“Question is,” said the Englishman quietly, “can you find him…before they do?”
James Steimle
The Kukulkan Manuscript
CHAPTER TWENTY — ONE
April 30
9:40 a.m. PST
Click-click-click-click-click.
Alred shoved her way through the glass door into Bruno’s cafe. Whether or not Porter wanted to see her, Alred would tell it all, even if she had to slap him to get his attention.
There wasn’t anymore time.
She didn’t understand the reason why, but her intuition, her female sixth-sense that something hung out of balance, raised her blood-pressure.
Tapping the old man in the thin T-shirt, she said, “Bruno, I need some help.”
Click-click-click-click.
Rubbing the ends of a mustache reaching for his beardless chin, the boxer turned and said, “My pies are the answer to everything!”
“I need to find John Porter.”
“Hasn’t been in today,” said the owner of the cafe, cleaning the table again. “Why should I be doing this stuff?!? Where’s that girl!” he said to the kitchen.
“Someone has tried twice to kill him,” said Alred. “He’s hiding out, and he’ll want to speak with me.” A little exaggeration. She meant Porter would be glad by the end of their conversation. Well, she hoped Porter would feel that way. But it was too complicated to tell Bruno.
The old man laughed a gritty chuckle, but his eyes jolted when she insinuated attempted murder.
Someone shouted, “Brussels sprouts, Brassica oleracea!”
“You’ll eat what I give ya and like it!” Bruno said to the student with the friends and about two-thousand flashcards.
They laughed.
He looked at his task of wiping down the next table. “Running from you, eh,” Bruno said to Alred. “Don’t sound like he’s that interested!”
“Do you know his whereabouts? Porter said you had the up-to-date facts on everybody who frequented your place.”
“I’ve the stomach of an elephant,” he said, taking up a black tray of filthy dishes and turning to the kitchen, “not the memory of one.”
Click-click-click-click. Click.
Outside of Bruno’s, Alred sucked in the salty air of morning. She stared for some time at a wooden telephone pole papered with cheap advertisements and pictures of lost dogs, cats, and kids. The storm had not subsided, but allowed the presence of a silent marine layer of high fog from the coast. Stratford wasn’t that close to the water, but few hills stood to block the recent chaotic winds.
She looked at the brown portfolio in her right hand.
Click-click.
Where would Alred be if she were a crazed Mormon who’d just lost all chance of graduating after seven years of worthy work?
She had to talk to Porter.
As Alred got into her faded gold Celica, which by appearance seemed to have more years than mileage, Bruno looked with sharp eyes through the glass.
“What’ve I gotta do to get some service ‘round here?!?” said a customer. A rumble of laughter from friends followed.
Without taking his eyes off the graduate student, Bruno said, “You wan’ me to stick someth’n down your throat?! You wait right there!” He popped the knuckles in both hands and the chortles continued.
The man across the street sitting in the dark blue Volvo put the camera with the telephoto lens on the passenger seat. Bruno watched him hit the ignition as Alred pulled into traffic. The spook stayed three cars behind her until both vehicles drove out of Bruno’s sight.
A drinking glass shattered in the kitchen.
Everyone laughed.
Except Bruno.
11:37 a.m. PST
Dr. Christopher Ulman kept his back to the bench in the covered bus stop while he peeked at the Volvo sedan with the cameraman inside.
It was drizzling again in front of what was informally called the Stratford Science Square. The center had really been named after Krishnamoorthy Ramanujam, which most students refused to pronounce.
Ulman would see his wife tomorrow.
If he guessed right, they didn’t care about her anymore.
But first he had to tell Alred not to The bus pulled quickly to a stop. Ulman bowed his head in the high collar of his new hunter-green raincoat. The door folded open.
John Porter stepped off the bus.
Ulman glanced up, and his skin suddenly chilled like a snake’s in winter. He pushed his eyes down the sidewalk.
As expected, Alred finally appeared through the tall, spired gate made of dark metal.
The professor had set himself between the public parking lot and the science buildings, waiting for his prized student to stride by when her business was complete.
He hadn’t expected the cameraman, who worked as feverishly with the black contraption in the cab of his car as he had when Alred entered the quad by foot.
The long lens focused solely on Alred. The spy turned his body slowly as Alred pressed toward the bus stop. A car driving by hit a puddle, which splashed the concrete in front of her. She gave the pilot a dirty smirk, then reformed her face to faraway thought.
The camera would catch Ulman in a moment if he stayed put.
“Are you getting on?” said the bus driver behind Porter, Alred’s graduate-student friend standing close enough to kick.
Ulman stood, his chin down. He didn’t know if Porter would recognize him, but he couldn’t chance it.
Porter saw Alred before she saw him. Ulman heard him growl as Porter turned and started off in the opposite direction.
“Buddy!” said the driver, his hand on the door lever, itching to pull it. “Let’s go!”
Ulman eyed the bus driver, then watched the camera in the Volvo twist in his direction the closer Alred came. Her eyes concentrated on the sidewalk hard enough to crack the cement with the pressure.
Ulman couldn’t get caught by the camera.
“Yo!!!” said the driver.
