After observing more close calls and indecisive maneuvers at the intersection, I trotted east. Within half a block, a pale-blue station wagon pulled up alongside. Recognizing the female Rambo at the wheel from the other day, I cut down an alley behind a row of houses and lost her, same trick as the day before, except on foot. A van out of Sacramento turned into the alley and kept pace on my heels.
“Yo, Mr. Angel, when’d you first—?”
Vans don’t double back worth a shit, especially in narrow alleys, so I made another U-turn. The alley plugged up with two vans, an SUV, and a barking golden retriever.
That threw them. Engines roared as other vehicles circled the block. Chaos reigned as they tried to sort themselves out and get a bead on me. I was in the clear for two blessedly quiet blocks. By then I’d reached Sierra Street and was chugging downhill toward Circus Circus and the garage where I’d left my car the night before.
A van pulled up and idled along with me, video camera aimed out a window. I gave them a view of a damn fine gumshoe out for his morning run before going off to find another head. It was a great morning. The sky was blue, the air cool. I’d never had an escort on a run before. Maybe I could get used to it, though if I’d had my gun I might’ve fired a round into the air to see what effect it had.
I glanced back, ignoring questions being shouted from the van. There was an entire unruly cortege of them, weaving, tailgating each other, jockeying for position. I counted eight. Somehow, I’d picked up two more. Ever since I’d found Jonnie, Reno was bursting at the seams with them.
Across the I-80 overpass, across Sixth Street against the light. I jogged into the entrance of the Circus Circus parking garage as the light changed. On they came, roaring into the garage, tires squealing on oily concrete as I trotted up the ramp between rows of parked cars, most of them with out-of-state plates.
I led them up three levels, then ducked down a flight of stairs, embarrassed for our great nation and its so-called education system. Apparently high school doesn’t teach critical-thinking skills. I could hear more squealing tires, curses echoing off naked concrete. If the video cameras were still rolling, most of this was going to end up on the editing room floor, figuratively speaking.
Out a door at street level. A local van was hugging a curb, engine idling. A Channel 4 crew. I hadn’t fooled them, but then they knew the territory. I led it east on Fifth, then south on Virginia, past Fourth. Ramboette in the blue station wagon got in front of Channel 4, then edged right and hit the brakes, forcing Channel 4 back until Lady Rambo was opposite me. It was a ballsy maneuver. I thought it should be rewarded. Three vehicles were now behind me with more on the way. Under the Reno city arch, embossed with the words “Biggest Little City In The World,” past Harrah’s Club and a bunch of touristy gift shops. Early morning pedestrians stared as we went by. A lazy right turn down a service alley halfway down the block to give everyone a chance to follow, one block west through the alley, then a sudden turn north on Sierra—wrong way up the one-way street.
An abrupt squeal of brakes, then an even louder and therefore more satisfying crunch of metal and glass. I looked back. Lady Rambo had met a Citifare bus head on. Ouch. Expensive way to start the day. I saw steam rising. I saw her hop out and glare up the street at me. I saw her give me the finger in a highly dexterous manner.
I slowed, trotted back to Virginia Street, across to Center, and looked around. I’d lost them. Hard work, but worth every lungful.
I jogged up Lake Street to the university, across the campus, around the track twelve times, then back home on various side streets, feeling better than I had in days.
I did eighty sit-ups, lifted forty-pound dumbbells, and spent a few extra minutes in the shower, lathering up and singing old Beatles tunes, including “Yellow Submarine.”
All traces of my hangover were gone. I thought I might publish the cure in JAMA one day. If I did, I’d be sure to send a copy to the Rambo gal. I was sure I could get her name and address from RPD’s traffic division, especially now that I had friends on the force. Russell Fairchild and I were getting to be pretty good pals.
* * *
I left my gun at home, still under the cushion of the couch. This time I went through the fence, not over. I found a loose plank near the northwest corner of my yard, pried it off, and the one next to it, and squeezed through.
And came face to face with Velma, who had a fistful of chopped honeysuckle in one hand, shears in the other, a glint in her eye. We stood in the shade of a leafy plum, serenaded by sparrows.
“She still over there?” Velma asked.
Ah, my big chance. “Who?”
“That girl.”
“What girl?”
“Don’t you play dumb with me, Mortimer.” She shook the shears at me. She was all gray hair and wrinkles, wore a hearing aid and weighed no more than eighty-two pounds. She had on shorts and a Grateful Dead T-shirt covered in silvery cobwebs and bits of minced honeysuckle.
She peered closer at me. “When on earth did you grow that horrible thing?”
I touched the moustache. “Something I’ve been working on.”
“Horrible. Just horrible. And that hat!”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Doesn’t suit you a-tall.”
“I was thinking about getting rid of it. You wouldn’t happen to know her name, would you?” I pulled the boards back in place. They were behind a good-sized pine tree in my yard. From the
