When the barista, twenty-two at the most, handed me my java and change without even a flicker in her face, I realized what I was doing wrong. I went to sugar the coffee, keeping my head down this time, and avoiding eye contact altogether. One of the teens was stirring cream and cinnamon into a foamy drink in front of me, and I did the guitar move again, the nudge. This time I didn’t apologize, and focused on my coffee.
It took him twenty seconds.
“Excuse me,” the teen said. “Aren’t you Mim Bracca?”
I hemmed, then sighed and nodded.
He grinned. He’d been in a group with four others his age. They were a mixed group, pretty clean looking, three boys and two girls, and as soon as I’d confirmed I was who they’d thought I was, they all surged forward, as if to take a better look.
“I love ‘Queen of Swords.’ ”
“Are you feeling better? They said you were sick, MTV said you were sick.”
“God, all that stuff about your brother and those pictures, I’m so sorry, that so blows.”
“Is that your guitar? Of course it is, I mean, are you going to play? Are you playing somewhere?”
“I have all of the albums, all of them, I mean, I was a fan before you guys were popular.”
I smiled and nodded and said, “Hey, yeah, thanks. Thanks a lot, that’s wonderful to hear. Yeah, actually, I was thinking I’d do some playing.”
More questions, more babbling, more attention. Half of the clientele belonged to me, as Graham would have said. My demographic, and the more I talked to them, the more pressed forward to listen.
I asked the young man, the first one, what his name was, and he looked so pleased and surprised that I cared, I almost felt guilty.
“Ray,” he said, almost as if he’d forgotten it himself for a moment. “I’m Ray.”
“I’m Ted.”
“Lynn.”
“Grace.”
“Aidan.”
“Deedee.”
“Roxy.”
“Shawn.”
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Mim.”
They laughed, warmly, and I smiled with them, then made a show of checking my watch. “Damn. I’ve got to meet a guy on the steps.”
A chorus of “ohs” and “wells” and sighs, the brush with fame apparently over.
“You guys really like the music?”
Nods and “yes” and “hell yeah” and “totally” and even a “you guys rock.”
“You know, I’m working on something,” I said, reluctantly. “I’d love to hear what you guys think. Can you give me twenty minutes and meet me down there?”
Ray, the young man who had found me first, took command. “Twenty minutes? Hell yeah, we’ll totally be there.”
“About five o’clock,” I said.
Eager faces, more nods, and I told them I would see them shortly, and when I stepped outside, easily half of them were already dialing their mobile phones, calling their friends, telling them to hurry. Outside, there was no glimpse of Hoffman or Marcus, and no one in a black Columbia Sports Wear parka. The rain had all but stopped, and so had the wind, and people were lowering umbrellas, shaking them out as they hustled along the sidewalk.
I understood why he’d picked the location. Pioneer Courthouse Square is an open city block, red brick, and on its east side it faces the old Pioneer Courthouse. It’s flat, but built on a slope, and tiers—or steps—run along its north, west, and south sides, descending to the open floor. There’s no specific entrance to the Square, and no exit, and you can get in or out from any point with ease. Traffic runs along all four sides, one way, with the westbound MAX trains running up Morrison and the eastbound ones coming down Yamhill. People loiter in the Square, people cut through the Square, people stop to chat in the Square. They come with lattes and chai teas, they buy hot dogs and crepes from the vendors.
Now the Square was mostly empty, with pedestrians stepping around puddles as they moved through it. In another few weeks a Christmas tree would go up, and a month or so after that, the place would be packed for New Year’s Eve. There would be pageants and fairs for those who had acquired permits, and people would come, because it was one of the most popular places in town.
He could come from any direction, leave from any direction. From any corner, he’d be able to take in all of the space. He’d spot me in an instant and I would never know, because I didn’t even know what he looked like outside of a ski mask and black parka. If he didn’t like what he saw, he could leave without even breaking stride. Those were his advantages, why he’d chosen this space.
I could only hope that they didn’t outweigh my own, a growing mob of teenagers clustered in a Starbucks, watching me through the windows.
I took a seat on the south side of the Square, on the steps about four rows from the bottom, setting the guitar case to my side. The brick was cold and wet. The clouds had gone higher, but the sunset was making it difficult to gauge them. I didn’t want it to rain; guitars like to stay dry.
I’d dropped a new set of strings in the case, so I got out the Taylor and replaced the missing E, thinking that Steven would be chewing my ass if he didn’t see me replace the other five, too. But I didn’t have time, and if he had been there and known what was happening, maybe he would have forgiven me. It took all of six minutes to get the string placed and tuned, and I put the Taylor away and shut the case when I was finished.
My hands weren’t shaking anymore. I thought about lighting a cigarette, sat watching the people pass. Up at the Starbucks, the cluster of teens had emerged. The group had already doubled in size, and the mobiles were still going. Modern communication, letting all their buds know about my impromptu concert. All were trying not to be obvious about looking my way.
For my sake and theirs, I hoped they would be convincing.
Four minutes to five, by my watch.
A police car went by, driving up Morrison. It was the second I’d seen in the past three minutes. It was moving slowly, but that was probably due to traffic. I craned my head around, trying to see if there were others, and then I saw Marcus standing at the northwest corner, near Starbucks.
No, I thought. God no, please no.
Hoffman was at the northeast corner, the one in front of me, to my right.
They had to have picked me up when I’d gone back for the Taylor. They had to have been watching the car, knowing I’d come back for the guitar.
I checked the other corners, southeast and southwest, saw men and women loitering, talking. Which were cops?
I looked back at Hoffman, but she wasn’t looking my way, watching as a MAX train came to a stop on Morrison.
They had the same problem I did, I realized. They knew they were waiting; they just didn’t know who they were waiting for. Like me, the lack of knowledge trapped them. Parka Man would have to make the first move.
But there was no sign of him. I’d hoped he’d take my terms, that he’d decide the money was his first priority, that Tommy and I only came second. It had seemed to make sense when I’d conceived it: he would hesitate, then decide killing us could come later, after he’d secured the cash. I’d put his greed ahead of his self-preservation.
Apparently, I’d been wrong. Now, Tommy would be dumped in the Willamette, and some night soon, I’d wake up in the dark to find a gun at my head again. Only this time the photographs would be taken hours later, and by technicians who had maybe been to my house once already.
A new train pulled to the stop on Morrison, began kicking out passengers. I glanced at my watch, read a minute past five. The desire for a drink seemed to rise with the cold beneath me.
When I looked up, a man in a black parka was coming down the stairs on the opposite side of the Square. He was taking them slowly, one at a time, pausing after each, and after the third, he stopped and surveyed the area, and then his gaze snagged on me.
