“Great one, skim milk, no sugar,” he said, nodding.
Those words would probably be chiseled on my tombstone. Between the cold and my covert mission, I smiled a smile I didn’t really feel. That was me, harmless caffeine addict with a six-word bio.
“Got any coffee left? I’m supposed to meet someone here and I’m going to freeze my keister off if I don’t get something warm inside me. Even the dregs.” I tried to sound like an upbeat gal with an appointment, not a woman on a stakeout. “I don’t care, I’ll take anything.” I did want the coffee, but in the back of my mind I thought it wouldn’t hurt to let someone else know my whereabouts. That’s right, Officer, we saw her at around midnight…
The kid in charge told me they’d already closed out the register and made their bank drop across the road at the ATM-either to reiterate that they were closed or to announce that there was no cash on the premises, just in case one of their innocent-looking customers who ordered the same thing every time she came in also knocked over convenience stores in her spare time.
I offered them twenty bucks for a thermos of whatever hot liquid they had left and the two almost stale cinnamon crullers they were going to throw out anyway. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. They conferred, then accepted.
“Eh, if there’s ever something I can do for you…” My meant-to-be-amusing line from The Godfather fell on deaf ears and they tensed up, wondering if they’d made a colossal mistake and had, in fact, let a crazy woman into the store late at night. Now I felt like Babe, bemoaning the younger generation’s lack of a complete cultural education that should rightly include The Godfather saga, even the much-maligned number three.
The kids finished closing, locked up, and drove off in opposite directions, the only vehicles I’d seen on the road since I’d arrived. Now there were no cars in my end of the lot. I went back to my somewhat smaller blind, taking cover on a stone slab in between a spirea hedge and a U.S. mailbox with an elongated front for drive-by mailings. The coffee was still too hot to drink, but it made a nifty heater. I poured some into the thermos cup, trying to calculate how late that much caffeine would keep me awake. I sat cross-legged on the curb, nestling the thermos in between my thighs, blowing on the steaming coffee.
I pushed the light button on my watch: 12:25. Cripes, I didn’t have to worry about Warren harming me, I’d be dead from exposure, sitting on a Belgian block curb for thirty-five minutes in this weather, which was gradually worsening. They’d find me in the morning, butt frozen to the ground, huddled around my Dunkin’ Donuts thermos like some suburban bodhisattva.
I was muttering to myself when I heard something behind me. Probably the wind, whistling through the shrubs, blowing soot and leaves in my eyes and making things even more uncomfortable. I flipped my hood up again and tried to find the cord to tighten it around my head but it must have come out in the wash or the end was floating around inside the seam. I grabbed both sides and held them tight under my chin with one hand. I heard more leaf crunching behind me and exposed one ear to hear better. The noise stopped.
Deer were faster and squirrels didn’t move around much at night. Wild turkeys? Raccoons, maybe. Hadn’t I seen them rummaging around at Babe’s? I was shifting position to get the circulation back in my legs when someone yanked me by the hood of my sweatshirt and pulled me to my feet. The sweatshirt was so big, I was temporarily blinded as it partially covered my face and my eyes.
My assailant grabbed me by the wrist and swung me around, knocking my coffee out of my hands, burning my fingertips. All I could make out before I was twisted around again inside the voluminous sweatshirt was a man with a pair of panty hose over his face. He wrapped his arm around my neck, and I tucked my chin down to keep him from choking me. I tried to wrest myself away from him, and in the course of struggling I kicked the thermos of coffee on the ground. I picked up my right foot and kicked back as hard as I could into his right knee. He loosened his grip and doubled over. I bent down, picked up the container of coffee, twisted off the top, and threw the scalding hot liquid, aiming for the man’s eyes. I must have scored, because he cursed, his hands rushing to his eyes. My cowboy boots turned out to be a fashion do. The creep was a little too tall and I was too far away to reach the number one spot where no man wants to be kicked, so I aimed for his other knee, letting fly with as much power as I could. He cursed again and crumpled to the ground. Now I could reach the good stuff. I hauled off and gave him another kick, with my pointy boot seriously jeopardizing his ability to reproduce. He fell backward.
If he got up fast, I’d have less than a minute to get away. I got lucky: an eighteen-wheeler came by and slowed him down just long enough for me to run across the road, through the parking lot, and to Babe’s back door. The key was in my hand, but I could barely breathe and I fumbled for a few seconds, putting it in upside down. I looked across the street and saw the man staggering to his feet. I took the key out and tried it again. This time it worked. I locked the door behind me and called the cops as I heard him cursing and banging on the door. Then the banging stopped.
Twenty-six
“Is this your edgy New York way of asking for a date?”
I suppose I deserved that, but I didn’t like it much. I’d just been attacked by a masked assailant. I’d twisted my knee, aggravating an old ACL injury. My wrist was still sore from being jerked around, and a thick purplish bracelet had come out on it in the five to ten minutes it took the cops to arrive. I didn’t think it was an appropriate time for verbal foreplay; I needed a bandage more than I needed badinage.
Mike O’Malley stood in the doorway of Babe’s office with another cop who looked so young I thought I could smell the milk on his breath. When did everyone start to look so young?
“Come in,” I said, showing him into Babe’s den.
The note I’d asked Babe to tack on the door for Jeff Warren was still there, flapping in the wind that had made the night seem colder than it was. I opened the door wider to let the cops in and tried to casually pluck the note off the door and shove it in my pocket without catching O’Malley’s eye.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
I cataloged my physical complaints out loud this time, then gave Mike the broad strokes without exactly telling him what I’d been doing hunkered down in an empty parking lot well past my usual bedtime. He noticed I left that part out.
“My coffee machine is broken,” I said, jumping in with an explanation too fast. Tactical error. Never volunteer anything when you’re lying. Take a breath, fidget with something, wait until they ask. It gives you more time to make up something believable.
O’Malley was polite enough not to raise his left eyebrow, the diplomatic response I’d seen him deliver far too often that spoke volumes and was loosely translated as “That’s a crock.”
“Let me make sure I have this. Someone accosted you in the parking lot after you got your late-night coffee and crullers and instead of running to your car and locking yourself in and driving away, you sprinted across the street to an obviously closed diner, hoping that Babe had left the back door open-even though she’d recently had a prowler?”
I’d forgotten about that. Were they officially calling him a prowler now? I thought he was still a trespasser. At that moment I hated Countertop Man, O’Malley, and Jeff Warren, my presumptive attacker. And I hated the word accosted. It was like alleged. It somehow qualified my experience.
“Yes,” I said defiantly, as if it was the most logical thing in the world to do. Sometimes short and sweet did the trick.