27

As soon as I dumped Helen, I switched tapes and elevated the volume on my boom box. Rory Block came in loud and clear, singing about lovin’ a country boy with hayseeds in his hair. My driving cap was starting to feel tight around the edges, so I ditched it, rearranging my hair with a shake of my head.

Buses are not a big challenge to tail. They’re hard to lose, what with planned routes, behemoth size, and obliging city officials who paint numbers on each and every one. But following them has its drawbacks. This one, not one of the city’s newer efforts, smelled. I kept dropping farther and farther back, but the odor remained overwhelming, and I had to breathe through my mouth.

The tricky part was checking out the bus stops. Not many folks departed at the first Market Street stops, which helped, and cabs can drive as erratically as they please in Boston, the benefit of a hard-won reputation. I’ve seen plenty weirder cab behavior than jerking to a stop twenty feet behind a bus. I mean, some desperate jockey might be hoping one of the heavily burdened women on the bus couldn’t face the walk home.

I still hadn’t decided whether to track Green Blouse or Plaid Skirt. Helen had declared Green Blouse her favorite, but she hadn’t sounded too sure.

I wasn’t familiar with the bus route. I thought a lot of different buses might plow down Market Street at some point or other, peeling off to Brighton Center, Cambridge Street, even Newton. I hoped the bus driver was one of those rare samaritans who believed in signaling.

The driver didn’t believe in pulling fully into the right-hand lane to discharge passengers. I mean, why bother, when you can block the whole road? So screening the departing passengers wasn’t as hard as it might have been. I recognized some of the Hunneman women by the kerchiefs around their necks. My two targets stayed on board.

In Brighton Center the bus flipped its left-turn signal and promptly pulled right to a dead stop. A blue Plymouth honked while its driver shoved a finger out the window. I caught a glimpse of Green Blouse climbing down the steps.

Quickly I slid over into the wake of the bus and shoved the cab into park. I was out on the street before I even thought about the legality of the maneuver.

Green Blouse was chatting with another woman at the bus stop, grinning and talking. I loitered, watching her reflection in a storefront window. Twenty-one would be about right, I thought. She had an unlined round face, mainly eyes and cheeks, with no discernible bone structure underneath. The green blouse was untidily tucked into a rust-colored skirt with a too-tight waistband. Either the skirt was borrowed or the woman had gained weight.

She said good-bye to her friend and started to walk away. I turned. Our eyes met.

She gasped, a sound audible more than thirty feet away, and fled, leaving her companion open-mouthed. I had damn near the same reaction. I hadn’t expected the woman to know me. I’d have tailed her a lot differently if I had.

I took off after her.

She hesitated a moment, then plunged into the open doors of a Woolworth’s. I cursed. A big store full of aisles and crowds was all I needed. I pushed my way in past a nun buying a 3 Musketeers bar, gawked at the endless choices. Had Green Blouse gone for the plant aisle, the knitting and sewing area, the household goods? I took the center aisle, the path of least resistance, pushed all the way to the back of the store where the canaries and budgies fussed and whistled in their cages. At every crossroad I checked left and right. No Green Blouse.

I traveled the perimeter of the store next, counterclockwise, looking down all the aisles. I saw a woman’s shoe under a counter and approached it stealthily, frightening a store employee. I almost tripped over a rack of umbrellas.

I went back to the front door and paced there for fifteen long minutes, keeping track of all departing customers. Then I had the bright idea of asking whether there was another exit.

Just for the employees, the woman behind the counter said. I did another circuit and got what I expected. Nothing.

Damn. The woman must have known about the employees’ exit, gone straight through.

Well, I’d taken her photograph. I could show it to Marta and get something to go on.

Sure. Marta had been damned cooperative so far.

I headed back to the cab. It had a line of angry cars behind it. Each one honked before giving up and pulling into the center lane. A silver-haired man in a three-piece suit leaned out his tinted BMW window and told me what the hell was wrong with the world and with people like me.

I couldn’t have agreed with him more.