Rizzoli would fix anything. How would someone be sure which way he was leaning? And how could they be sure that he’d be persuasive enough to sway the rest of us? It all seems a little too circumstantial.”
Toby frowned. “Nothing that Buddy Higgs does to win the contest would shock me.”
My eyes bugged out in surprise at the vehemence in her voice. But before I could ask more, my phone rang. I slid it out of my back pocket. Connie.
“Girlfriend, a bunch of us are over here at the Green Parrot. The band is terrific. Are you finished working? Can you swing by for a drink?”
A half a beer with friends sounded like just the right nightcap after an unsettling day. And weren’t hops vegetables? “On my way,” I said and pressed OFF . “Let’s stay in touch,” I told Toby, and patted her thin shoulder. “I’ll definitely let you know if I hear anything else about Rizzoli. Can I walk you back to Duval Street?”
“No thanks,” she said. “I’m going to enjoy the peace and quiet for a few minutes. See you tomorrow.”
9
We live in an age when pizza gets to your home before the police.
—Jeff Marder
Wispy clouds fled across the moon, leaving striated shadows on the brick courtyard. It hadn’t rained since this afternoon, but the air felt heavy and thick. I trotted across the square, which stretched endless and enormous in the filtered moonlight without the buzz of street performers and tourists. As I reached the opening of the alley that led past the Waterfront Playhouse and out to the street, I heard another firecracker. Then a muffled but high-pitched cry. And then a splash.
I spun around. Toby was not where I’d left her. My cell phone in my hand, heart pounding, I hurried back toward the edge of the pier where we’d talked. No sign of her, but there was someone splashing frantically in the water.
“Help!” a small voice cried.
I pressed 911. “Woman overboard at Mallory Square!”I yelled, and then stuffed the phone in my sweater pocket.
I ran up to the edge of the water. “Toby, is that you?”
“Help!” she cried again. “I can’t swim.” She swatted at the water, sank briefly, then burst to the surface again, sputtering. The harder she struggled, the more quickly the current pulled her away from the dock.
I glanced around, shouting for assistance. But no one appeared. And there was no lifesaving ring, nor even a long stick that I might have used to drag her to safety.
“Lorenzo! Tony!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, my hands cupped into a megaphone, first in the direction of the tarot table, then toward the spot where I’d noticed the gathering of homeless men. “The cops are coming—tell them we’re over here. My friend is in trouble!”
I couldn’t wait to see whether either of them heard me. So I shucked off my sandals, dropped my cell phone and pack on top of them, and my sweater on top of that. I had no idea how deep the water was or what obstacles might lurk underneath. But I took a deep breath and pushed off the pier into a shallow dive.
If my mouth hadn’t been full of salt water, I would have screamed out at the shock of cold. Not cold like the ocean in New Jersey in January, but still unpleasantly chilly. I surfaced, struggling to push away a disgusting, slimy hunk of seaweed, and dog-paddled in place, looking for Toby. Already the current was pulling me away from the pier.
Toby splashed frantically a few yards from me. I breaststroked over. She slapped at the water, gasping and choking, and grabbed onto my head.
I frog-kicked, trying to make a little space between us. She held on tighter, now with a death grip on my hair. Her weight pushed me under and I had to fight to get back to the surface and breathe.
“Toby,” I sputtered, my adrenaline surging, mouth full of salt water, “I’m trying to help. But you have to let go.”
“I can’t swim,” she shrieked, and floundered until she sank a second time, pulling me down with her. I bobbed to the
Toby frowned. “Nothing that Buddy Higgs does to win the contest would shock me.”
My eyes bugged out in surprise at the vehemence in her voice. But before I could ask more, my phone rang. I slid it out of my back pocket. Connie.
“Girlfriend, a bunch of us are over here at the Green Parrot. The band is terrific. Are you finished working? Can you swing by for a drink?”
A half a beer with friends sounded like just the right nightcap after an unsettling day. And weren’t hops vegetables? “On my way,” I said and pressed OFF . “Let’s stay in touch,” I told Toby, and patted her thin shoulder. “I’ll definitely let you know if I hear anything else about Rizzoli. Can I walk you back to Duval Street?”
“No thanks,” she said. “I’m going to enjoy the peace and quiet for a few minutes. See you tomorrow.”
9
We live in an age when pizza gets to your home before the police.
—Jeff Marder
Wispy clouds fled across the moon, leaving striated shadows on the brick courtyard. It hadn’t rained since this afternoon, but the air felt heavy and thick. I trotted across the square, which stretched endless and enormous in the filtered moonlight without the buzz of street performers and tourists. As I reached the opening of the alley that led past the Waterfront Playhouse and out to the street, I heard another firecracker. Then a muffled but high-pitched cry. And then a splash.
I spun around. Toby was not where I’d left her. My cell phone in my hand, heart pounding, I hurried back toward the edge of the pier where we’d talked. No sign of her, but there was someone splashing frantically in the water.
“Help!” a small voice cried.
I pressed 911. “Woman overboard at Mallory Square!”I yelled, and then stuffed the phone in my sweater pocket.
I ran up to the edge of the water. “Toby, is that you?”
“Help!” she cried again. “I can’t swim.” She swatted at the water, sank briefly, then burst to the surface again, sputtering. The harder she struggled, the more quickly the current pulled her away from the dock.
I glanced around, shouting for assistance. But no one appeared. And there was no lifesaving ring, nor even a long stick that I might have used to drag her to safety.
“Lorenzo! Tony!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, my hands cupped into a megaphone, first in the direction of the tarot table, then toward the spot where I’d noticed the gathering of homeless men. “The cops are coming—tell them we’re over here. My friend is in trouble!”
I couldn’t wait to see whether either of them heard me. So I shucked off my sandals, dropped my cell phone and pack on top of them, and my sweater on top of that. I had no idea how deep the water was or what obstacles might lurk underneath. But I took a deep breath and pushed off the pier into a shallow dive.
If my mouth hadn’t been full of salt water, I would have screamed out at the shock of cold. Not cold like the ocean in New Jersey in January, but still unpleasantly chilly. I surfaced, struggling to push away a disgusting, slimy hunk of seaweed, and dog-paddled in place, looking for Toby. Already the current was pulling me away from the pier.
Toby splashed frantically a few yards from me. I breaststroked over. She slapped at the water, gasping and choking, and grabbed onto my head.
I frog-kicked, trying to make a little space between us. She held on tighter, now with a death grip on my hair. Her weight pushed me under and I had to fight to get back to the surface and breathe.
“Toby,” I sputtered, my adrenaline surging, mouth full of salt water, “I’m trying to help. But you have to let go.”
“I can’t swim,” she shrieked, and floundered until she sank a second time, pulling me down with her. I bobbed to the
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