by Matt Richtel
Something about Sandy does not add up. The blowhard has turned sophisticated communicator. Unpredictable. Were I a TV producer, I might have picked her too.
“So is this stuff available on the market? Can I see the kinds of products you’re talking about?”
For a second, she holds my stare. It’s subtle but revelatory. This woman lacks self-awareness but she’s no fool, and a tiny distant light turns on for her; she senses I’m homing in on something but she’s not sure what or why. She looks away.
“Earth clown,” I venture.
“What?”
I’m thinking about the weird Chinese characters: Earth clown. “Sorry, rambling. It’s something I heard about from Jill Gilkeson, Kathryn’s mother.”
She blinks three times, seemingly lost.
“Look, Sandy, I know you work at PRISM. I found it online.”
She takes it in. She shrugs. Maybe, she thinks, this is possible. “So why pretend you didn’t know what I’m doing, Mr. Reporter?” She doesn’t seem disturbed by this revelation.
“I don’t know what PRISM is. It looks like some software mill, some modest real estate here, headquarters overseas.”
She laughs. “It’s the new thing, blending American know-how with this crazy work ethic they’ve got over there. They’re dying for a piece of what we’ve got. They want to catch up.” She pauses. “Off the record!”
“You’re doing all this marketing, the tiny jugglers, for PRISM?”
She shakes her head. “I told you as much as I can. You know how these non-disclosures work. But stay tuned. I’ll definitely get you in the loop as soon as we’re ready to announce anything. It’ll be a great scoop.”
We sit there looking at each other, an impasse coming on quickly.
My phone rings. She’s still holding it in her open palm. On the caller ID, I can see the word “Faith.” Sandy looks at it.
“I should take this.” I snag the phone and put it to my ear. “Hi, it’s Nat.”
“Can I trust you?”
“Of course.”
“I need help. Now.”
19
I stand and hold up an index finger to Sandy, indicating I’ll be right back. I walk to the edge of the deck.
“Where are you, Faith?”
“He’s following me.”
“Who is?”
“I’m near your office. There’s a pizza place where they give massages. Do you know it?”
“Who is following you, Faith?”
“The man with the Mercedes. The bald man from this morning.”
A vicious wind whips in from the bay. Frothy waves smack against the pillars of the deck below me. I cup my fingers over the mouthpiece.
“Where’s the man now?”
“In his car, a block away, double-parked in front of a head shop.”
“Does he know you’ve seen him?”
“No.” She pauses. “I’m an actress.”
The sentence strikes something deep in me. It feels both like a bit of a non sequitur and the single most honest thing Faith has told me.
“Order a slice of the mushroom and pepperoni.”
“What?”
I feel something on my shoulder, like a tap, but it’s another burst of wind passing over the deck. My knees go weak and I have this sensation I’m going to turn around and find Polly standing behind me, Isaac in her arms. I turn. There is no one. Not even Sandy. She’s no longer sitting at the table. I squint through the drizzle into the restaurant/bar, seeing only a smattering of young revelers. Maybe Sandy’s gone inside but I figure she’s taken off, the phone call giving her an easy exit.
“You want me to order pizza?”
“Yep. Avoid the massage. I’m coming.”
I case the parking lot outside the Ramp and see no sign of Sandy or her car. I dial her as I climb into my Audi. The call goes directly to voice mail.
Traffic is not accommodating. It’s clogged by the tail end of rush hour and rain; everything in the Bay Area moves fast—ever faster by the year—except for drivers in the rain. For some reason, the slightest drizzle seems to stymie this population, leading to agonizing jams. We don’t need GPS; we need hybrids. I hop onto Third Street and take it toward downtown, against the commuters, angry less about the overly cautious drivers than the two mystery women in my life.
Sandy says she is marketing new technology designed to help children cope with the onslaught of information in the computer age. On its face, that’s not necessarily noteworthy. But the company’s parent is Chinese, like the characters written on a piece of paper left beside the computer of dead Alan Parsons. And someone duped me into thinking Sandy Vello was dead. You don’t have to be a modern-day, mild-mannered blogger to toy with going old school: grabbing the narcissistic reality-show contestant by the lapels and shaking her until she comes clean. Or maybe I just need to keep pumping her with unctuous questions until she looses a revelation I sense she’s holding just under the surface.
Or, just maybe, she’s less fool and more fatale than I’m giving her credit for.
Why did she disappear from the Ramp? Were my questions, or her answers, making her uncomfortable?
And what to make of Faith? With her, the lapel shaking should come sooner rather than later. Why did she disappear from Alan’s house? What’s she doing back in my neighborhood? Does she have some connection to Sandy?
Who is following her?
My phone, which is nestled between my legs, buzzes and hops a millimeter off the gray leather upholstery. Incoming text. The sound and sensation catch me sufficiently off guard that I, though traveling only a few miles an hour, slam on the brakes. In neurological terms, the digital stimulation is called a sudden onset; the primitive parts of my brain react to surprise, overriding focus on other activities, like not crashing. Behind me, a horn blares. Then another.
I look at the phone. The message is from Sandy. “U still here?”
With traffic inching ahead, I balance the phone on the wheel and tap out: “You disapeard so I lef.”
A second later, a text returns. “bathroom. guys r so impatient. u coming back?”
I’m about to tap out a response when she texts again. “Nevr mind. Ive got plans. I was going to TELL ALL. Ha.”
I look up again and realize I’m well down Pine Street, the thoroughfare where I need to turn left to get to Polk, my office, Faith and the shiny-headed man in the black Mercedes. The phone slips from my hand onto the floor as I pull a hard left, narrowly making the turn and avoiding the curb. Sandy and her texts are proving unpredictable and dangerous. I’m reminded of the popular bumper sticker: Honk if you love Jesus, Text if you want to meet him.
Pine Street flows smoothly and ten minutes later, I find a parking spot a block from Polk. I pick up the phone from the floor and dial.
“Where are you?” Faith asks by way of answering.
“A block away. Parked. Is the man in the Mercedes still there?”
“Yes. Are you coming?”
I hear a tap on the driver’s window and I jump. A woman holds a tattered black umbrella over her head with her right arm. Tucked under her left arm is a small, scruffy brown dog, curly-haired, pink tongue extended between the teeth. Its eyes are blank white, like an albino. It’s blind. I grit my teeth, girding myself against an instant of horror and then a wave of nausea. I look up and into the sunken eyes of the gray-haired beggar. She’s got a tiny square stud piercing her right nostril. I pause on it; the chief nurse who delivered Isaac had one just like it. I look back at her eyes, and she returns my unintentionally hard gaze. She blinks, looking startled, like I’ve frightened her, and takes a step back. She shakes her head, as if to say, “I’m not interested in your money.”
“Nathaniel!” It’s Faith, from the phone. Her bark brings me back to reality and realization: My concussed brain remains on the fritz. I feel like my thought process and focus keeps slipping off the tracks. “Are you coming or not?”
I clear my dry throat. “He asked you
to come to the subway. Alan.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’ll explain. It’s straightforward.”
“Do you know Sandy Vello?”
“Who? Nat. This isn’t funny.”
“Kathryn Gilkeson?”
“What is this about?” The recently revealed actress sounding baffled.
“What are you doing in my neighborhood, Faith?”
“The man in the car started following me at Safeway, an hour ago. I didn’t want him to follow me home. Are you coming to the rescue or not?”
To the rescue. I nearly laugh. How can I resist?
“Faith . . .”
“What?”
“I’m tired of being the one person in this mystery who is not holding any cards.”
“I told you I’d explain.”
That’s not what I’m getting at. I tell Faith that there’s a café next door to the pizza joint. It has a back door that leads to a small alley. I want her to go to the café, order a large coffee, sit down at a table, spend five minutes hanging out, and then go into the back as if going to use the restroom. Instead, she’s going to escape into the alley, where I tell her that I’ll come to meet her.
“Doesn’t the pizza joint have a back door?” she asks.
“Yes. But I don’t need pizza. I need coffee. Black, please.”
“Nat. This is really serious. I’m scared. Why do we need to go through this charade?”
“Trust me.”
Because I need time. I’m formulating a plan. It’s half-baked, like my concussed brain. But I’ve got to try something. I’ve got to try to turn the tables.
20
Across the street from where I’m parked is a small grocer that carries the staples of modern life: bread and canned goods, cheap liquor and tobacco, and cell phones. A plump woman standing behind the counter, prematurely wearing dentures, sells me a Motorola phone that a decade ago would’ve been among the most powerful mobile computers on the planet. The computational zing wrapped in its dime-a-dozen metallic clamshell would’ve been housed in a block-long warehouse, a veritable state treasure. Now it’s near the lowest rung on the technology ladder—so much so, it’s displayed behind the counter next to boxes of condoms and antihistamine. And it costs only $35, provided that I also load it with one hundred minutes of pre-paid talk time for an additional $23. I don’t have to sign any contracts or sign up under my own name.
I unwrap the phone and then stand momentarily stymied where to toss the disemboweled packaging. Into the black trash bin, the blue recycling one, or the green container for compost? Trash, I conjecture. I turn on the phone. It’s got some battery life, but not much. I offer the woman a dollar if she’ll let me plug my new phone into the wall outlet for five minutes. She shrugs.
“You’re not the first,” she says.
Five minutes later, I’m back in my car with a new pre-paid phone and a meager plan. I tuck the new phone into my pocket and use my existing one to call Faith. When she answers, I say: “Are you ready?”
“With a tall cup of No Doze with your name on it. Let’s go, please.”
“See you in the alley.”
To avoid driving past the man in the Mercedes parked on Polk Street, I drive around the block in the other direction. I slide into the alley behind the café. The alley—lined with dozens of the holy trinities of state-approved garbage, recycling and compost cans—is such a tight fit that Faith must squeeze sideways to get into the car. As she twists her body, I glance at the short brown skirt that comes only to her knee, slit up to her thigh, not the least bit practical unless Faith was expecting a summer day to suddenly break out or she wants attention focused on her legs.
She hands me the coffee. I take a big slug, grimacing as the scalding liquid scorches the roof of my mouth.
“It’s even more exhilarating if you pour the whole thing on your head.” She smiles and my heart skips a beat—either from caffeine or the stimulant created by Faith’s proximity. Maybe it’s the same neurological mechanism.
I’m about to make a comment about the fact that it’s strange to me that Faith is composed enough to joke even though she’s allegedly being stalked, when she says: “Thank you for the rescue.”
I swallow hard. I put the coffee into the center console and drive in silence to the end of the alley. I take a left, drive half a block, take another left and drive two blocks, then take another left heading back toward Polk. Just before the intersection, I park in a red loading zone in front of a neighborhood bar called Leap Year. I feel Faith watching me. I turn to her and then back to Polk; half a block up the street, double-parked as it has been, sits the black Mercedes.
“He’s going to see us.” The anxiety is back in her voice.
“We’re behind him. No streetlight shining on us. If he sees us he’d have to turn the car around and we’d be outta here.” But I’m irritated that maybe she’s right. “You have any tips, Faith?”
“Tips?”
“On doing surveillance. You seem to have the knack.”
“I don’t want to do this. I want to be somewhere safe.”
“You’re free to go at any time.”
“You know he’d see me.”
“Then we’re stuck with each other—for now.”
She doesn’t respond.
“Aren’t you curious who is following you?” I turn to look at her. Her eyes glisten with tears. “What’s going on, Faith?”
She sniffles once, then takes a deep breath. With the tips of her fingers, she wipes moisture from under her right eye. She looks at me, suddenly composed.
“So he’s dead? Alan.”
“I think he had a heart attack. I don’t think he was . . .” I don’t finish because I’m not sure whether he died of natural causes. He’d seemed hurt when he fell into me. Maybe his heart was already giving out. Or maybe someone drugged him, before or after our collision.
Faith interrupts my introspection. “Are you sick too?”
“No, why . . .”
“When you saw Alan, you . . . passed out.”
I don’t respond.
“Then it touched a nerve,” Faith says. “You’ve lost someone.”
I think: Ain’t that the truth. My first true love, Annie Kindle, drowned five years ago in a lake in Nevada. My paternal grandmother, Lane, though still alive, suffers intensifying dementia. Polly, who was going to make it all better, left me. Things I love die or go away.
“I was disoriented.” I finally offer my explanation. “I’ve got a concussion.” So, yeah, I think, sick, in a way.
“It’s not my fault.”
“Why would my concussion be your fault, Faith?”
“I was just doing him a favor. That’s it.” She sounds just a tad defensive but maybe fairly so; a man is dead.
“Hold that thought.”
The man in the Mercedes steps out of the car. He’s tall and thin, more leg than torso. He looks in the direction of the café where I picked up Faith and cocks his head. He closes the car door and starts walking to the café: gangly, awkward strides, long arms, pink head, birdlike. He’s favoring his left leg, but at this distance in the dark I can’t settle on a diagnosis. Maybe lower back pain.
“He knows I’m gone,” says Faith.
The man disappears into the café. I can imagine he’s looking around, checking the bathroom, then asking the tattooed dude behind the counter whether he’s seen a brunette in a brown skirt. At some point, he’ll realize Faith disappeared through the alley or he’ll wonder if he lost focus and missed her wandering out the front.
“There he is,” Faith says.
“Turkey vulture.”
“What?”
“He moves like a bird.”
“Absolutely does. The way he cocks his head, a buzzard. You know your birds of prey.”
Back at his car, he finds a ratty-haired man in decrepit full-length coat looking through the back window and scratching his arms. Crack addict. The buzzard pul
ls out a wallet. He extracts a bill. He holds it up so that the druggie can see it. He drops the dollar onto the ground behind the car.
The addict shrugs and bends to pick up the money. As he starts to stand, the buzzard launches a soccer-style kick at the druggie’s head. Just before he’s about to make contact, the gangly attacker pulls back, sparing the druggie a terrific blow, causing him to fall to the street in a ball.
“Oh God,” Faith says.
“Mean buzzard.”
He climbs into the Mercedes. No sooner does exhaust start to come from his tailpipe than he is off. He peels into light traffic, cutting off a diminutive European smart car made for parking, not surviving crashes.
I pull out to follow. The Mercedes is separated from us by the smart car and an old-model sedan coughing exhaust.
“Take me to my car,” Faith says.
I don’t answer.
“You’re kidnapping me.”
“You think this guy is just playing around?”
“I . . .”
“Help me find out what’s going on so that we can both feel safe.”
Faith crosses her arms across her chest, resignation. The Mercedes takes a left onto Bush Street, a thoroughfare that heads in the direction of downtown.
“At least tell me what we’re doing.”
“I’m following him to see where he goes and you’re going to continue telling me how you happened to observe my almost murder by subway.”
I take the left onto Bush. I’m now separated from the Mercedes by only the sedan, a Buick. But I doubt he would be able to see us in the darkness and drizzle. The light turns green. We continue toward downtown.
A few blocks later, the Mercedes takes an abrupt, illegal left turn onto Grant Street beneath an enormous green gate with an orange dragon on the top. Chinatown.
I hear a honk and realize I’ve stopped in the middle of the street. The Mercedes is half a block away now but moving slowly; not surprising given Chinatown’s narrow streets and the challenge of navigating a handful of jaywalkers, the very last of the night’s produce, and shoppers toting bags.
The Mercedes’s taillights disappear over a slight hill.
