I made a quick stop at the Barracuda to retrieve more cash from another of my hiding places, this one inside the driver’s seat. The address Willard had given me for his tailor was off Blanchard, close enough that a fast walk would get me there sooner than driving. Lines of pedestrians snaked to and from their holiday plans, everyone’s urgency matching my pace. I skirted the light at 4th Ave to the next block.
Forty yards behind me, a weighty guy in a zip-front running jacket and matching black pants jogged across Stewart to beat the traffic. Active wear or not, he didn’t look like jogging came natural to him. His jowls bounced a bit as he hustled along.
I turned onto 3rd. He did, too, matching my pace exactly. A block later I paused at Virginia as if deciding which way to go. Jowls stopped, instantly preoccupied with his phone.
He wasn’t alone. Another man, this one with a shock of sandy hair looking like a lit matchstick atop his puffy blue hiking coat, had halted abruptly on the other side of the avenue. He gazed with furious interest at the window display for an eyeglass store.
When I moved, they moved. I rounded the corner onto Virginia and immediately sprinted to stretch the distance between us.
Bilal’s people? These were white guys, and excepting his wife, Aura, all of Bilal’s soldiers I’d seen so far were South Asian. I considered leading the two men on a roundabout chase, maybe corner one and get some answers, but I was in a hurry.
At the next block a thick column of people had formed outside the Moore Theatre, waiting for entry. The marquee read: dec 30 / 2 shows: crater + skating polly. I wasn’t clued in to the bands, but they had drawn a big enough audience that the line for the matinee filled the sidewalk from wall to curb, all the way down the block and onto the next. I dove into the first rows.
“Hey,” a woman said.
“Sorry, dropped my keys somewhere,” I said, shuffling past and removing my barn jacket while keeping an eye on the corner. My pursuers appeared on the opposite sidewalk. I kept my head down as they scanned the streets, the crowd of theatergoers, and then the streets again with increasing desperation. I kept up my sham of searching the pavement as I edged farther back into the throng.
After another thirty seconds Jowls pointed, and his lean partner speedwalked down Virginia toward the water, in the direction they’d last seen me going. My friend in the tracksuit took a more deliberate route, walking along the avenue for a closer look at the crowd. But the mass of people had started to move, and I let myself shuffle along with it, no one giving a damn if I was cutting in line so long as they got inside themselves.
Jowls gave up and hurried after his partner. A little extra exercise for him tonight. I waited until he was out of sight, then bolted up the avenue.
Who were these guys? They could be cops—Jowls had that plainclothes vibe, not quite matching the vibe of the civilians around him—and they knew at least the basics of tailing someone, even if they needed more men or more practice. But there was no reason for cops to be following me.
At least no reason that I knew.
Which flipped me back to the other side of the coin. Bilal might have wanted me followed, to make sure I was complying with the plan to break into Ceres Biotech. Maybe he’d hired help, knowing his men would be recognized. I might not be the only one building a team.
The more worrisome question was how they had tracked me here. Had they been watching the car? Or Willard? I kept to the shadows, metaphorically speaking, on my way to the bespoke tailor.
His shop was called Giuseppe’s, and it was shaped like a wide hallway between two much grander Belltown stores. The wizened Italian guy who unlocked the shop for me either spoke little English or was so angry at being rousted from his home to fit me for a tuxedo he refused to speak. He just pointed.
I put on the black tux with the notched lapels he had indicated. He pinned the hem and the sleeves within a flat minute, and disappeared with the jacket and pants into the back of the shop.
By the time I’d used my phone to read what I could learn about the Seattle Art Museum gala online, Giuseppe had returned, placing two zippered clear garment bags on the counter along with a pair of black patent-leather shoes. He hadn’t asked my shoe size. He hadn’t measured me for a shirt, either, and I could see the top edge of a white collar on a second hanger under the tux.
I glanced at the second garment bag. A two-button suit in light wool, in slate blue with a subtle gray check paired with another white shirt and a tie the color of rust on iron.
“Should I try them on?” I said. Giuseppe’s glance was withering. It softened marginally when I put fifty hundred-dollar bills beside the register.
As he locked the door again, I surreptitiously opened the zipper and glanced at one of the suit sleeves, to make sure I wasn’t being conned. There had been no sound of a sewing machine from the back room. The cuffs had been hand-stitched, each loop precisely the same distance from the last. The old tailor would be hell at lockpicking if he chose to change professions.
I took a circuitous route back to the Barracuda, buying a pair of shoes to match the blue suit and slipping out the back of the store. Spent ten minutes checking the surroundings before approaching my car. And another twenty examining both interior and exterior with a penlight for tracking devices. I wasn’t certain that Jowls and his matchstick buddy had started tailing me at the car, but if they knew my ride and were trying to find me again, the Barracuda would be an easy choice. I even checked my own hidden compartments, in case they’d used those against me.
When I drove away, I circled the blocks around Belltown until I was sure I was alone. The feeling that I wasn’t safe proved impossible to shake.