“So we’ve got a way to make it easier for a new generation of children to keep up.” I recover.
“Think: juggler.” She says this like it’s a punch line. “The juggler,” she repeats. “Great image, right? We’ve got dozens of digital balls in the air. Who can catch them? Who can keep adding balls without dropping any?”
“I’m still not following.”
She laughs. “I’m not either. It’s complex stuff. I’m still learning. Anyhow, let’s move on.”
Something about Sandy does not add up. The blowhard has turned sophisticated communicator. Unpredictable. Were I a TV producer, I might have picked her too.
“So is this stuff available on the market? Can I see the kinds of products you’re talking about?”
For a second, she holds my stare. It’s subtle but revelatory. This woman lacks self-awareness but she’s no fool, and a tiny distant light turns on for her; she senses I’m homing in on something but she’s not sure what or why. She looks away.
“Earth clown,” I venture.
“What?”
I’m thinking about the weird Chinese characters: Earth clown. “Sorry, rambling. It’s something I heard about from Jill Gilkeson, Kathryn’s mother.”
She blinks three times, seemingly lost.
“Look, Sandy, I know you work at PRISM. I found it online.”
She takes it in. She shrugs. Maybe, she thinks, this is possible. “So why pretend you didn’t know what I’m doing, Mr. Reporter?” She doesn’t seem disturbed by this revelation.
“I don’t know what PRISM is. It looks like some software mill, some modest real estate here, headquarters overseas.”
She laughs. “It’s the new thing, blending American know-how with this crazy work ethic they’ve got over there. They’re dying for a piece of what we’ve got. They want to catch up.” She pauses. “Off the record!”
“You’re doing all this marketing, the tiny jugglers, for PRISM?”
She shakes her head. “I told you as much as I can. You know how these non-disclosures work. But stay tuned. I’ll definitely get you in the loop as soon as we’re ready to announce anything. It’ll be a great scoop.”
We sit there looking at each other, an impasse coming on quickly.
My phone rings. She’s still holding it in her open palm. On the caller ID, I can see the word “Faith.” Sandy looks at it.
“I should take this.” I snag the phone and put it to my ear. “Hi, it’s Nat.”
“Can I trust you?”
“Of course.”
“I need help. Now.”
19
I stand and hold up an index finger to Sandy, indicating I’ll be right back. I walk to the edge of the deck.
“Where are you, Faith?”
“He’s following me.”
“Who is?”
“I’m near your office. There’s a pizza place where they give massages. Do you know it?”
“Who is following you, Faith?”
“The man with the Mercedes. The bald man from this morning.”
A vicious wind whips in from the bay. Frothy waves smack against the pillars of the deck below me. I cup my fingers over the mouthpiece.
“Where’s the man now?”
“In his car, a block away, double-parked in front of a head shop.”
“Does he know you’ve seen him?”
“No.” She pauses. “I’m an actress.”
The sentence strikes something deep in me. It feels both like a bit of a non sequitur and the single most honest thing Faith has told me.
“Order a slice of the mushroom and pepperoni.”
“What?”
I feel something on my shoulder, like a tap, but it’s another burst of wind passing over the deck. My knees go weak and I have this sensation I’m going to turn around and find Polly standing behind me, Isaac in her arms. I turn. There is no one. Not even Sandy. She’s no longer sitting at the table. I squint through the drizzle into the restaurant/bar, seeing only a smattering of young revelers. Maybe Sandy’s gone inside but I figure she’s taken off, the phone call giving her an easy exit.
“You want me to order pizza?”
“Yep. Avoid the massage. I’m coming.”
I case the parking lot outside the Ramp and see no sign of Sandy or her car. I dial her as I climb into my Audi. The call goes directly to voice mail.
Traffic is not accommodating. It’s clogged by the tail end of rush hour and rain; everything in the Bay Area moves fast-ever faster by the year-except for drivers in the rain. For some reason, the slightest drizzle seems to stymie this population, leading to agonizing jams. We don’t need GPS; we need hybrids. I hop onto Third Street and take it toward downtown, against the commuters, angry less about the overly cautious drivers than the two mystery women in my life.
Sandy says she is marketing new technology designed to help children cope with the onslaught of information in the computer age. On its face, that’s not necessarily noteworthy. But the company’s parent is Chinese, like the characters written on a piece of paper left beside the computer of dead Alan Parsons. And someone duped me into thinking Sandy Vello was dead. You don’t have to be a modern-day, mild-mannered blogger to toy with going old school: grabbing the narcissistic reality-show contestant by the lapels and shaking her until she comes clean. Or maybe I just need to keep pumping her with unctuous questions until she looses a revelation I sense she’s holding just under the surface.
Or, just maybe, she’s less fool and more fatale than I’m giving her credit for.
Why did she disappear from the Ramp? Were my questions, or her answers, making her uncomfortable?
And what to make of Faith? With her, the lapel shaking should come sooner rather than later. Why did she disappear from Alan’s house? What’s she doing back in my neighborhood? Does she have some connection to Sandy?
Who is following her?
My phone, which is nestled between my legs, buzzes and hops a millimeter off the gray leather upholstery. Incoming text. The sound and sensation catch me sufficiently off guard that I, though traveling only a few miles an hour, slam on the brakes. In neurological terms, the digital stimulation is called a sudden onset; the primitive parts of my brain react to surprise, overriding focus on other activities, like not crashing. Behind me, a horn blares. Then another.
I look at the phone. The message is from Sandy. “U still here?”
With traffic inching ahead, I balance the phone on the wheel and tap out: “You disapeard so I lef.”
A second later, a text returns. “bathroom. guys r so impatient. u coming back?”
I’m about to tap out a response when she texts again. “Nevr mind. Ive got plans. I was going to TELL ALL. Ha.”
I look up again and realize I’m well down Pine Street, the thoroughfare where I need to turn left to get to Polk, my office, Faith and the shiny-headed man in the black Mercedes. The phone slips from my hand onto the floor as I pull a hard left, narrowly making the turn and avoiding the curb. Sandy and her texts are proving unpredictable and dangerous. I’m reminded of the popular bumper sticker: Honk if you love Jesus, Text if you want to meet him.
Pine Street flows smoothly and ten minutes later, I find a parking spot a block from Polk. I pick up the phone
