I’d wasted most of the day waiting for Mishkin, but it wasn’t a total loss. Apart from my free session with Sveta, Mishkin had instructed the front desk to comp my stay. Since Lucy and her corporate credit card had never showed up, my friends at the Bulletin would be happy about that.
I went outside and waited for the parking attendent to bring my car. Two young guys, one in a gold vest and another exuding all the health and charm of a heroin addict, stood there lighting up. I tried to stand where the secondhand smoke wouldn’t drift my way.
The valet pulled my Jeep around to the front of the hotel. I handed him a couple of bucks and pulled out, fiddling with my cell and hands-free cable. I hated talking while I drove, but if Jon or Lucy called, I wanted to know as soon as possible.
There’d be congestion near the hotel, but the Merritt Parkway should be clear by the time I got on it and with any luck I’d be home by 10 P.M.
Can a road be sexy? If it can, then the Merritt is one sexy road. There’s a pitch and sway to it that can make you feel like you’re dancing with two tons of steel. The more times you drive it, the better you know when to stay to the right and when to lean to the left. And the trees are beautiful. You’d never think that most of the time you’re only five minutes away from a Home Depot or a Wal-Mart. There’s even a spot near one of the few gas stations where a cell tower has been camouflaged with fake branches-Pinus cell-ostrobus, someone had dubbed it-to make it less offensive.
I was about an hour into the drive and the light was fading. Through the trees the sky had turned pink, then orange, then inky blue. The Jeep’s headlights turned on automatically. And so did those of the car trailing a little too close behind me. I checked the speedometer. I was going sixty-five mph, fine for me at this hour, and if he wanted to pass, why the hell didn’t he just do it? No one else was around. All right, be cool. Some drivers like to have a lead pony, especially at night. I sped up a tiny bit. He kept pace.
A friend of mine used to be a regional sales rep for a pharmaceutical company and found herself driving all over the East Coast at odd hours of the day or night. She bought an inflatable man doll, and would strap him into the passenger seat for nervous-making occasions just like this. She’d put sunglasses and a hat on him, and throw one rubber arm over the back of his seat to make it seem like she wasn’t alone. When she started calling him Ronald, we all got a little worried.
Just pass, you moron. I tensed up, then relaxed a bit as we swung around a long curve and I saw a third car behind the guy trailing me.
I knew there was a Mobil station ahead on the right, and decided to stop for a pee break and a diet Snapple, and to lose my convoy. I signaled well in advance of the stop and pulled in to the middle of the rest area, beyond the pumps, the dog run, and the minimarket.
First one car, then the other, pulled in. They killed their lights fast, and crawled to the far end of the rest area.