No police but no friendly faces, either — lust a moment; there was Auntie Singham.
Of the many fortunetellers who worked Joy Street Auntie Singham was the best; she never purveyed anything but good fortune. If these things failed to come to pass, no customer ever complained; Auntie’s warm voice carried conviction. Some whispered that she improved her own fortunes by passing information to the police, but Thorby did not believe it because Pop did not. She was a likely source of news and Thorby decided to chance it — the most she could tell the police was that he was alive and on the loose . . . which they knew.
Around the corner to Thorby’s right was the Port of Heaven cabaret; Auntie was spreading her rug on the pavement there, anticipating customers spilling out at the end of a performance now going on. ,
Thorby glanced each way and hurried along the wall almost to the cabaret. “Psst! Auntie!”
She looked around, looked startled, then her face became expressionless. Through unmoving lips she said, loud enough to reach him, “Beat it, son! Hide! Are you crazy?”
“Auntie . . . where have they got him?”
“Crawl in a hole and pull it in after you. There’s a reward out!” “For me? Don’t be silly. Auntie; nobody would pay a reward for me. Just tell me where they’re holding him. Do you know?”
“They’re not.”
” ‘They’re not’ what?”
“You don’t know? Oh, poor lad! They’ve shortened him.” Thorby was so shocked that he was speechless. Although Baslim had talked of the time when he would be dead, Thorby had never really believed in it; he was incapable of imagining Pop dead and gone.
He missed her next words; she had to repeat. “Snoopers! Get out!”
Thorby glanced over his shoulder. Two patrolmen, moving this way — time to leave! But he was caught between street and blank wall, with no bolt hole but the entrance to the cabaret . . . if he ducked in there, dressed as he was, being what he was, the management would simply shout for the patrol.
But there was nowhere else to go. Thorby turned his back on the police and went inside the narrow foyer of the cabaret. There was no one there; the last act was in progress and even the hawker was not in sight. But just inside was a ladder-stool and on it was a box of transparent letters used to change signs billing the entertainers. Thorby saw them and an idea boiled up that would have made Baslim proud of his pupil — Thorby grabbed the box and stool and went out again.
He paid no attention to the approaching policemen, placed the ladder-stool under the little lighted marquee that surmounted the entrance and pimped up on it, with his back to the patrolmen. It placed most of his body in bright light but his head and shoulders stuck up into the shadow above the row of lights. He began methodically to remove letters spelling the name of the star entertainer.
The two police reached a point right behind him. Thorby tried not to tremble and worked with the steady listlessness of a hired hand with a dull job. He heard Auntie Singham call out, “Good evening, Sergeant.”
“Evening, Auntie. What lies are you telling tonight?”
“Lies indeed! I see a sweet young girl in your future, with hands graceful as birds. Let me see your palm and perhaps I can read her name.”
“What would my wife say? No time to chat tonight, Auntie.” The sergeant glanced at the workman changing the sign, rubbed his chin and said, “We’ve got to stay on the prowl for Old Baslim’s brat. You haven’t seen him?” He looked again at the work going on above him and his eyes widened slightly.
“Would I sit here swapping gossip if I had?”
“Hmm . . .” He turned to his partner. “Roj, move along and check Ace’s Place, and don’t forget the washroom. I’ll keep an eye on the street”
“Okay, Sarge.”
The senior patrolman turned to the fortuneteller as his partner moved away. “It’s a sad thing, Auntie. Who would have believed that old Baslim could have been spying against the Sargon and him a cripple?”