Driving through the cold, quiet city, I almost looked forward to my talk with Lou. So much of my life seemed up in the air that a resolution of any kind might be a relief. I didn’t think we could settle things, but we might get around to the real questions.

Which explained my disappointment when I walked into an empty apartment. Lou had departed a day early. He left a note explaining he could see I was too tied up in my work to deal with him. He asked that I give him a call when I finished the case. That he was fine and knew we just needed the opportunity to settle things between us. His lack of recrimination only fueled my guilt.

I threw the paper into the garbage and debated driving to the airport. I retrieved the note but he hadn’t left departure details, so I threw it back into the pail and walked through to the office. The room was spotless, Lou’s bed a sofa. I flopped down at the desk, remembered my stash was in the bedroom, got it, and rolled a fat one. As guilty as I felt, a part of me was relieved to have the television and couch to myself. I lit the joint and pulled the phone off the hook; it was going to be an ugly night and I preferred to do ugly alone.

 

I awoke the next morning with a strange burst of energy. I thought about smoking a little dope with my coffee, but decided against. If I took to the couch I’d be trapped into thinking about Mel, Boots, and Lou.

Instead, I spent the day thinking about Emil and The End. Up until now I’d been stumbling around with my hand out, waiting for information to drop in. Or, I’d been trying to bully my way to the truth. Maybe it was time to remember that real detective work had nothing in common with working a mall.

I transferred myself to the office, swung my feet onto the desk, and jotted down the things I needed. If I didn’t know what to do about my personal life, I sometimes knew how to be a detective. Sometimes.

I wasn’t sure why I waited until evening to begin the stakeout. Maybe I was a romantic. Or maybe I wanted to identify with the lumps behind the storefront. In any event, I had enough food, dope, cigarettes, and coffee to get through an uneventful night. Except for heat and television, it was just like home.

I knew Blackhead was too secretive to invite customers into his apartment, so I expected it to be a while until he led me to them. That was okay. I had nowhere else to be. But, as usual, what I didn’t expect was what I got.

At five A.M., Emil left his apartment building and loped up the block. Oblivious to everything around him, he kept to the middle of the road until he came to a rusty old Chevy wagon. The lilt in Blackhead’s step suggested an enjoyable journey: it would make him happy to turn a buck.

I was surprised he used a car for his business. At least I hoped it was business that had him up and out. After a few fruitless attempts he finally got moving, leaving behind belching trails of oily exhaust. I waited until he had turned the corner, then followed.

I was even more surprised when he pulled onto the Expressway and away from The End. The roads were deserted so I stayed a good distance back. The kick of adrenaline melted the stiffness from my uncomfortable night. It felt great to work.

Blackhead finally turned off the Expressway. I followed as the wagon hiccupped across town and pulled onto Route 9. The sky was still dark, hiding, I believed with all my heart, another overcast day. Occasional lights heading toward town flashed on the other side of the highway. If the drivers raced into center city, they could arrive in time to watch the hookers leave for their condos in the suburbs. These early morning commuters were the start of the day shift.

We continued up Route 9 until Blackhead turned into the parking lot of the mall where I’d been working when we met. My jaw dropped but I snapped it shut, killed the lights, and pulled in very slowly. I took the gun from my holster and put it on the seat next to me.

The Chevy kept driving though the huge almost deserted lot, still seemingly unaware of my presence. I hung further back and watched as he pulled around the massive concrete wall separating the shopping mall from the movie theater. There were empty parked cars dotted throughout the dark, quiet lot. I killed the engine, grabbed my gun, and used the wall and darkness to dodge from car to parked car until I was kneeling between a Volvo and the side fence. He couldn’t see me; but I could see whether he’d keep going, stop, or set up an ambush.

I’d lucked into the best of all possible. Blackhead had parked his car in an open area, and was sitting on its heated hood, hands in jacket pockets, a cigarette dangling from the middle of his hairy face. He kept anxiously peering toward the far exit of the mall’s lot. It didn’t look like he was here to watch the sunrise.

I thought about slipping the gun back into its holster but decided not to. I twisted into a position between the car and fence that left me well hidden though uncomfortable. I watched him smoke and lusted for one of my own.

Either Blackhead was an early freak, or whoever he waited for was late. My body remembered how uncomfortably it had spent the night, and complained bitterly about the added insult. My knees ached and the ribbed wooden fence pressed indentations onto one side of my butt. And I thought it was good to work?

Just when my lungs and nerve endings were on their knees begging me to steal back to the car for a smoke, I heard an engine die. For a moment I tried to tell myself I’d imagined it: I really wanted that cigarette. But possibility quieted my complaints. I watched intently as Blackhead angled his face toward the small alley between the theater and the bank. Neither of us was disappointed.

A medium-built, thin-haired man with an expensive perm walked slowly into view. He wore a well-cut suit under his open London Fog. As he moved carefully out of the alley he looked thoroughly around the parking lot. When his eyes landed on Emil, he stopped dead in his tracks, gave a short angry wave of his hand signaling Blackhead off the car. Emil nodded, flipped his cigarette, and slid off the hood. When the Perm gave another angry wave, Blackhead opened his car door and got in. The man waited, then walked directly to the Chevy. There was no missing the disgust on his face as he climbed in the passenger door.

I prepared to scurry back to my car if they drove away, but Blackhead kept his engine shut off while he talked animatedly to the gray curls. I saw him throw another cigarette out his window, and wondered if there was any way to crawl over and pick it up. My body was numb and I seriously questioned my competence. I couldn’t hear anything and could barely see. If I were a modern PI, I’d be monitoring their conversation from my apartment. But I was the guy who wouldn’t buy a fucking answering machine.

Finally the Perm opened his door. Blackhead acted like he still wanted to talk, but the guy wasn’t buying. He walked to the front of the Chevy making shove-off motions with his hands. Blackhead stuck his head out the window. I couldn’t see his face, but his tone was beseeching and I could hear him clearly. “Come on, man. I’m telling you I can do the job. I swear, I won’t fuck it up.”

The Perm’s face turned ugly and he slapped the hood. “I told you to keep still!” His voice sounded like a mean Rod Steiger’s. From my hidden position I could see the neat little hip holster that flashed when he banged the hood. “If I want to see you I’ll get in touch.”

Blackhead’s nasal voice began to whine. “But how am I gonna get my regular stuff? He…” “Be quiet, Emil! And stay that way! It’s time for you to go home.”

“But…?

The Perm moved up to the driver’s window and slapped Blackhead’s face. Emil turtled his head and quickly started the car. The man leaned closer and said something I couldn’t hear. I saw Blackhead nod; as soon as the guy stepped away, the car began to move. The Perm shook his head disgustedly, carefully checking the lot to see if anything moved.

Satisfied, he started back into the alley. I stayed low and uncomfortable until I heard the sound of a motor, then ran to my car.

I almost flooded the engine, but it caught. I drove slowly around to the front of the mall where I saw the ass of a black 750il drive onto the highway. Since there were no other cars on the access road, the Bimmer was mine.

I allowed a couple of pre-rush hour cars to roll between us. Unless he pulled a To Live and Die in L.A. I wasn’t going to lose him. I felt excited as I lit my long-awaited smoke. I’d gotten a better break than I thought possible. I had expected Blackhead to lead me to grunts.

We passed the Route 128 turnoff, finally exiting somewhere in Wellesley. Tailing now got trickier, since the roads were winding and curved, often looping back on themselves. For a while I thought he’d made me and was going through an elaborate shaking ritual. But before I got too nervous, he slowed his seventy grand and turned into a medium-length driveway alongside a spacious but nondescript suburban house. I noticed toys in the front yard. I intended to continue driving past but, as his garage door opened, I caught a glimpse of a 4×4.

Without thinking, I squealed into a U-turn and shot up his driveway. The Perm walked out of the garage with a puzzled look on his face. I screeched to a stop and jumped out of my car, but remained standing behind its open door.

His face had an angry scowl. “Excuse me, just what the hell are you doing?” I took a stab. “Maybe I want a piece of Darryl’s action too.”

The scowl never left his face, but now there was a fresh wariness in his eyes. His hands also moved closer to the little hip holster I’d noticed in the parking lot. I looked back into my own car in time to see my .38 wink from the passenger’s seat.

“I’m sorry, but you must be confused.” But he made no move to leave.

“You got nice clothes, a fancy Newbury Street haircut, and clipped diction, but you’re still just a dope-dealer to me.” I heard my words and wondered if I wanted to get shot. I hoped the toys in the front yard meant he’d hesitate to use his weapon.

The Perm’s molars worked overtime. I inched my way a little closer to my own gun, though I knew it was too far away to be of any use. By the time I finished soothing my raw nerves, he’d calmed his and, to my surprise, burst out laughing. “You got a pair of big ones, cowboy,” he said without his diction.

I shrugged.

“Why are you so sure I won’t use this?” He opened his jacket and let me see his gun. “I figure your kids got better things to do than wash blood off a driveway.”

His smile evaporated. “What do you know about my children?”

I nodded toward the toys. “Only what I see.”

His eyes followed my glance. “I keep telling them to put their stuff away but they never listen. Never.” He had a disgusted look on his face.

He turned his attention back to me. “Now what is it you’re doing here?” “I want to see your truck.”

He turned around and looked into his garage. I leaned away from my car door and peered in behind him. I wasn’t sure it was the same one. Trucks look like fucking trucks. Maybe I needed to put my face next to the tire treads.

He turned back to me. “It’s not for sale.”

“I don’t want to buy it. I just want to see if it’s the same one that tried to rub my head in the street a couple of nights ago.”

Comprehension crossed his face. “I understand. You’re Matt Jacobs.” “Jacob, without the ‘s.’ I guess I don’t have to look at the truck after all.”

He grinned with no amusement, stirring his hand inside his belt, gun visible and accessible.

I held up one of my hands. “You don’t have to worry. I don’t intend to shoot you. All I want is information.”

A suspicious look crossed his face. “Information? You want information?” He took his hand from his pocket and let his sport jacket close. “Enough with these threats. I have to take the kids to school.” He slowly walked over, glanced inside my car, and shook his head when he saw my gun on the front seat. “Big ones, or you’re stupid,” he said.

“Stupid,” I replied.

He clapped me on my bad shoulder. “I like a person who is honest about his limitations.” Wouldn’t you know it? I had found me a funny dope-dealer.