“We have to get inside somewhere,” I said as we hurried along, dodging shoppers picking over the fresh greens on a sidewalk display. “You’re too conspicuous.”
“Me?” Patience said. “What about you? You don’t exactly blend into the neighborhood, either, in your vintage getup.”
“Fine, we both need to get our keisters out of sight. Suggestions?”
Patience yanked me into a large souvenir shop. We moved toward the back of the shop, where we pretended to browse a rack of silk robes. The shop was packed floor to ceiling with colorful merchandise, which, combined with the dim lighting, would make it difficult for someone on the sidewalk to spot us.
“Do you have a cell phone?” I asked Patience, keeping my head low to hide my face, though my eyes were fixed on the front windows. “I think it’s time to call Carlos to the rescue.”
Patience reached into her skirt pocket and handed me a square piece of glass encased in plastic. It was much more complicated than other cell phones I’d seen. I stared at it and handed it back to her. “I have no idea how to work this thing. You dial.”
“What’s his number?”
Dangitall. I always thought of myself as having a good memory, but I couldn’t remember his number. I was clearly out of sorts lately.
“You don’t know it, do you?” Patience said. “Why don’t I just call 911?”
“What are you going to say?” I asked. “We’re being chased by someone currently in lockup?”
“I’ll think of something.” Patience rolled her eyes and started to dial. “Aw, crap—duck!”
We crouched behind the rack of silk robes just as Not Sailor paused in front of the store. The shop owner, a petite middle-aged woman, stared at us nervously from her seat near the cash register. Patience put her finger to her lips in the universal shushing gesture, which seemed only to make the woman more agitated.
“Please,” Patience whispered loudly. “That man outside is chasing us. He’s bad news. Very bad man.”
The shop owner glanced at the sidewalk, where Not Sailor was staring into the shop, stone-faced. She stood, grabbed an emerald green silk robe, and marched across the store, flinging open the door.
Patience and I exchanged a worried look. “Be ready to bolt,” Patience whispered.
“Robes for sale!” the shop owner shouted loudly at Not Sailor in a heavy accent, thrusting the robe at him. “Very nice robes. I make you good price. Come, come! Come in!”
Not Sailor ignored her. He took an old-fashioned watch out of his pocket, checked it, then turned and left.
The woman locked the door, walked back toward us, and winked. “That should take care of him,” she said, the accent gone. “Would you like me to call the police for you? That was one mean-looking fellow.”
Patience and I started laughing, relieved and grateful. “No, thank you,” I said. “Is there a back door?”
“This way, ladies,” the shop owner said, and led us to a fire exit at the rear that opened onto an alley. “Be careful. And if you’re ever in the market for beautiful silk robes, you know where to find me.”
• • •
“I need a damned drink,” Patience said, ducking into Brandy Ho’s on Columbus. “Your treat, remember?”
It was two o’clock in the afternoon and there were only a few customers in the lounge: a young couple in one booth, a single man sitting at the horseshoe-shaped bar and staring at the baseball game playing on the television mounted on the wall.
“I, uh, don’t have any money on me,” I said.
She gave me a withering look. “Figures. I’ll treat. Like I said, you might want to look into having your things grafted onto your body.”
“It’s not like I make a habit of forgetting my things,” I said. “It was a rather . . . unusual situation.”
“Really? I get chased all the time by men who are the spitting image of a dear one, and you don’t see me forgetting my wallet.”
The possibility that Not Sailor would return to Sailor’s apartment and take my things gnawed at me. How could I have left them there? My first instinct should have been to grab them on my way out, no matter how big a hurry I was in.
A waitress came over to take our order.
“Vodka martini, dry, and the salt-and-pepper fried calamari,” Patience said, snapping the menu shut. “You?”
“I’ll have a Co—ke,” I said. I had almost asked for a Co-Cola, which was the way my mama always referred to soda pop. But Patience would never let me live that one down.
“Living life right on the edge as usual, eh, Lily?” Patience said with an ironic smile.
“I think it’s best I keep on my toes,” I said.
“You’re worried about your backpack.”
I had been worried about the backpack. Now I was worried Patience was reading my mind. I made sure my guard was up.
“And now you’re worried I’m reading your mind,” Patience said.
I didn’t say anything. The waitress arrived with my Coke and told Patience her martini was on the way. I took a sip and let the familiar sensation of sweet bubbles play on my tongue and bring me back to reality. After our adrenaline-filled escape, I was feeling the crash.
“I’m not reading your mind, princess,” Patience said, her tone almost kind. “Under the circumstances, it doesn’t take a psychic to figure out what you’re thinking. Want to use my phone to call the store and warn them, just in case? I’ll show you how to dial it.”
“Good idea,” I said. Patience’s smartphone wasn’t as complicated as I thought it would be, so I took it and went outside, walking past the Flatiron Building to the corner of Columbus and Pacific. It was a busy intersection, with cars whizzing past and pedestrians hurrying along. The
