about?” Bernie asks.
“She’s a witness.”
“To what?”
“It’s just a case, B.” The details of which he’d just as soon keep to himself.
Traffic picks up after the I-45/610 split.
Jay puts on his right-turn signal, wanting to ease over in time for the 59 exit that’ll take him to Fifth Ward and Bernie back to her father’s church, where she was typing the programs for Sunday’s service when he picked her up before the interview. He looks in his rearview mirror, searching for an opening in the next lane. The Native Houstonian is behind him now, one lane over. Jay waits for the truck to pass, then moves over to the right lane, pulling right in front of a black late-model Ford. He studies the car in his rearview mirror.
At first he can’t make sense of it, why the sight makes him so ill at ease.
Then he remembers the strip club’s parking lot.
There was a Ford LTD, black like this one, parked next to him. And now here’s one again, some fifteen miles down the freeway, riding right behind him.
Jay rolls down the driver-side window, sending a hot gust of exhaust into the car. He adjusts the side-view mirror, pivoting the glass just so, until he can, through smoke and freeway dust, make out a rough image of the Ford’s driver: a white man wear ing sunglasses and a tie, with close-cropped hair. The driver is smoking a cigarette, which he, just then, throws out of his win dow. Without signaling, the man abruptly changes lanes, jump ing out from behind Jay and into the next lane over, cutting off a blue station wagon in the process. As the Ford passes Jay on the left, the driver turns in his direction, looking right into the car, looking right at Jay. It’s no more than a few seconds, but it’s just long enough to anchor the feeling in Jay’s gut: someone is tailing him.
As the freeway splits, concrete parting ways, the black Ford continues on 45 North as Jay veers right onto the exit ramp for Highway 59. He tries to make out the Ford’s license plate num ber, not watching where he’s going. He almost rear-ends the car in front of him. Bernie puts her hand on the dash, bracing her self. She turns and looks at her husband, the sweat coming down his face. “Roll up the window, would you, Jay? It’s got to be at least ninety degrees outside.”
Jay does as he’s told, and it’s suddenly quiet in the car again.
“What is the matter with you anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
Bernie snaps off the radio. “You been acting funny, Jay, for days.”
This would be his shot, he realizes. His chance for a confes sion, to tell it all: the article in the paper, his trip to the crime scene, and his fears about being connected to a murder. But he doesn’t mention a word of it. “It’s just work, B.”
He reaches over and pats her knee. Bernie looks down at his hand as if someone had laid a cold fish in her lap. She lifts the hand, returning it to its owner, then turns and stares out the window on her side, watching the cars in the next lane. There’s something she wants to say to him, and he can tell she’s search ing for the right tone. “You don’t talk a lot, Jay,” she starts. “I knew that when I married you. You don’t talk about your mother, your father, and you sure won’t talk about your sister.” She sighs, the sound a kind of sad whistle through her front teeth. “But it’s six years now, Jay, you and me. I guess I thought you’d have let me in by now, that’s all.”
She turns the radio back on, lets the music fill the space between them.
“I have a doctor’s appointment on Friday,” she says finally. “Can you take me or should I ask Evelyn?”
“I’ll take you,” he says.
“Fine.”
The rest of the ride back is stiff.
He drops Bernie off in front of her father’s church, but doesn’t go inside. He takes surface streets back to his office, checking his rearview mirror every few seconds. He thinks of the black Ford and the guy behind the wheel. White, early
“She’s a witness.”
“To what?”
“It’s just a case, B.” The details of which he’d just as soon keep to himself.
Traffic picks up after the I-45/610 split.
Jay puts on his right-turn signal, wanting to ease over in time for the 59 exit that’ll take him to Fifth Ward and Bernie back to her father’s church, where she was typing the programs for Sunday’s service when he picked her up before the interview. He looks in his rearview mirror, searching for an opening in the next lane. The Native Houstonian is behind him now, one lane over. Jay waits for the truck to pass, then moves over to the right lane, pulling right in front of a black late-model Ford. He studies the car in his rearview mirror.
At first he can’t make sense of it, why the sight makes him so ill at ease.
Then he remembers the strip club’s parking lot.
There was a Ford LTD, black like this one, parked next to him. And now here’s one again, some fifteen miles down the freeway, riding right behind him.
Jay rolls down the driver-side window, sending a hot gust of exhaust into the car. He adjusts the side-view mirror, pivoting the glass just so, until he can, through smoke and freeway dust, make out a rough image of the Ford’s driver: a white man wear ing sunglasses and a tie, with close-cropped hair. The driver is smoking a cigarette, which he, just then, throws out of his win dow. Without signaling, the man abruptly changes lanes, jump ing out from behind Jay and into the next lane over, cutting off a blue station wagon in the process. As the Ford passes Jay on the left, the driver turns in his direction, looking right into the car, looking right at Jay. It’s no more than a few seconds, but it’s just long enough to anchor the feeling in Jay’s gut: someone is tailing him.
As the freeway splits, concrete parting ways, the black Ford continues on 45 North as Jay veers right onto the exit ramp for Highway 59. He tries to make out the Ford’s license plate num ber, not watching where he’s going. He almost rear-ends the car in front of him. Bernie puts her hand on the dash, bracing her self. She turns and looks at her husband, the sweat coming down his face. “Roll up the window, would you, Jay? It’s got to be at least ninety degrees outside.”
Jay does as he’s told, and it’s suddenly quiet in the car again.
“What is the matter with you anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
Bernie snaps off the radio. “You been acting funny, Jay, for days.”
This would be his shot, he realizes. His chance for a confes sion, to tell it all: the article in the paper, his trip to the crime scene, and his fears about being connected to a murder. But he doesn’t mention a word of it. “It’s just work, B.”
He reaches over and pats her knee. Bernie looks down at his hand as if someone had laid a cold fish in her lap. She lifts the hand, returning it to its owner, then turns and stares out the window on her side, watching the cars in the next lane. There’s something she wants to say to him, and he can tell she’s search ing for the right tone. “You don’t talk a lot, Jay,” she starts. “I knew that when I married you. You don’t talk about your mother, your father, and you sure won’t talk about your sister.” She sighs, the sound a kind of sad whistle through her front teeth. “But it’s six years now, Jay, you and me. I guess I thought you’d have let me in by now, that’s all.”
She turns the radio back on, lets the music fill the space between them.
“I have a doctor’s appointment on Friday,” she says finally. “Can you take me or should I ask Evelyn?”
“I’ll take you,” he says.
“Fine.”
The rest of the ride back is stiff.
He drops Bernie off in front of her father’s church, but doesn’t go inside. He takes surface streets back to his office, checking his rearview mirror every few seconds. He thinks of the black Ford and the guy behind the wheel. White, early
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