Doubleback: A Novel by Libby Fischer Hellmann

“Who’s this guy you want me to talk to? Where do I find him?”
    “He’s inside. Should be out soon.”
    “And you want me to lure him to a bar, ply him with alcohol, and then pump him.”
    “Come on Ellie. You know how to do this. It would really help me out. Not to mention Molly.”
    I swallowed. She’d said the magic word. “When does he come out?”
    “I assume he’s on the day shift—which usually means seven to three or eight to four. It shouldn’t be long. I’ll point him out. You do the rest.”
    “Sure. I’ll just put my lips together and blow.”
    Her response was a saccharine smile.
    There were two exits from the building, one on Madison, one on Dearborn. The concrete planter on the corner gave a view of both. Using it as a base of operations Georgia studied everyone who emerged from the building. I sat on the edge of the planter, dangling my legs and pulling my dark curls, which were coiled by the humidity. I looked enviously at Georgia with her ironing-board blond hair.
    By three-twenty, the man she was waiting for hadn’t come out. Georgia checked her watch. “Sorry. I guess he doesn’t get off till four.”
    “I’m not really fond of hanging around street corners.”
    Georgia ignored me.
    By four, rush hour traffic was already clogging the streets. The heat pressed down, and a sheen of perspiration glazed my face. Droplets of sweat dribbled down my back. Lifting my hair, I fanned the back of my neck. “I’ll give it another ten minutes. Then I’m outta here.”
    Georgia leaned forward. “There he is.” She scrambled off the planter, ducked behind it, and squatted down. In other circumstances it would have been funny. “The tall guy,” she whispered.
    I squinted. A tall young man exited onto Dearborn. His hair looked like something from the last century. Pens sprouted from the pocket of his shirt. The only modern accessory I spotted was a satchel—a cross between a backpack, briefcase, and purse—worn across his chest. He turned south on Dearborn.
    “Pen-pocket?” I asked.
    “That’s him.”
    “Jesus, Georgia. I’m old enough to be his mother.”
    “Which is why he’ll appreciate you picking him up.”
    I scowled. “Where are you going to be?”
    She looked like she was thinking about it. “Not sure yet. But you’d better get going.”
    As I started to trot after him, the skies darkened, and the first few drops of rain spattered the sidewalk. Pen-pocket was probably headed to the subway at Monroe and Dearborn. Which meant I only had a block before he disappeared. And though the subway was well-lit, I wasn’t anxious to ride the Blue Line out to O’Hare.
    A flash of lightning and roll of thunder made people accelerate like Energizer bunnies. The rain started in earnest. Pen-pocket reached the corner of Monroe and pulled an umbrella out of his satchel. I was still half a block behind. Fortunately, the light changed to red and he stopped. Unfortunately, the rain became a downpour, and my skirt and tank top promptly got soaked. I was ready to call it a wrap—I had no desire to be left out in the rain, even for Georgia. Then I remembered I wasn’t doing this for her. I was doing this for Molly, a girl whose universe had been shattered.
    I hurried over to Pen-pocket and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned. I tried to look pathetic. It wasn’t hard. The rain, lashed by the wind, was now sheeting sideways. Even some streetlights had come on.
    “I beg your pardon,” I said breathlessly. “I would never do this, but I’m—could I share your umbrella? Just across the street to the bus stop.” I hoped there was a bus stop nearby.
    Pen-pocket looked me over quickly then tilted the umbrella my way. “Sure.”
    I tried to smile. “You are a very kind man.” I grabbed the base of the umbrella. A sudden streak of lightning and clap of thunder made me jump. Our arms touched.
    “It’s okay,” he said. “It’ll blow over.”
    “I hate thunderstorms. Especially when