It was God's message to him； and every time he read it he felt fortified； refreshed； determined。 After his simple meal； he left and began walking again； a new spring in his step。 He passed a newsstand and paused； his eye catching the headline of theNew York Post 。
THE END IS NIGH
Satanists； Pentacostals and Prophets of Doom Continue to Converge at Site of Devil Killing
He instinctively shoved his hand in his pocket before remembering he had no money。 He paused。 What to do？ This headline was； without a doubt； another message from God。 Nothing happened in this world without significance。 Not even the slightest sparrow could fall from the tree 。 。 。
He needed money。 He needed a bed for the night。 He needed a change of clothes。 God clothed the lilies of the field； would He not clothe him？ That had always been Buck's philosophy。
But sometimes God liked to see a little initiative。
Buck looked up。 He was in front of a huge building； guarded by two massive stone lions…the New York Public Library； the legend said。 A temple to Mammon； no doubt filled with pornography and immoral books。 He hastened around the corner。 There； beside a small but nicely manicured park； were a number of people with chessboards set up and ready for play。 They weren't playing each other； they seemed to be waiting for passersby。 He approached； curious。
〃Play？〃 one of them asked。
Buck paused。
〃Five dollars；〃 the man said。
〃For what？〃
〃Game of ten…second chess。 Five dollars。〃
Buck almost walked on。 It might be considered a form of gambling。 But then he paused。 Was this； too； a little help from God？ Buck sensed these players were good； they had to be。 But what did he have to lose？
He sat down。 The man immediately moved his queen's pawn； and Buck countered； ten seconds for each move。
Ten minutes later Buck was sitting on a bench in the park behind the library； reading thePost 。 The article told of small gatherings of people in front of the building where the devil had taken the man named Cutforth。 It even gave the address： 842 Fifth Avenue。
Fifth Avenue。 The legendary Fifth Avenue。 The Mephistophelean heart of New York City。 It all fit together。 He tore out the article and folded it up with the other； carefully slipping them into his shirt pocket。
He would not go there now； that could wait。 Like David； he needed to gird his loins； prepare himself spiritually。 He had not e to preach： he had e to do battle for the world。
He checked his pocket。 Four dollars and fifty cents。 Not nearly enough to find a bed for the night。 He wondered just how God might help him multiply that money； as Jesus had multiplied the loaves and the fishes。
There were still a few hours before sunset。 Jesus would help him； Buck knew。 Jesus would surely help him。
46
Beckmann's last known place of residence； as listed on thedeath certificate； was not far from the potter's field in which he was buried。 Pendergast drove slowly past the decrepit building and parked before a package store a few doors down。 Three old alcoholics sat on the front stoop； watching as they got out of the car。
〃Nice neighborhood；〃 said D'Agosta； looking around at the six…story brick tenements festooned with rusting fire escapes。 Threadbare laundry hung from dozens of clotheslines strung between the buildings。
〃Indeed。〃
D'Agosta nodded in the direction of the three rummies； who had gone back to passing around a bottle of Night Train。 〃Wonder if those three know anything。〃
Pendergast gestured for him to proceed。
〃What？ Me？〃
〃Of course。 You are a man of the street； you speak their language。〃
〃If you say so。〃 D'Agosta glanced around again； then headed into the package store。 He returned a few minutes later with a bottle in a brown paper bag。
〃A gift for the natives； I see。〃
〃I'm just taking a page from your book。〃
Pendergast raised his eyebrows。
〃Remember our little journey underground during the subway massacre case？ You brought a bottle along as currency。〃
〃Ah； yes。 Our tea party with Mephisto。〃
Bottle in hand； D'Agosta ambled up to the stoop； pausing before the men。 〃How are you boys today？〃
Silence。
〃I'm Sergeant D'Agosta； and this is my associate； Special Agent Pendergast。 FBI。〃
Silence。
〃We're not here to bust anyone's balls； gentlemen。 I'm not even going to ask your names。 We're just looking for any information on one Ranier Beckmann； who lived here several years back。〃
Three pairs of rheumy eyes continued staring at him。 One of the men hawked up a gobbet of phlegm and deposited it gently between his badly scuffed shoes。
With a rustle； D'Agosta removed the bottle from the paper bag。 He held it up。 The light shone through it； illuminating pieces of fruit floating in an amber…colored liquid。
The oldest wino turned to the others。 〃Rock 'n' Rye。 The cop has class。〃
〃Beware of cops bearing gifts。〃
D'Agosta glanced at Pendergast； who was looking on from a few paces back； hands in his pockets。 He turned back。 〃Look； guys； don't make a fool out of me in front of the feds； okay？ Please。〃
The oldest man shifted。 〃Now that you've said the magic word； have a seat。〃
D'Agosta perched gingerly on the sticky steps。 The man reached out a hand for the bottle； took a swig； spat out a piece of fruit； passed it on。 〃You too； friend；〃 he said to Pendergast。
〃I would prefer to stand； thank you。〃
There were some chuckles。
〃My name's Jedediah；〃 said the oldest drunk。 〃Call me Jed。 You're looking for who again？〃
〃Ranier Beckmann；〃 said Pendergast。
Two of the drunks shrugged； but after a moment； Jed nodded slowly。 〃Beckmann。 Name rings a bell。〃
〃He lived in room 4C。 Died of cancer almost ten years ago。〃
Jed thought another moment； took a swig of the Rock 'n' Rye to lubricate the brain cells。 〃I remember now。 He's the guy who used to play gin rummy with Willie。 Willie's gone； too。 Man； did they argue。 Cancer； you say？〃 He shook his head。
〃Did you know anything about his life？ Marriage； former addresses； that sort of thing？〃
〃He was a college…educated fellow。 Smart。 Nobody ever came to visit him； didn't seem to have any kids or family。 He might have been married； I suppose。 For a while； I thought he had a girl named Kay。〃
〃Kay？〃
〃Yeah。 He'd say her name now and then； usually when he was mad at himself。 Like when he lost at rummy。 'Kay Biskerow！' he'd say。 As if he wouldn't have been in such a fix if she were there to look after him。〃
Pendergast nodded。 〃Any friends of his still here we could talk to？〃
〃Can't think of anybody。 Beckmann mostly kept to himself。 He was sort of depressed。〃
〃I see。〃
D'Agosta shifted on the unfortable stoop。 〃When someone dies here； what usually happens to his stuff？〃
〃They clean out his room and throw it away。 Except that John sometimes saves a few things。〃
〃John？〃
〃Yeah。 He saves dead people's shit。 He's a little strange。〃
〃Did John save any of Beckmann's possessions？〃 Pendergast asked。
〃Maybe。 His room's full of junk。 Why don't you go on up there and ask？ It's 6A。 Top floor； head of the stairs。〃
Pendergast thanked the man； then led the way into the dim lobby and up the wooden staircase。 The treads creaked alarmingly under their feet。 As they reached the sixth floor； Pendergast laid a hand on D'Agosta's arm。
〃I pliment you on your adroitness back there；〃 he said。 〃Thinking to ask about his belongings was a clever move。 Care to handle John； too？〃
〃Sure thing。〃
D'Agosta rapped on the door marked6A ； but it was already ajar and creaked inward at his knock。 It opened a little； then stopped； blocked by a mountain of cardboard boxes。 The room was almost pletely filled with vermin…gnawed cartons； stacks of books； all manner of memorabilia。 D'Agosta stepped in； threading a narrow path between walls of assorted junk： old pictures； photo albums； a tricycle； a signed baseball bat。
In the far corner； beneath a grimy window； a space just big enough for a bed had been cleared。 A white…haired man lay on the filthy bed； fully clothed。 He looked at them but did not rise or move。
〃John？〃 D'Agosta asked。
He gave a faint nod。
D'Agosta went over to the b