I HAD A GOOD FRIEND ONCE, Sarah and I would hang out with him and his wife every once in a while, and we’d always have a good time. We’d do dinner, maybe a movie, sometimes just go to each other’s houses and have a few drinks. And one night he phoned me, late, after Sarah had gone to bed, and told me he’d been seeing someone else, for more than a year, and that he wasn’t sure, but he might be in love with her, and I thought: Why did you tell me this? Did I really need to know?
I was his friend, and he needed to talk, but the honest-to-God truth was, I’d have been much happier being kept in the dark. I didn’t want to know that he was cheating on his wife. It shattered some illusions, first of all. I thought everyone was as happy as Sarah and I. (This was, of course, before she became saddled with me as an underling at work.) I dreaded the next time we’d all get together, the four of us, and have to pretend, when I engaged in small talk with his wife, that I did not know what I knew. Because the knowledge seemed to carry with it the burden of responsibility. Should I tell his wife? No, of course not, I told myself. Don’t get involved. But knowing something that she did not know, something that intimately affected her, overshadowed every moment of conversation. Part of me resented my friend after that. He’d implicated me in his indiscretion. He’d made me a part of his deception.
I think there’s an element of this to parenting. There are things you simply do not want to know. Weren’t there things I’d done as a teenager that it was better my parents never knew about? Maybe a couple. Perhaps even a lot. And hadn’t I turned out okay, so long as you didn’t count the paranoid, obsessive-compulsive behavior tics my dad had passed on to me? As long as your kids are okay, as long as they’re safe, as long as they’re back home in their own bed when the sun comes up, isn’t that enough?
I wish I knew.
These were the thoughts bouncing around in my head as I sat in a car just down the street from Trixie Snelling’s house. My daughter had paid her a visit. If I had not followed her out here, if I had never known she’d made this trip, I would not have had to wonder what its purpose was.
Only a few hours earlier, I’d been talking to Trixie on the phone, and as we’d caught up on each other’s news, she’d struggled to remember Angie’s name. Her faulty memory now struck me as forced, as an act, a way to preemptively throw me off the trail. Why would she not want me to know that she and Angie had been in touch?
It wasn’t as though Angie and Trixie had been friends when we’d lived out here. For most of the time we’d lived in Oakwood, none of us had known what Trixie did for a living. But by the time we moved away, we were all in on the secret.
Who’d contacted whom? Had Trixie invited Angie out? Had Angie gotten in touch with Trixie?
And if I didn’t relieve myself immediately, would I do permanent damage to my bladder?
I’d had a lot of coffee, and it had suddenly caught up with me. I uncapped the Snapple bottle that was in the cup holder between the seats, the one I’d brought along just for this very purpose, and, after unzipping, did what I had to do. It occurred to me that this would be a bad time for a police officer to do a patrol of the neighborhood and find a seemingly respectable reporter for The Metropolitan sitting alone in a car while keeping an eye on the home of a dominatrix.
Carefully, I recapped the now-full bottle, giving the cap an extra-tight turn. Rather than put the bottle back in the cup holder, I slipped it, upright, down into the storage pocket on the back of the passenger seat. It was a tight fit, which was a blessing, since there was no chance the bottle would tip or fall out.
I’d been sitting in front of Trixie’s house, staring at it and our Camry in the driveway, for nearly fifteen minutes now. I’d considered all the possibilities.
1. Angie was a client. Unthinkable.
2. Angie was an apprentice. Unimaginable.
3. Angie had decided to drop by for a cup of tea. Unbelievable.
4. Angie was getting a gift certificate for me for my birthday. Unlikely.
I happened to glance at the digital clock on the dashboard. It read 10 P.M. Nuts. I was supposed to meet Lawrence Jones at the doughnut shop at 10:30. If I left right now, I might make it in time.
But could I leave Angie out here? And could I leave without knowing why she was here?
I got out my cell phone from my jacket pocket and Lawrence’s business card from my wallet. I keyed in the office number from the card. I could ask him whether he was on schedule, and whether I could afford to be a bit late to our rendezvous.
No answer.
So I tried the second number listed, his cell.
No answer.
“Shit,” I said.
Unless I was prepared to get out of the car, knock on Trixie’s door, and demand some sort of an explanation from the two of them, there wasn’t much to be gained by hanging around. It wasn’t like I could, at this hour, pretend to drop by Trixie’s, and discover Angie there by accident. All that would accomplish would be to give Angie the idea that I was a customer.
So, riddled with reservation and doubt, I turned the key forward.
And the car said, Whirwhirwhir.
This can’t be happening, I thought. I turned the key again.
This time, not even a whir. There was no sound at all.
This was not the best place to sit and wait for the auto club to show up. I mentally crossed my fingers and turned the key a third time.
The engine caught.
I put the car into drive and sped out of Valley Forest Estates, got back onto the highway, and broke the speed limit (once I was finally able to coax the Virtue into exceeding it) all the way back into town.
I arrived at the doughnut place around the corner from Garvin Street about 10:35 P.M. and glanced at all the cars in the lot as I pulled in. I felt a weight lift from my shoulders when I didn’t see Lawrence’s Buick. At least I hadn’t kept him waiting.
I went inside. Now that I had been thoroughly drained of coffee, I felt I could accommodate some more. But, rattled as I already was by the evening’s revelations, I opted for a decaf. And an oatmeal muffin.
Some badly mangled, coffee-stained and crumb-covered sections of The Metropolitan were piled atop the garbage receptacle, and I grabbed them before I took a seat by the window, looking for a way to take my mind off Trevor and Angie and Trixie.
The inside of the shop was reflected in the glass, but I could still see outside well enough to watch for Lawrence. I glanced at my watch. It was 10:40 P.M.
I thumbed through the front section of my paper, and came upon, once again, the story I’d been reading at breakfast, about the computer nerd who shot and killed his classmates. I tossed it aside and looked at the Arts section.
I read a review of some new George Clooney movie, not really taking any of it in, and a short write-up on a $1 million advance that was being paid to some unknown writer for his science fiction thriller, which had already been optioned for a movie even before the book had hit stores. I tried to wash down my envy with the coffee, but it didn’t work. And I realized another ten minutes had gone by.
Lawrence was generally pretty punctual, but I decided to give him another five minutes before doing anything about it. I read the editorials, a few letters to the editor. My coffee cup was empty and my muffin was history.
Lawrence was still a no-show.
I dug out his business card again and phoned him. This time, I tried his cell phone first.
It rang five times, then the message kicked in. “Hi. I can’t take your call right now. Leave a message.” Typically cagey Lawrence. Didn’t even give his name.
“Hey, it’s Zack, it’s coming up on eleven, and I’m waiting for you at the doughnut shop. Call me.” And I gave him my cell number, even though I knew he already had it.
I waited another minute. I tried the office number on his business card, which I seemed to recall him mentioning once was also his home number. He lived in a second-story apartment above a shop someplace. His card gave a Montgomery Road address.
Another five rings, and a similar message.
“Hey. Zack here. I already left a message on your cell. I’m here, waiting to go get the bad guys, and get your report on Trevor. I’ve got some news of my own in that department.”
I considered the possibilities. Lawrence had run into some sort of delay, couldn’t answer his phone. Maybe he was in a bad area, under a bridge, where his cell couldn’t receive a signal.
I tried the cell again. “Hi. I can’t take your call right now. Leave a message.”
I phoned home. Paul picked up, sounding a bit groggy. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Let me talk to your mom.”
“She’s not here. She’s gone to that thing. Remember?”
With all that had happened in the last hour or so, I’d completely forgotten about the retreat. “Okay,” I said. “Have there been any calls?”
“I guess. I’ve had a couple.”
“I mean for me.”
“Uh,” Paul said dozily, “I don’t think so.” Paul’s words seemed to be running together, ever so slightly.
“Were you asleep?” I asked.
“Nope.”
I paused. “Lawrence Jones didn’t call there by any chance, say he was going to be late?”
“Lawrence who?”
“The detective? The one I’ve been seeing every night this week? The one who took me to the car auction? The one who called earlier, and you took a message? Paul, what’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. I am perfectly fine.” He worked hard to say “perfectly” perfectly. And the “I am” instead of “I’m” was a bit weird and Data-like. “Where are you?”
“At the doughnut place, a couple of blocks from Garvin. Listen, if Lawrence calls, have him call my cell.”
“Okay.” Sleepylike. Like maybe he’d had a few beers.
“Paul,” I said, “did you find what Trevor left for you out back?”
“Huh?” More awake now. “The what?”
“The six-pack. Sounds like you found it.”
“I don’t know-what?”
“He get your booze for you all the time?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Did Angie tell you-” And then he cut himself off, still sober enough to know that he was letting the cat out of the bag.
“We’re going to have a talk when I get home.”
Paul paused at the other end of the line. “Do you have any idea when that might be?”
“Probably not for a few hours. I’m sort of working right now.”
“Because I’m really tired, and going to bed, so if you’re going to ream me out, could you do it in the morning instead of when you get home?”
“Fine. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Okay. See ya, Dad.” And he hung up.
I shook my head as I hit the button to end my call. It was after eleven now. I tried Lawrence’s cell a third time, without success.
Maybe he was already in position, down the street from the men’s store. Maybe he’d gotten to the doughnut shop on time, waited a few minutes for me, and when I was a no-show, he’d left. After all, his responsibility was to Mr. Brentwood, the owner of the men’s shop, not me. He was doing me a favor letting me hang out with him; he didn’t owe me any consideration.
So I walked out of the doughnut shop and headed in the direction of Brentwood’s. I decided to leave the Virtue in the parking lot. Pulling up behind Lawrence’s Buick might attract unwanted attention on the street. There was a hint of autumn chill in the air, and I pulled my shoulders up, as if that would somehow keep me warm.
I came around the corner onto Garvin, half a block down from the men’s shop, and looked for Lawrence’s aging Buick with the brand-new rear window, not that a brand-new window was something that stood out. A quick scan of both sides of Garvin turned up nothing. The street was lined with several parked cars, but there was almost no traffic, and there was a slight drizzle starting to come down. Within a couple of minutes the street was damp and shiny.
As I walked up the street, nearly to Brentwood’s, I tried to think of other scenarios that could have delayed Lawrence. What if he wasn’t planning to come at all? What if there’d been some arrest in the case, just in the last couple of hours, and Lawrence had gotten a call about it from his contacts in the police, so there was no point in staking out Brentwood’s tonight?
Just then, a massive black SUV appeared at the top of the block. Its headlights, resting high atop the huge grill, cast a wide beam down the street.
“Jesus,” I whispered.
I sidled up against an unlit storefront, beneath an awning, as the SUV began to move slowly down the street. Then, inching along, I rolled myself around a corner and found myself in a three-foot-wide alley directly across the street from Brentwood’s. The SUV glided past, as if moving through a tall, narrow frame. I poked my head out, watched as it went up the street, turned right at the next corner, and disappeared.
I got out my cell and tried Lawrence’s cell again. Even before he’d finished his short message, I was shouting, but in a whispering kind of way, into my phone: “Man, you gotta get here! It’s going down! The bad guys are here! They’ve just gone by once and I think they’re coming around again! I’m in an alley right across the street! Where the hell are you?”
I hit the button to end my call. Even in the cool night air, I felt myself breaking into a sweat.
The cops, I thought, maybe I should call the cops. Get them out here fast, because I had a feeling, I just had a feeling that the next time these guys came around in that Annihilator they’d-
I heard the roar of the engine for only a second, then a huge crash. The sound of shattering glass and crumbling brick and twisting metal.
I looked across the street and saw the tail end of the Annihilator. The front of it was, literally, in Brentwood’s. The two back doors of the SUV flung open and two men dressed entirely in black, with black hoods or ski masks pulled down over their heads, were leaping out and charging through the destroyed storefront. The Annihilator was already backing out, then screeching to a halt, turning around and backing up to the shattered window. The rear tailgate rose automatically, and in the time it had taken for the driver to conduct this maneuver, the two guys inside had evidently cleared several racks of suits and were throwing them into the back of the SUV, then leaping back into the still-open rear doors, and now the Annihilator was back in gear and screeching up Garvin.
In another few seconds, the only sound was the alarm system, wailing irrelevantly, from inside Brentwood’s.
“Lawrence,” I said softly under my breath, “where the fuck are you, man?”