her a fire engine all her own if she called him when I showed up again. He could have the Hulk who’d chased me last Friday waiting in the back of one of the trucks to jump me. The Hulk didn’t strike me as patient enough to put on an indefinite stakeout, though. I imagined one of the managers sitting in the truck with the Hulk, holding him on a leash: “Down, sir! Down, I say!” The picture didn’t make me laugh quite as loudly as I’d expected.
My knees and arms were getting wet from the muddy grass. I looked around at the canal—I didn’t want someone startling me into falling over the side. The concrete lining the canal would make it hard to climb out. Crouching low, I moved from the clump of grass to the back of Diamond Head. No one shot at me or even called out.
The rear doors, which slid open to allow access to barge traffic, were bolted shut with some fairly sophisticated locks. I didn’t want to spend the time it would take to undo them: it was a pretty exposed place to stand for an hour or more. And the expressway wasn’t loud enough to mask the sounds of burglary from anyone waiting on the inside.
I padded quickly along the walkway to the side of the building and peered around the edge. The windows of the assembly room still stood open, their panes gleaming black in the dark. The bottom sills stood about five feet above my head.
Using my pencil flash, I checked out the terrain underneath. This side of the factory faced west, away from the canal, where the sun could bake the ground to a firmer clay. The tall grasses that covered the area were thinner and browner here. I carefully culled a lane about a yard wide below the nearest window, pulling away empty cans and bottles and stowing them around the corner of the building.
When I thought I had an obstacle-free zone, I rehooked my flashlight to my belt. I studied the window, trying to make my leg muscles absorb the height I’d have to jump. It was about the distance of a lay-up, and I’d proved only last week I could still play basketball.
My fingers were tingling and my palms damp. I wiped them on the sides of my jeans. “Okay,” I whispered to myself. “This is your lane, Vic. On ‘three.’”
I counted to three under my breath and charged up the path I’d cleared to the window. About four feet shy of it I started my jump, arms extended, pulling myself through the air. My fingers caught on the bottom of the sill. Sharp metal ledges cut my palms. I grunted in pain, scrabbled for a handhold, and hoisted myself up. Move over, Michael Jordan. This here is Air Warshawski.
Chapter 29 - Swinging Evening
Perching on the metal runners lining the window, I used the flash briefly to make sure I wasn’t going to fall onto a spindle or some other death-dealing machine. Except for the radiators lining the walls, the floor beneath was clear. I turned, grabbed the sill as comfortably as I could, lowered my legs into the room, and let go.