The minivans began to return at ten minutes to four. Parkerson watched them from the Cadillac. At five minutes past four, the office doors opened and the veterans started to emerge.
Some of them came out in pairs, some in groups. Some talked to one another, even laughed, though not many. They shook hands or waved good-bye, or walked alone to the cars and minivans at the curb. The minivans pulled away. The veterans dissipated. Parkerson waited.
Finally, the shaggy-haired kid came out of the building. There was a woman beside him, a brunette, middle-aged. The kid towered over her, even slouched as he was. He stared down at her as she talked to him. Didn’t say a thing. Finally, the woman stopped talking. She looked at the kid. They looked at each other. Then she seemed to sigh. Her shoulders deflated. She patted the kid on the arm and went back inside the building.
The kid felt around in his pockets and came out with a cigarette. Lit it and started across the lot. He passed the Cadillac again, and if he recognized it he didn’t show it. He just walked, empty-eyed, out to the street.
Parkerson idled the Cadillac after the kid. Followed him down the block to a bus stop and waited in an adjacent lot. The kid stood at the shelter for ten minutes. Then the bus came and he climbed aboard.
Parkerson followed the bus until it stopped in front of a vast concrete apartment tower. The doors opened and the kid stepped down to the curb. He walked toward the tower. Parkerson followed. Parked the Cadillac outside the front doors and watched the kid walk into the lobby. There was a bank of mailboxes along the wall. The kid took out a key and opened a mailbox, stared inside a moment, and then closed it again. Then he walked to the elevators.
Parkerson climbed out of the Cadillac as the elevator doors shut. He walked into the lobby and checked the number on the kid’s mailbox. Then he called another elevator and waited.
Parkerson rode the elevator to the eighth floor. He walked down the hall until he found the kid’s apartment number, and he stood in the hall for a minute or two, straining to hear through the flimsy wooden door. He heard a TV but no voices. Finally, he knocked on the door.
There was no answer. Parkerson knocked again. Waited. Heard the lock disengage. The door swung open and the kid stared out at him, no recognition in his eyes. Parkerson looked past him into the apartment. It was a studio suite. An immaculate bed—looked like it had never been slept in. The TV on, loud. Bed aside, the place was a mess. There was nobody else in the room.
The kid stared at Parkerson, waiting. Parkerson grinned at him. “Hi there,” he said. “Buy you a cup of coffee?”