to spend a quiet weekend at the end of the year. I said I’d like to come see the accommodations sometime this weekend. She gave me directions. I hung up, thanked Harvey and went back out past the empty offices.
I wanted to get rid of the gun I was carrying. I also wanted to get rid of the eight thousand dollars in cash. I wasn’t worried about being picked up by the police for speeding or making an illegal turn. I’m too careful a driver for that, but Detective Etienne Vivaise might be looking for me again.
I drove to Carl Sebastian’s high-rise condo building. I thought I might wake him up. I didn’t. He answered the buzzer in the lobby after a full minute and asked who I was. I told him. He buzzed me in. When the elevator doors opened, he was there in a white robe, freshly showered, a V8 in hand. He looked nervous, anxious.
“You could have called,” he said, “but if you have information about Melanie… I was up at four this morning. I can’t sleep. I can’t do anything.”
“Today,” I said as the elevator closed behind me. “I’ll find her today. I’ll talk to her. After that, it’s up to her. If she says no, the choice is yours.”
He ushered me into his apartment and closed the door.
“You’re sure you can find her today?”
“I’m sure.”
“When?”
“Before the sun goes down,” I said.
He took a sip of V8 and nodded. His hand shook just slightly.
“I suppose I can’t persuade you to tell me where she is so I can
…”
“We have an agreement,” I said.
“You’re right. You’re right. Just tell her I love her, want her back. She can make the terms. If I’ve done something wrong-”
“I know what to say,” I said. “I need another five hundred dollars to close out the case. I’ll give you a fully itemized bill for expenses.”
He looked at me and said,
“You really know where she is?”
“I really know.”
“This isn’t a con to get an additional five hundred out of me?”
“Keep the five hundred and I stop looking as of this minute,” I said.
He drained the glass of juice, thought for a second and said,
“I’ll write you a check.”
“Cash would be better,” I said.
He put down the glass on the living room table and plunged his hands into the pockets of his robe. He looked at the portrait of his wife over the mantelpiece. I looked too. Then he sighed and said, “All right. Cash.”
I stayed in the living room, standing, looking at the portrait of Melanie Sebastian, while he moved to his office.
He came back in about three minutes, a folded wad of bills in his hand.
“I’ll write out a receipt,” I said.
“No, that’s not necessary. Find her today, please.”
Sebastian was himself again. I didn’t count the money. I placed the wad of bills in my pocket and left.
The sun was out. The clouds were white and billowy and moving slowly. I drove over to Sarasota High School to watch the baseball team work out and play an intersquad game. There were about two dozen parents, girlfriends and people like me with nothing else to do in the stands.
I didn’t see my angel in the blue Buick. Maybe he wasn’t a baseball fan. The coach stopped the game from time to time to point out some problem, show the shortstop the right move for a double-play ball going from first base to second base and back to first, demonstrate to the center fielder how to throw home from the outfield so the ball could be cut off by the pitcher.
It wasn’t like sitting in the stands watching the Cubs on a weekday afternoon, but it helped keep me from thinking too consciously about the gun and the money in my pocket.
I left after an hour. I had a Chicago Bulls baseball cap in the dresser in my room, but I hadn’t thought about bringing it. If I stayed out in the sun too much longer, the top of my head would be sunburned: one of the several disadvantages of being almost bald.
Time moved slowly. So did I and so did the blue Buick. By eleven-thirty I had killed as much time as I could. I headed for the post office on Ringling.
The lot was almost full. I parked. A hot-dog cart stood on the sidewalk doing minimal business. I bought a dog from the dark, deeply tanned woman who wore an apron and a smile. She was a tall, slim brunette about forty.
The dog wasn’t kosher and the bun wasn’t steamed. I put extra onions and mustard on it and stood eating while I watched the front of the post office.
The blue Buick waited at the end of the parking lot.
“How’s business?” I asked.
“Saturday’s not the best,” she said. “During the week, working people line up sometimes. On Saturdays, you know, I catch ’em coming out of the post office.”
“Then why come on Saturday?”
“I’ve got three kids and a husband on disability,” she said. “It gets me out of the house and brings in maybe fifty to a hundred and fifty clear.”
“You want to double your business?” I asked as I worked on my hot dog and watched the door.
“No,” she said. “I want to keep living just above the poverty level.”
“Kosher hot dogs, fresh steamed buns, good buns.”
“Cost too much,” she said.
“Double your business,” I said.
“You want to guarantee that?”
“Life’s a risk,” I said, finishing my hot dog and throwing my napkin into a garbage bag she had set up.
“I’ll stick with what I know,” she said. “High profit. Low maintenance. If I spend more on merchandise I’ll need more volume and I’ll have more customers than I can handle.”
She had a point.
“See that car, the blue Buick at the end of the parking lot?”
“Yes,” she said, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand.
“Two dogs with everything, a bag of chips and a Coke,” I said, taking out two fives and handing them to her. “No change.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“I’ll watch the stand while you make the delivery. You can keep an eye on me.”
She got the dogs together, wrapped them, pulled out a Coke and a bag of potato chips and put it all in a brown paper bag. I stood watching as she hurried across the lot and knocked at the window. The window came down. She handed him the package and pointed back at me. I waved. He took the bag and rolled up the window.
I had missed the arrival of the blonde, but there she was. She was wearing a white skirt and blouse and her long hair was in a single braid that hung over her left shoulder. She was carrying a red purse over her right shoulder and looking around.
A few people passed her going in and out while I stood watching and the hot-dog lady returned. All the men looked at her, pretending not to look. The women were more open in their glances.
I moved around a pair of parked cars and approached the waiting woman, who had spotted me. She was a beauty. She wore no makeup and was probably in her late twenties. Her eyes were blue, her skin clear. There was even a good chance that the color of her hair was natural.
I held out the envelope. She took it without a word, put it in her purse and walked away. So did I.
I got in the Metro, pulled out onto Ringling and headed east. The Buick was a tactful distance behind me. I imagined my angel working on his second hot dog, cheek full, dropping relish on his lap as we drove.
There is a definite advantage in being the one who is followed rather than the one who follows. A good driver
