from the floor and dial.
“Where are you?” Faith asks by way of answering.
“A block away. Parked. Is the man in the Mercedes still there?”
“Yes. Are you coming?”
I hear a tap on the driver’s window and I jump. A woman holds a tattered black umbrella over her head with her right arm. Tucked under her left arm is a small, scruffy brown dog, curly-haired, pink tongue extended between the teeth. Its eyes are blank white, like an albino. It’s blind. I grit my teeth, girding myself against an instant of horror and then a wave of nausea. I look up and into the sunken eyes of the gray-haired beggar. She’s got a tiny square stud piercing her right nostril. I pause on it; the chief nurse who delivered Isaac had one just like it. I look back at her eyes, and she returns my unintentionally hard gaze. She blinks, looking startled, like I’ve frightened her, and takes a step back. She shakes her head, as if to say, “I’m not interested in your money.”
“Nathaniel!” It’s Faith, from the phone. Her bark brings me back to reality and realization: My concussed brain remains on the fritz. I feel like my thought process and focus keeps slipping off the tracks. “Are you coming or not?”
I clear my dry throat. “He asked you to come to the subway. Alan.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’ll explain. It’s straightforward.”
“Do you know Sandy Vello?”
“Who? Nat. This isn’t funny.”
“Kathryn Gilkeson?”
“What is this about?” The recently revealed actress sounding baffled.
“What are you doing in my neighborhood, Faith?”
“The man in the car started following me at Safeway, an hour ago. I didn’t want him to follow me home. Are you coming to the rescue or not?”
To the rescue. I nearly laugh. How can I resist?
“Faith. .”
“What?”
“I’m tired of being the one person in this mystery who is not holding any cards.”
“I told you I’d explain.”
That’s not what I’m getting at. I tell Faith that there’s a cafe next door to the pizza joint. It has a back door that leads to a small alley. I want her to go to the cafe, order a large coffee, sit down at a table, spend five minutes hanging out, and then go into the back as if going to use the restroom. Instead, she’s going to escape into the alley, where I tell her that I’ll come to meet her.
“Doesn’t the pizza joint have a back door?” she asks.
“Yes. But I don’t need pizza. I need coffee. Black, please.”
“Nat. This is really serious. I’m scared. Why do we need to go through this charade?”
“Trust me.”
Because I need time. I’m formulating a plan. It’s half-baked, like my concussed brain. But I’ve got to try something. I’ve got to try to turn the tables.
20
Across the street from where I’m parked is a small grocer that carries the staples of modern life: bread and canned goods, cheap liquor and tobacco, and cell phones. A plump woman standing behind the counter, prematurely wearing dentures, sells me a Motorola phone that a decade ago would’ve been among the most powerful mobile computers on the planet. The computational zing wrapped in its dime-a-dozen metallic clamshell would’ve been housed in a block-long warehouse, a veritable state treasure. Now it’s near the lowest rung on the technology ladder-so much so, it’s displayed behind the counter next to boxes of condoms and antihistamine. And it costs only $35, provided that I also load it with one hundred minutes of pre-paid talk time for an additional $23. I don’t have to sign any contracts or sign up under my own name.
I unwrap the phone and then stand momentarily stymied where to toss the disemboweled packaging. Into the black trash bin, the blue recycling one, or the green container for compost? Trash, I conjecture. I turn on the phone. It’s got some battery life, but not much. I offer the woman a dollar if she’ll let me plug my new phone into the wall outlet for five minutes. She shrugs.
“You’re not the first,” she says.
Five minutes later, I’m back in my car with a new pre-paid phone and a meager plan. I tuck the new phone into my pocket and use my existing one to call Faith. When she answers, I say: “Are you ready?”
“With a tall cup of No Doze with your name on it. Let’s go, please.”
“See you in the alley.”
To avoid driving past the man in the Mercedes parked on Polk Street, I drive around the block in the other direction. I slide into the alley behind the cafe. The alley-lined with dozens of the holy trinities of state-approved garbage, recycling and compost cans-is such a tight fit that Faith must squeeze sideways to get into the car. As she twists her body, I glance at the short brown skirt that comes only to her knee, slit up to her thigh, not the least bit practical unless Faith was expecting a summer day to suddenly break out or she wants attention focused on her legs.
She hands me the coffee. I take a big slug, grimacing as the scalding liquid scorches the roof of my mouth.
“It’s even more exhilarating if you pour the whole thing on your head.” She smiles and my heart skips a beat-either from caffeine or the stimulant created by Faith’s proximity. Maybe it’s the same neurological mechanism.
I’m about to make a comment about the fact that it’s strange to me that Faith is composed enough to joke even though she’s allegedly being stalked, when she says: “Thank you for the rescue.”
I swallow hard. I put the coffee into the center console and drive in silence to the end of the alley. I take a left, drive half a block, take another left and drive two blocks, then take another left heading back toward Polk. Just before the intersection, I park in a red loading zone in front of a neighborhood bar called Leap Year. I feel Faith watching me. I turn to her and then back to Polk; half a block up the street, double-parked as it has been, sits the black Mercedes.
“He’s going to see us.” The anxiety is back in her voice.
“We’re behind him. No streetlight shining on us. If he sees us he’d have to turn the car around and we’d be outta here.” But I’m irritated that maybe she’s right. “You have any tips, Faith?”
“Tips?”
“On doing surveillance. You seem to have the knack.”
“I don’t want to do this. I want to be somewhere safe.”
“You’re free to go at any time.”
“You know he’d see me.”
“Then we’re stuck with each other-for now.”
She doesn’t respond.
“Aren’t you curious who is following you?” I turn to look at her. Her eyes glisten with tears. “What’s going on, Faith?”
She sniffles once, then takes a deep breath. With the tips of her fingers, she wipes moisture from under her right eye. She looks at me, suddenly composed.
“So he’s dead? Alan.”
“I think he had a heart attack. I don’t think he was. .” I don’t finish because I’m not sure whether he died of natural causes. He’d seemed hurt when he fell into me. Maybe his heart was already giving out. Or maybe someone drugged him, before or after our collision.
Faith interrupts my introspection. “Are you sick too?”
