across your name in an article published in the
“What publication do you write for?” she asked. Good to know she had her wits about her.
“I’m a freelance writer, ma’am. I haven’t sold the article yet.”
She seemed to consider that for a moment. I figured she’d probably turn me down. But then she said, “You can come by the apartment if you want. I don’t like to talk on the phone.”
She told me how to get to her place and that I could come at four o’clock. “It was a long time ago,” she said before we hung up. “I don’t know how much I’ll remember.”
“Well, you just do your best, Ms. Cacciatore. That’s all anyone can ask.”
I had some time to kill and I could see the clerk at the 7-Eleven looking suspiciously at me out the window. I pulled out of the parking lot and drove until I found a Barnes & Noble. I figured it was only a matter of time. Has anyone done any research on that? On how many miles you can drive in any direction before running into a Barnes & Noble or a Starbucks or both? Anyway, I was glad for an iced chai and a comfortable leather chair to sit in while I waited, thumbing though a copy of that day’s
It was a few minutes before the uneasy feeling that had leaked into the periphery of my consciousness got my full attention. I felt eyes on me. I shifted in my seat but didn’t raise my gaze from the paper. After a second, I put the newsprint down and stretched, casually looking around. A man stood in the Mystery section to my left reading the back cover of a paperback. He was a stocky guy in sunglasses, as big and solid as a slab of slate, baseball cap over a shaved head, an olive bomber jacket and cleaned, pressed denims. He had on a pair of heavy black boots. He glanced up at me, saw me looking at him. Did he smile, just slightly? He returned the book to the shelf, turned his back, and walked away. There was something ugly about his face. There was a cold meanness to his aura.
It wasn’t just some creepy guy staring. The thing was, he looked familiar to me. I’d seen him before. Oh, shit, the thought seized me, was it the same man I saw on the train?
My heart was fluttering. I took my chai and left the store as quickly as I could without running. The baseball cap and the sunglasses made it hard to tell if it was the same guy. Back in the Jeep, I sat breathing hard and watched the door in my rearview mirror, wondering if he’d come out after me. For some reason, I remembered the conversation I’d had with Zelda about the man she told me had been looking for me. I also flashed on what Jake had said and even what the detective had implied, that someone might have trailed me to get to Christian Luna— and that they might still be following me. I pulled the Nokia from the pocket of my coat and called Zelda.
“FiverosescanIhelpyou,” she answered. Her voice was gruff and muffled, as always.
“It’s Ridley.”
“You want a slice?”
“No. Zelda, remember you said someone was looking for me the other day? What did he look like?” I heard the background noise of the restaurant, the
“Akkch,” she said. “I can remember? WhatamIEinstein?”
“Zelda. It’s important.” I knew she could remember every detail about the guy if she wanted to. She just couldn’t be bothered. Talking was not her favorite thing to do.
“He looked like trouble. That’s what he looked like.”
“Was he a medium-sized older man, dark hair, dark eyes, base-ball cap?” I asked, hoping she’d say yes and I could go back to thinking it had been Christian Luna asking for me and forget about the B&N skinhead, chalk my fear up to paranoia.
“Nononono. That’s not him.” I waited for elaboration but none came. “Twelve fifty-five,” she said.
“Zelda,” I said.
She heaved a sigh. “Big guy. Bald—you know, shaved head. He was a punk, I’ll tell you that. Ridley, what kind of trouble are you in?”
My heart sank. “I don’t know,” I said.
“I don’t want any trouble in this building,” she said, her voice stern.
“Okay. Bye, Zelda.”
I ended the call and slunk down low in the driver’s seat, still watching the door. If he came out after me, then…I don’t know what. Then I was fucked, I guess. I caught sight of myself in the sideview mirrors because I didn’t have them set properly. I looked silly, wide-eyed like a spooked horse, hunched down, chewing on the end of my straw. “You’re paranoid,” I said to my reflection. But just as I was about to laugh at myself, I saw him come out of the double doors and gaze around the parking lot as if he was looking for something. I couldn’t tell if it was the guy from the train or not. They looked similar, but that didn’t mean anything. He turned and started walking away from the Jeep, disappeared into a crowd of people coming and going from the store. I pulled from my spot quickly while he wasn’t looking and left the lot. After driving around for a bit, with adrenaline making me shaky and distracted, I was satisfied that no one had followed me and I went to see Maria Cacciatore.
eighteen
I guess it was unrealistic of me, but I kept looking out for the Firebird while I was driving with a heart conflicted by hope and wariness. I fantasized ways that Jake could have tracked me. He could be following in another vehicle, not the Firebird, to protect me from whoever it was who might be following me. Maybe he had a way to track my credit-card usage; he’d know I rented a car, bought a cell phone in New Jersey, charged something at Barnes & Noble. PI’s could do things like that, couldn’t they? But, of course, that was just me being a dork.
I held a picture of Jake in my mind and the memory of our nights together washed over me. Whatever else he’d lied about or omitted, that had been true. There was no way to fake that kind of intimacy. Was there? Does it sound like I was kidding myself? Normally even the slightest hint of dishonesty and I walked. But in my new universe, I felt like Alice in Wonderland. Everything was strangely
When I got to the address Maria had given me on the phone, I parked the car and looked uneasily in my rearview mirror for the subway/B&N psycho. I didn’t see anyone and I laughed a little at myself then. I was really becoming paranoid. There were millions of stocky guys with shaved heads walking around, and absolutely no reason for me to suspect that the man Zelda spoke to, the one I’d seen on the train, and the B&N freak were the same. In fact, it was downright preposterous. Right?
I walked along an exterior corridor exposed to the outside, looking at numbers on the doors. When I came to apartment four, I knocked. There was a long silence inside and I wondered if Maria Cacciatore had changed her mind. I knocked again.
“Hold on, for crying out loud,” a muffled voice called from inside. “I’m coming.”
I heard a toilet flush, then water running, then heavy footfalls on the floor. The door swung open and a frowning round woman in a bright blue muumuu and matching turban stood before me.
“Ms. Cacciatore?”
She looked at my face and her frown dropped, was replaced by a look of awe. “Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she said, stepping back from me.
I looked behind me to see what she had seen, but when I turned back around, she was still staring at me.
“I’m glad you called me first,” she said. “You would have given me a heart attack.”
She stepped aside and I walked in. She didn’t take her eyes off of me.
“I don’t understand,” I said, though I think I knew exactly what she was talking about.
“You must know,” she said. “You look just like her. You’re her very image.”
When she closed the door, the room went almost completely dark. The windows were covered by red velvet curtains and the light that came in through them painted the room the color of blood. On every surface there were pillar candles in glass holders painted with the saints—you know, the kind you find in every bodega in the city. In the corner of the room sat a table covered by a dark cloth. It looked red, too. Everything in the room did, even my
