Ellie approached the Town Car and climbed inside, but the sedan didn’t take off right away. As it continued to idle, I noticed something else, or rather
“That’s funny,” I murmured. “Where’s
“Where’s who—”
“Do you see that man?” I pointed to the middle-aged Asian man in the silver-blue track suit.
“Yes, I see him,” Madame said.
We watched as the man climbed into a black SUV.
“What about him?” Madame pressed.
“I think it’s a little coincidental that he’s leaving at the exact same time as Ellie.”
“Why? Who is he?”
“I don’t know who he is,” I said, “but he blatantly ignored a ‘staff only’ sign to inspect Ellie’s Horticulture of Coffee exhibit while I was talking to her.”
“Didn’t she throw him out?”
“She politely asked him to leave. He ignored her. Or didn’t understand her. Frankly, I thought he was playing possum, but Ellie was worried he might be a Garden member, and she didn’t want to offend him, so she let him look around.”
“Well, maybe he is a member, dear. Maybe it’s just a coincidence that he’s leaving at the same time she is.”
“Let’s find out.”
The Asian man started up his SUV and pulled out of his parking space. As he drove it toward the parking lot exit, I started my own car and followed.
By now, Ellie’s Town Car was taking off. The sedan turned left onto Washington Avenue. The Asian man’s black SUV turned left, too. So that’s what I did.
“Can you see Ellie’s hired car?” Madame asked, her voice a little impatient.
“Not around that big SUV, I can’t.”
“Darn these ubiquitous all-terrain rollover hazards!” Madame wailed. “Monstrosities like this one have been crowding the New York streets for years now, and I can’t for the life of me understand why—”
“A lot of people like the—”
“I’ve trekked Central America in my prime. I’ve visited high altitude farms in North Africa and Indonesia. I’ve ascended Machu Picchu. Those perilous, backwater, mud road topographies were what these four-wheel drive vehicles were invented for—not Park and Madison avenues!”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“What’s the most challenging terrain these gas-guzzlers encounter? Tell me that? A slippery bridge surface followed by a pothole?!”
“Take it easy. We’re just taking a little drive. No need to get stressed.”
“But behind this man’s big SUV, you can’t even
“Tell you what... if Ellie’s driver turns one way and this man’s SUV turns the other, then we’ll go with Ellie, okay?”
“Will you even notice a turn like that?” Madame asked. “I thought the traffic was quite heavy on Flatbush Avenue coming in.”
“Then why don’t you keep your eyes open, too. Between us, we should be able to figure this out and not lose her.”
With Madame so skeptical about the Asian man in the SUV, I decided that she was probably right. Any moment now, I expected him to peel off and head in a different direction than Ellie’s car. But he never did. When Ellie’s Town Car made a left, so did the black SUV.
Ahead of us now was the majestic Brooklyn Art Museum, rising like a beaux arts sentry over the congested traffic of Eastern Parkway. The Museum, designed by Stanford White, was part of a complex of nineteenth-century parks and gardens that included the Botanic Gardens we’d just left as well as nearby Prospect Park—a 500 acre area of land, sculpted into fields, woods, lakes, and trails by the landscape designers Olmsted and Vaux, the same ingenious pair who’d created Manhattan’s world-renowned Central Park.
Eastern Parkway flowed us into Grand Army Plaza, a busy traffic circle dominated by the central branch building of Brooklyn’s Public Library (one of the first libraries that allowed readers to browse). I remember one of my old professors calling the architecture a triumph of context. The smooth, towering facade was created to resemble an open book, with the spine on the Plaza and the building’s two wings spreading like pages onto Eastern Parkway and Flatbush Avenue, two of the three spokes of Grand Army’s wheel. Prospect Park West was the third spoke, but I didn’t know which direction the vehicles in front of me were going to turn.
Sweat broke out on my palms as I followed the SUV around the whooshing spin-cycle of vehicles. While I was living in New Jersey, I’d driven every day. Now that I was a fulltime Manhattan resident again, my car sat in a garage while I mainly got around by subway, bus, or taxi, so I was pretty well out of practice putting pedal to the metal. On the other hand, I’d never liked traffic circles. I’d always end up going around and around, as if I were trapped on some out-of-control carousel, and I had to gather the nerve to jump off.
At the moment, I didn’t have the luxury of going around more than once or I’d lose my quarry. Vans, trucks, buses, and cars were zooming by in lanes on my left and right. Signs announced the upcoming turnoffs, and it was difficult to keep my eye on the Town Car, the SUV, and the rest of the traffic.
“Madame!”
“Yes?”
“Make sure you watch for any sign of Ellie’s Town Car peeling off the circle and taking a turn, okay? My eyes are still on the SUV in front of us.”
“Okay!”
“I’m anticipating a right onto Flatbush, by the way.”
“Why?”
“That’s the way we came in. It’s a straight shot right up Flatbush to the Manhattan Bridge crossing, and I’m betting Ellie’s destination is Manhattan. Here it comes...” I began to swerve the wheel, moving into the turning lane, and then—
“Stay in the circle! Stay in the circle!” Madame cried, her wrinkled hands practically lunging for the wheel.
I swerved back to my original lane and an immense, white SUV behind me blew his horn. I glanced in my rear view. The man driving was cursing at me, one hand on the wheel, another holding a cell phone to his ear, which was completely illegal and reckless, thank you very much!
“Someone should tell that guy ‘hands free’ is the law of the land now!” I cried.
“Eyes ahead! Don’t try to turn before they do,” Madame warned.
“Okay, okay! I was just anticipating—”
“Don’t anticipate!”
The black SUV kept going. It was still following Ellie’s Town Car. A few seconds later, Madame started shouting. “She’s turning now! The Town Car’s turning!”
“So is the SUV!” I shouted back.
Both vehicles had left the Plaza and were heading for Union Street.
“Union Street?” I murmured, continuing to trail the sports utility vehicle. “Now why does that sound familiar?”
We drove a few blocks, then a red light up ahead halted our progress for a few minutes.
“I’m not too familiar with this borough,” Madame said, glancing at the rows of beautifully restored brownstones on both sides of us. “How often have you been here?”
“Quite a few times. Matt’s been renting a storage warehouse not far from here.”
“I remember coming to Brooklyn when Matt was very young,” Madame’s eyes took on that faraway look again. “Antonio took us to Coney Island. The park was a madhouse, of course, since we went on a sunny Saturday afternoon, Matt did so love the rides—”
