know.”
She appraised me with a tolerant air, her smile kinked at one end.
“Let me ask you, do you think it’s the first time men have followed me?”
I took her question seriously, looking her up and down. That body hadn’t been overnighted to her, she’d grown up with it, grown up in it. No answer required.
I heard a sound I recognized and looked to the sidewalk in time to see the blond kid again, gliding by on his skateboard and yakking on his cell phone, not even looking over at me. It could’ve been a coincidence, I suppose.
Yeh, a coincidence, like when it rains you get wet. He must’ve been tailing me.
She called my attention back. “What does he look like, this man you say is following me?”
I described him without using specifics, only color, weight, and build, but she seized on my sketchy phantom.
“I know this man, he is a friend of mine.”
“Why was he following you then?”
Her lips sought the taste of an explanation, something with the flavor of truth in it. I watched her tongue’s pink nib.
“He is not quite right. But harmless.”
“My description fits a lot of people, how do you know it’s the same guy?”
“Well, where did he go? I’ll tell you if that’s where my friend lives.”
Our eyes met and I felt something stirring in my chest, something strong and horrible. Maybe prelude to a heart attack, but my left arm wasn’t the appendage that was tingling.
I gave her the address where my squirrel had nested. “Number twenty-seven Avenue C.”
And, just like that, my assignment was over.
She nodded several times. “There, see, that is the same man, I told you. That’s where he lives.”
“Oh. Then I must’ve got it all wrong.”
She nodded.
“And I’m just wasting your time here.”
She nodded again.
“Then I will get out of your way.”
“Wait…”
I stopped my descent and looked back.
“You…interest me.”
I grinned.
She frowned.
“Not you, exactly. Your job.”
I kept on grinning, unaware of any difference.
I noticed rat-furtive movement from the building’s top story and looked up in time to see a curtain falling back into place behind a closed casement window.
She said, “Maybe I could…use you. How much do you charge?”
“Fifty dollars an hour.”
“You joke?”
“I get a lotta work from lawyers. I have to charge that much or they’d think I wasn’t working. Half’m wouldn’t roll over in bed for less than $100 an hour, let alone get out of it.”
She gazed at me as if fascinated.
I pointed to the polished brass plate beside the door.
“Rauth Realty. Is this your family’s business?”
“My family? No, it’s my business.”
“You’re kinda young to be running your own real estate agency.”
“Thank you. I’ve been very fortunate with… investments.”
Behind me, a car pulled up at the curb and came to a skidding stop. I gave it just a brief over-the-shoulder glance—a gold Grand Cherokee four-door, tinted windows and whitewall tires—before I turned back to her.
I heard the car doors open, but none shut.
Two or three pairs of hard-soled shoes suddenly slapped the sidewalk like a spontaneous round of applause.
The gate didn’t make a sound opening, well-oiled. The hard shoes came up the steps in quick snappy hops.
A hand landed on my shoulder, that or a brick.
A hand. It spun me around. Bricks don’t do that.
Stocky, thick-necked, cold-eyed, his mouth concealed behind a black mustache the shape and size of a satchel handle. His auger-edged voice barked, “Tell me where is Michael Cassidy?”
“Who?” I answered stupidly. “I don’t—”
English was not his first language, nor his second. His thick base accent was Russian, presumably his native tongue. But he was also fluent in violence. He seized my throat and squeezed, shutting off all air. Not a squeak.
“Where is she?”
My eyes swelled. Don’t panic.
He released me. Air again.
“Tell,” he barked. “Where is she? Or I mess up your pretty face.”
I swallowed and stammered, “You…you think I’m pretty?”
He walloped the back of my head with his open palm, a fat gold ring on his middle finger ringing my chimes.
Behind me, the woman shouted something and he stopped dead.
Her use of his language seemed to surprise him more than the sudden appearance in her hand of the silver- plated .22 automatic. It was squarish and the size of a cocktail lounge’s ashtray (if cocktail lounges had ashtrays anymore, which they didn’t—thanks to Mayor Droopy Dog banning smoking in all our fine city’s restaurants and bars).
I hated the gun on sight, like she’d reached behind her and pulled out a bloody fanged stump blindly chomping.
She wasn’t pointing the gun at me but it was still pointed at me, at anyone in front of her, anyone in her way.
Black mustache said something in Russian that I thought sounded innocent like maybe, What village you from?
She answered with a more universal turn of phrase. She cocked the pistol’s hammer. No translation required.
He thought it over. Would she shoot, wouldn’t she shoot, was it worth finding out? He seemed to make up his mind. What he wanted from me could wait. He said something to the two behind him, and they all retreated down the steps. Got in their car and drove off.
When I turned back to her, the gun was out of sight again. Some kind of holster concealed at the small of her back.
I asked, “Are you Russian?”
“No, but they are.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I told her, trying to keep my voice level. “I could’ve handled them.”
“You don’t handle them. They handle you.” She smiled. “You blushing?”
I wasn’t blushing, but no doubt my face was red. I guess I should’ve been grateful, but I wasn’t. I didn’t know exactly why, unless it was the emasculation of being saved by a woman.
“This isn’t the wild west,” I told her. “You can’t just pull a gun out in the middle of the street. Pull that again and I’ll take it away from you.”
She gave me a dark look, like she wanted to pull it right now and use it, too.
