Time Out of Mind by John R. Maxim Read Free Book Online

behind him as he climbed a mound of shoveled snow and stamped into the terminal building.
    Inside, the former New York City policeman checked his watch. Half past four. He was ninety minutes early for his meeting with the secretive little man who was fund ing this particular activity. However, passing that time in one of the station's various bars seemed preferable to sitting in the back of a taxi enduring Posey's prolonged sulk. Lesko bought a copy of the New York Post from a vendor who'd moved his stand out of the storm and proceeded toward the Oyster Bar on the lower level.
    The bar, he noted gratefully, was still half empty. This meant that the inevitable series of frozen switches and stalled trains had either hot yet begun or had not been posted. Within an hour the Oyster Bar would be jammed with sullen commuters. Many would not reach their homes at all that night.
    Choosing a stool at one end, Raymond Lesko ordered a Heineken and nursed it as he reviewed his notebook, leav ing an account of his expenses until last. This completed, he unfolded his New York Post, whose four-inch headline shouted the single word blizzard, and then flipped to the sports pages, where he began a hopeful assessment of the play-off chances of the New York Knickerbockers. Only forty-five minutes and two Heinekens had passed when he felt a presence at his right shoulder.
    “ Good afternoon, Mr. Dancer,” he said without turning.
    How long the smaller man had been watching him, even following him, Lesko did not know. It was the habit of Mr. Dancer, who apparently had no first name, to arrive early for their meetings. He would wait unseen for Lesko's ap pearance and then choose a place of conversation where, Lesko presumed, there would have been no opportunity for prearranged eavesdropping.
    “ There is a satisfactory table in the corner,” came the tight little voice. Lesko heard a note of irritation in it. Good, he thought. Let the little bastard wonder if I've been watch ing him as long as he's been watching me. He picked up his beer and newspaper and turned to join Dancer, who was already seated, an attache case partly open on the table in front of him.
    “ May I be assured, Mr. Lesko,” he began, offering no greeting, “that I have not been under your surveillance?”
    “ You hire a detective, you hire his instincts,” Lesko replied offhandedly. “But no, I haven't been tailing you.” He didn't add that if he ever did, this turkey would never know it.
    “ You understand that any such attempt would be in serious violation of our working arrangement? That it would be grounds for immediate and uncompensated dismissal?”
    “ I've answered your question, Mr. Dancer.” At least all I'm going to, Lesko thought. The simple truth about know ing you were behind me is that you sponge on enough Aramis to have every fairy within fifty yards sniffing at your ass.
    Dancer grunted, indicating acceptance of Lesko's reply at some level, and began fingering a device inside his at tache case that made soft clicking sounds. Lesko knew what it was. He was being scanned for recording devices and very likely being recorded himself. He used the time to study the man who sat across from him. It was, Lesko knew, a basically unrewarding exercise, since barely a hair on Dancer's head changed from one meeting to the next. He wore a dark blue, expensively tailored three-piece suit. Dancer must have had six more just like it, plus perhaps a ledger-lined blue pinstripe for his wilder moments. His shirts were invariably white and well starched, probably from either Brooks Brothers or Sulka. His ties were always a solid maroon, except for one lapse when he wore a recognizable club tie. He wore untasseled loafers by Bally of Switzerland on feet that were exceptionally small, even for a man of Dancer's unexceptional height. His body was squash-court lean, maybe tennis-court lean, thought Ray mond Lesko, noting the callus on the inside of Dancer's right thumb. On the