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“Mike Sweeney. ”
Golub consulted a clipboard and then shook his head. “Nope. Not on the list, kiddo. ”
“List? What list?”
“The list of people who are allowed to see Mr. Crow. You, my battered young friend, are not on the list. So, kindly go buzz off. ” His smile was pleasant but unyielding.
“This is stupid. I just want to visit him. ”
“What part of ‘nope’ was beyond your grasp?”
Mike peered up at him. “Are all cops this weird?”
“So I am reliably informed. ”
“Shit. ”
“Hey! Watch your mouth, youngster. ”
“It’s not fair that I can’t get to see Crow. Can’t you just let me in? I’m not going to bother him or anything. ”
“Well, Mike Sweeney, do you know how many people today have asked to get in to see Mr. Crow?”
“Uh, no. ”
“Lots. Do you know how many of them swore that they wouldn’t bother Mr. Crow?”
“No. ”
“All of them. Now, here’s the bonus question. Do you know how many of them I have admitted into this Hippocratic establishment?”
“No. ”
“Exactly none,” said Golub. “See that guy over there on the bench? He’s a reporter…and I didn’t let him in either. Now, you seem like a nice kid, so I want you to continue to be nice and nicely buzz off. ”
Mike trudged dispiritedly toward his bike and trying not to wince, he gingerly bent down to open the lock and pull the plastic-?coated chain through the spokes. He was just coiling it around the frame below the seat when a shadow blocked the sunlight, and he looked up to see the small dumpy man Officer Golub had mentioned standing over him. The man looked a little like George, the bald guy from those Seinfeld reruns. A red PRESS card was clipped to his jacket lapel.
“Say, kid, do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”
Mike slowly and carefully got to his feet, his defenses rising and snapping instantly into place. “What for?”
“I couldn’t help overhearing you talking with that Gestapo agent over there. My name’s Willard Fowler Newton, Black Marsh Sentinel. ” He stuck out his hand, and Mike hesitated only for a second or two before accepting it. “I thought I heard you say your name was Mark Sweeney?”
“Mike Sweeney. ”
“Mike, right, right. Well, listen, Mike, is it true that you know Malcolm Crow, the guy who was shot?”
“Sure. He’s a friend of mine. I go to his store all the time. ”
“You mean the Crow’s Nest. Place that sells all that Halloween stuff? Well, the thing is, Mar…I mean Mike, I’m doing a
story—well, I’m trying to do a story—on the shootings, and I need some background on Mr. Crow and the others. Do you think I could ask you a few questions?”
Mike hedged.
“I’ll buy dinner. ”
Mike’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and he took a half step backward, flicking a glance over at the cop.
