They turned in the opposite direction from where I stood. This pointed them toward Seventh Avenue. She had an olive backpack hanging from her shoulders and he was carrying a medium-sized pink suitcase.
I followed at a safe distance. If they both got into a cab I knew that I'd have at least thirty minutes to toss the apartment. The problem was that both bags were probably hers and so there wouldn't be much to search.
A block north on Seventh they went into a fancy chain coffee shop. For a moment I considered waiting outside. The less chance they had of seeing my face, the better. But I was remembering something that Mr. Nichols of Plenty Realty had told me-that Angie had argued over the rent rate he offered even though it was well below the market price. And so I blundered in after the couple, stopping at the doorway to scope out the seating arrangement at the coffee house.
The small tables were mostly occupied, and the line for espressos and cappuccinos was long. There were two small tables in a far corner that were empty; one, which had yet to be bussed, still had a paper coffee cup on it.
I settled at the messy table, moving my chair so that it seemed that I was taking up both spaces. I lifted the paper cup, pretended to drink, and waited.
"Is this table taken?" a young man asked. There was another man behind him. They were both mustachioed, wearing suits and ties.
While asking, he moved forward as if he were going to sit.
"Yes it is," I told him.
"I don't see anybody."
John and Angie were talking. She took the suitcase from him.
I pulled the vacant table next to me and stared into the young white-collar worker's eyes-my meaning as plain as a guard dog's sneer.
As the young men moved away, Angie waded into the pond of busy tables, holding the suitcase with both hands.
I took a sip of the leftover coffee. It was cold, both sweet and bitter-a perfect brew for New York.
"Is this table taken?" she asked me.
Sometimes things work out.
"No," I said. "My two friends just left."
We smiled at each other and I pushed the table toward her. She shrugged off the backpack and pushed the suitcase up against the glass wall.
"That looks heavy," I said.
"My whole life," she told me, thumping the backpack with her small white fist.
I smiled at her words and pulled out my souped-up MP3 player. I set the device down on the table and inserted the earbuds. Then I pulled out a book, The Chrysalids by John Wyndham, and turned to a dog-eared page.
Bug's little device, which looked very much like an iPod, was what Twill would call "way cool." It worked as a regular player unless I pressed a button on the side. Once activated, the device itself gave off, from one side, the mild sounds of whatever song was playing while the left side worked as a directional microphone. All I had to do was point the thing at Angie's table and turn my back with my nose in the book. The sound emanating from the device would seem to be coming from the earpieces, and so she and Prince would be lulled into a sense of privacy.
And that's just how it worked. John came with their coffees and the two moved close together and whispered.
"I wish you'd let me come with you," he said.
"What would Michele Lee say about that?" she replied, sounding bravely playful.
"This isn't funny," he said. "We should go to the police."
"How could I explain it to them? They'd throw me in jail for the rest of my life."
"That's better than being killed."
"No it isn't," she said.
They'd been quiet for a long while when he said, "At least get in touch with me so that I know you're okay."
"I'll have to wait for a while," she whispered.
"How long?"
There was silence and then the subtle rustling of clothes. I imagined that they were kissing.
"I love you," he whispered.
"Go on to work, John."
"I'll go with you to the train station."
"No."
"Why not? These bags are heavy."
"I'm going to have to get used to carrying them on my own and, and I don't want you to know anything about where I am. This way you won't know if I left by train or bus…"
Or plane, I thought.
"I can't just leave you here," he said.
"Yes you can. Go on now."
That loop in the conversation went on for ten minutes or so. Finally she got him on his feet and shuffling toward the door. Their parting was melodramatic but there was real feeling behind it.
When he was gone I took off the headphones and turned so that I could look upon my unsuspecting client.
SHE SIPPED HER COFFEE and stared ahead. I did the same. I wasn't worried about disease from the used cup. One thing I was certain about-at least most of the time-my death would sneak up on me, a master thief that I'd never see coming.
Seemingly staring off into space, I wondered. One thing I knew for sure about Alphonse Rinaldo was that he expected his instructions to be followed without question or variation. I was not supposed to talk to Angie. Breaking this rule would at the very least sour my relationship with the Big Man.
Yes… definitely… I would be a massive idiot even to entertain such an idea.
"Excuse me, ma'am," I said.
"Yes?" Her smile was immediate and natural.
"Um…" I hesitated, or at least pretended to. "Let me show you my card."
I took out my antediluvian red-brown wallet and produced a card printed with my real name, occupation, address, and office and cell-phone numbers.
She read the information and handed the card back.
"Yes?" she said again.
"I just stopped by here to get some coffee," I said. "I've been working a couple of cases at the same time and needed the stimulus. But it seemed to me that you and your friend were very upset."
Her eyes said that I was right but that she couldn't talk about it. There was an intimacy to this communication that I had expected from the girl.
"I understand," I said. "Here I am, a stranger. But you've read my card. We're both here, living completely different lives…
"I solve people's problems for a living. Before you finish that coffee, you could ask me a question, without giving any details, and I could give you my opinion on the situation."
I could see it in her expression, the unguarded belief that anything could happen. That was why she wasn't suspicious when her rent turned out to be one-third the going rate in Manhattan. In Angie's life good things, like me, just happened.
50
On the surface it really was a good offer. I had seen the distress in her conversation with John Prince but I couldn't have overheard them. And even if I had, they hadn't said anything that would identify her or her specific problem.
Staring at me, Angie saw a chubby, bald black man in an off-the-rack dark-blue utility suit. I could have been an MTA manager or a door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman in the old Midwest. I certainly was not a criminal mastermind or anybody who had anything to do with her life up until that moment.
"What if a client came into your office and told you that they had been associated with a crime but they were innocent?"
"I'd ask why they'd come to me rather than go to the police."
This, I could see by her breathing, was the right answer.
"And if they told you that they had done… something, and the circumstances might make her look guilty?"
"I'd say that the police are really very good at their job and that they can usually sort out the innocent from the culpable."
Angie sat back and smiled. It was a real smile, hinting at mirth.
"You don't seem to want to get hired by this woman," she said.
"This is a perfect situation," I replied. "If some rich woman with an emerald necklace and a little lapdog walked into my office I might be more persuasive. But this is just a busman's holiday."