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Halifax, May 9
3:52 a.m.
Adjusting the center dial of the binoculars, Hoss brought the hooker’s face into sharper focus.
“Nice,” he whispered. “Very nice.”
His palms were damp. A strange blend of fear and desire coursed through him. Breathing in, he shifted around, feeling the stiffness of sitting in the same position for too long.
He had the radio turned low, and the twangy voice of a country singer floated out from the speakers. The clock read 3:53. He knew he had to make his move before dawn cast its first light.
For a brief moment, he thought about how lucky he’d been to find the hooker. In retrospect, he realized it had been entirely by accident.
He had arrived in the city four hours ago and found the downtown to be a beehive of activity—surging crowds gathered outside nightclub doors, taxis lined up at curbs.
As if in a dream, he crept along block by block, up and down steep hillside streets, scanning faces of people on the sidewalks, a mixture of men and women, mostly young, some older, of different shapes and races. They were only alike in their shared interest in Halifax’s vibrant nightlife. Looking at them heightened his feelings that he didn’t belong here. As long as no one noticed, he would be fine.
He saw several hookers standing on street corners dressed in rather provocative clothing. For some he slowed down to look them over. The younger ones, a bit eager to turn a trick, would step to the outer edges of the sidewalks, gesturing for him to pull over. Only the older ones, harder looking, restrained, street-wise, stayed where they were.
Self-conscious, he drove on. He had to protect his anonymity. There could be no room for error.
Many of the women were in pairs. Hoss saw some men in cars watching other women. He guessed they were either their pimps or undercover cops. Too risky. He needed to find one alone.
After two in the morning, he parked in the vacant parking lot of a Superstore on South Barrington Street. Beyond the reach of lights, he cut the engine and sat.
Waiting.
Watching.
Though his heart raced, he felt calm.
A few hookers had taken up shop in Cornwallis Park across the street. Mechanically, he took the binoculars out of the duffel bag and pressed them to his face, focusing on a stage show of degradation, seduction, and exploitation. Some of the hookers would leave in cars, only to return a short time later. Others would drift away on foot with their johns, seeking a dark alley to conduct their business.
Watching them, he thought of himself as a voyeur; they, in turn, were unable to see him.
Around him, he became barely conscious of the activity of a city passing by—cars pulling in and out of the Westin Nova Scotia; a drunk man stumbling through the parking lot near the gas pumps, babbling to himself; and sidewalk people hustling along with urban energy. No one noticed him.
Time crept by.
The action hit its peak and then wound down. The number of hookers in Cornwallis Park began to dwindle, and then all were gone.
It was three thirty. He felt pathetic, a failure. He had come here to complete his first job. Now he sat alone, empty handed.
What were his choices? Cut his losses and leave, or continue searching?
Disappointed, his grip tightened on the binoculars, and he stuffed them back inside the duffel bag. He would leave.
About to turn over the engine, he saw a gray BMW roll up Barrington Street. It stopped at the curb on the corner of South. Clumsily, he reached inside the duffel bag for the binoculars again. Once more he adjusted the focus, watching as the passenger door swung open and the profile of a female figure bent out. Long stockinged legs, then flowing blond hair.
A crooked smile formed on his lips.
“Well, hello there,” he whispered.
The woman leaned inside to say something to the driver. Seconds later, she stepped back from the curb, fixing her miniskirt. As the BMW sped off, he could’ve sworn the woman flipped the bird at it.
Hoss glanced at the dash clock again. Four o’clock sharp.
Time to move.
He put the binoculars inside the duffel bag again. After he placed the bag on the floor, he cranked the ignition, and the engine kicked to life. Headlights touched the pavement in front of him. His hand moved to the gearshift and suddenly stopped there.
On Barrington came the rumble of car exhaust. As he looked for the source of the interruption, he saw a white car, pockmarked with rust spots, drive by. It pulled to the curb in front of the hooker.
With his jaw clenched tight, he stared. Anger-fueled frustration pounded in his temples as he realized the wasted hours he spent driving around and then sitting like an idiot.
He slammed a fist hard against the steering wheel. “Damn it.”
