with brush-cut black hair and a feral face. He wore a dark suit jacket over an open shirt, matching pants. Harry could see the glint of a gold chain around his neck.
They stood outside the car for a few moments, talking. Then the heavy man took a final drag on his cigarette, flung it away, put his fist to his mouth, and coughed. They went up the steps and into the restaurant.
Fuck this
, Harry thought.
He waited for another twenty minutes. No more cars arrived. He got out of the Mustang, went to a phone booth outside the pizza place, and dialed the restaurant number.
“Hello?”
“Let me talk to Fallon.”
“Who?”
“Don’t fuck with me. If he’s there, put him on.”
“Who’s this?”
“You’ve got three seconds.”
“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I asked who this is.”
Harry hung up.
He went back to the car, started the engine. As he began to back up, he saw the door to the restaurant swing wide, thrust open by an unseen arm. He braked, waited.
When she came out, her copper hair flashed in the sun. She wore a sleeveless floral print dress, her hair tied in a single elaborate braid that fell down her back. She paused at the door, put on a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses, then started down the steps. He watched her walk to the BMW, get behind the wheel.
He shifted into neutral. She pulled out of the lot, came up the access ramp faster than she should have. At the top, she turned left, drove past the strip mall. For an instant, he thought he saw her head turn toward him.
He watched as she went up to the next light, stopped briefly at the red signal, and then turned right.
It would be foolish to follow her. At the speed she was going, she would be out of sight before he could even make the light. There was no sense in it. No sense at all.
He reversed the Mustang in a wide arc, knocked the stick into first. He waited for a break in the traffic, then bumped over the curb and into the street, hit the gas. There was a squeal of brakes behind him, an angry horn. He ignored it, ground the gears into second, signaled, and hit the light just as it flashed from yellow to red. He checked for cross traffic, then turned right, foot on the gas again. Far ahead, he saw the BMW brake, turn left onto a side street. He sped after it.
There was a condominium complex on the right side of the street, a supermarket on the left. He braked for a car turning right out of the complex, then passed it, swung back into the right lane. There was no oncoming traffic, so when he reached the side street he turned left without slowing, his tires squealing, the needle at forty, not wanting to lose sight of her. He shifted into third, hit the gas, and saw then that it wasn’t a side street, it was a cul-de-sac—less than a hundred feet of blacktop that ended against a knee-high guardrail. Fifty feet ahead of him, the BMW was sideways across the road, halfway through a three-point turn.
He stood on the brake, yanked the wheel to the right, downshifting at the same time. The Mustang coughed, jerked, and stalled. The front tires hit the curb, climbed slowly, and rolled back down.
She calmly finished her turn, then pulled up so that their driver’s side doors were parallel. She looked across at him, smiling faintly, her eyes unreadable behind the sunglasses.
“Why don’t you park that thing,” she said.
He did, backed up snug against the curb, shut off the ignition, and looked across at her.
“Get in,” she said.
They were driving north along the ocean, the wind blowing around them. Bicyclists raced along the shoulder of the road. The manila envelope lay on the floor at his feet.
Up close, he could see the changes in her. She was too thin, her bones close to the skin, and even though she wore sunglasses, he could see the tight wrinkles of skin around her eyes. But the spray of freckles on her shoulders and collarbone was as he remembered it. Her skin was smooth and slightly tan, and her perfume had the faint scent of
They stood outside the car for a few moments, talking. Then the heavy man took a final drag on his cigarette, flung it away, put his fist to his mouth, and coughed. They went up the steps and into the restaurant.
Fuck this
, Harry thought.
He waited for another twenty minutes. No more cars arrived. He got out of the Mustang, went to a phone booth outside the pizza place, and dialed the restaurant number.
“Hello?”
“Let me talk to Fallon.”
“Who?”
“Don’t fuck with me. If he’s there, put him on.”
“Who’s this?”
“You’ve got three seconds.”
“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I asked who this is.”
Harry hung up.
He went back to the car, started the engine. As he began to back up, he saw the door to the restaurant swing wide, thrust open by an unseen arm. He braked, waited.
When she came out, her copper hair flashed in the sun. She wore a sleeveless floral print dress, her hair tied in a single elaborate braid that fell down her back. She paused at the door, put on a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses, then started down the steps. He watched her walk to the BMW, get behind the wheel.
He shifted into neutral. She pulled out of the lot, came up the access ramp faster than she should have. At the top, she turned left, drove past the strip mall. For an instant, he thought he saw her head turn toward him.
He watched as she went up to the next light, stopped briefly at the red signal, and then turned right.
It would be foolish to follow her. At the speed she was going, she would be out of sight before he could even make the light. There was no sense in it. No sense at all.
He reversed the Mustang in a wide arc, knocked the stick into first. He waited for a break in the traffic, then bumped over the curb and into the street, hit the gas. There was a squeal of brakes behind him, an angry horn. He ignored it, ground the gears into second, signaled, and hit the light just as it flashed from yellow to red. He checked for cross traffic, then turned right, foot on the gas again. Far ahead, he saw the BMW brake, turn left onto a side street. He sped after it.
There was a condominium complex on the right side of the street, a supermarket on the left. He braked for a car turning right out of the complex, then passed it, swung back into the right lane. There was no oncoming traffic, so when he reached the side street he turned left without slowing, his tires squealing, the needle at forty, not wanting to lose sight of her. He shifted into third, hit the gas, and saw then that it wasn’t a side street, it was a cul-de-sac—less than a hundred feet of blacktop that ended against a knee-high guardrail. Fifty feet ahead of him, the BMW was sideways across the road, halfway through a three-point turn.
He stood on the brake, yanked the wheel to the right, downshifting at the same time. The Mustang coughed, jerked, and stalled. The front tires hit the curb, climbed slowly, and rolled back down.
She calmly finished her turn, then pulled up so that their driver’s side doors were parallel. She looked across at him, smiling faintly, her eyes unreadable behind the sunglasses.
“Why don’t you park that thing,” she said.
He did, backed up snug against the curb, shut off the ignition, and looked across at her.
“Get in,” she said.
They were driving north along the ocean, the wind blowing around them. Bicyclists raced along the shoulder of the road. The manila envelope lay on the floor at his feet.
Up close, he could see the changes in her. She was too thin, her bones close to the skin, and even though she wore sunglasses, he could see the tight wrinkles of skin around her eyes. But the spray of freckles on her shoulders and collarbone was as he remembered it. Her skin was smooth and slightly tan, and her perfume had the faint scent of
Similar Books
