After a while, as if I were on automatic pilot, I continued on my way to carry out the interrupted errand that I had set for myself. I crossed the street to the convenience store, where I bought a bottle of water and let the dog lap some out of my cupped hands. Then I took his leash and started walking, looking for a cab.
I thought I might find some gypsy cabs cruising around this neighborhood because it was home to a lot of after-hours clubs, but at this time of night, the drivers working these streets would be looking for high-end fares; I’d never get one to take me home for what I could afford to pay. So instead, I hailed a regular yellow cab and asked him to take me to Queens. I was already in the back seat with the dog next to me when the driver told me forget it, get out, he wasn’t crossing bridges or heading off into the outer boroughs. I knew why—for a metered cab, the trip back would turn out to be a waste; no one would flag him down to get back to Manhattan. But it was also illegal to refuse me and I wasn’t in the mood to play.
I leaned forward and spoke through the opening between the panels of the plastic barrier that was supposed to protect the driver from thieves and crazies. “Look,” I said in the darkest voice I could come up with, “I am not a nice person and this is not a nice dog that I have with me. Either just drive the damn cab where I want to go or I’m going to take off his leash. He will be through the partition and in your lap in about ten seconds and I promise you won’t like it.”
The man glared at me in his rear-view mirror, but I saw his glance slide over to the dog and then, muttering to himself, he threw the flag on the meter. The cab moved forward.
It was nearly four A.M. when I let myself into my apartment. I stripped off my clothes and got into bed, finally letting myself feel how exhausted I was. As I pulled a blanket over myself, the dog took his usual place at the end of the bed and with his head facing the door, began his customary nighttime vigil. Almost immediately, I fell asleep.
But I didn’t sleep for long. I awoke just a few hours later knowing exactly what I had to do, because I had to do something. I just couldn’t go on living my life waiting for new dogs to show up—as if I needed any more intermediaries to bring me messages—and strangers to hiss at me, or worse (what “worse” meant I had no idea but didn’t think I wanted to find out) if I did not at least try to provide what the radioman wanted. But to do so, I needed help.
I took Digitaria outside, and as I walked him, I dialed Jack’s cell phone. It went directly to voice mail so I tried the studio line, but that was also picked up by an answering machine that announced I had reached the Up All Night show on World Air. That at least answered a question I hadn’t thought to ask myself: was Jack still working out of his Brooklyn studio even though he was now doing his show for the satellite service? Apparently, the answer was yes. I started dialing his cell phone again but then I thought, The hell with this. What am I wasting my time for? I pulled on Digitaria’s leash and marched back home.
I fed the dog and then left my apartment again, heading off to the subway. I got on with the morning commuters and rode out to Brooklyn. I hadn’t been on the train during a morning rush hour in—well, forever—and it was a kind of disorienting experience. I wasn’t used to traveling with such a well-dressed crowd. Squeezed in among the suits and dresses and crisp fall jackets, I felt like a trespasser from another world in my jeans and hoodie. And in a way, I suppose I was.
When I changed trains, the crowd thinned out because I was now traveling away from Manhattan. I stayed on all the way out to the last stop on the line. When I emerged in Brooklyn, the air was chilly with autumn and tinged with the smell of river water. I headed off toward Red Hook, walking along, block after block, under a high mackerel sky.
Arriving at Jack’s building, I didn’t let myself hesitate. I pushed the buzzer and was rewarded with the sound of Jack’s sleepy voice asking who was at his door.
“It’s me,” I said. “Laurie. I need to talk to you.”
Silence followed. I tried to control my impatience as I waited for Jack to consider how mad he still was. Weeks and weeks had gone by since we’d last seen each other at the Blue Awareness townhouse. Despite all the unreturned phone calls, it was hard for me to believe that he really continued to nurse a grudge against me. Maybe it was hard for him, too, because, when he finally replied, he seemed to be wavering a little.
“About what?” he asked.
About what? That was a complicated question. I decided to start with a simple answer. “I need to know what a Haverkit 3689D is.”
“A what?”
It was a little disconcerting to be having this conversation over an intercom, which added crackles of electricity to our already tinny-sounding voices. I hoped we weren’t going to have to continue this way much longer.
“What?” he repeated.
In frustration, I slapped the button on the intercom box and said, “Jack. For heaven’s sake. Just please let me in.”
Another few moments passed and then the buzzer emitted a scratchy bleat. I let myself into the building and went up to Jack’s studio. He greeted me in a bathrobe and sweats. Instead of a hello, he acknowledged me with a kind of grunt and then waved me toward the kitchen.
A coffeemaker was gurgling away on the counter. He poured himself a cup and, sighing heavily, settled himself in a chair by the kitchen table. Both pieces of furniture looked like they had been rescued from the street eons ago.
“You know,” I said, gesturing at the coffeemaker, “I got up early, too.”
“That’s what you have to do when you want to ambush people,” he replied.
I picked a mug off a rack on the counter, poured myself a cup of coffee and seated myself at the table. “How long are you going to keep this up?” I asked him. “I mean, being pissed off at me?”
“I don’t know. Indefinitely seems like a nice target date.”
“Because you’re what? Nine years old? Somebody disrespects you on the playground so you hold a grudge for the rest of your life?”
“Is that what you think happened?”
“It is what happened.”
I didn’t really want to discuss our meeting with Raymond Gilmartin and the way Jack and I had parted that night because so much had taken place since then. I felt like those events were part of some distant era that was already far behind me. But apparently, we were going to have to get it out of the way before we could go on to anything else.
“Look,” I began, “I’m not saying I don’t understand how you feel. I can be pretty good at holding grudges myself. But if it makes things any better, I apologize for not backing you up with Raymond Gilmartin. I really do. Maybe I should have walked out with you. But . . . I don’t know. I had to hear him out.”
“Why? He’s even crazier than I thought. And dangerous.”
“I’m not defending him, I’m defending myself. I’m in the middle of something I barely understand, so cut me some slack, okay? I haven’t known who to listen to or what I’m supposed to do.”
“And now you do?”
“I think so, yes.”
He regarded me with a look that radiated skepticism, but I knew he was going to give in. “All right,” he said finally. “Tell me.”
And so I did. I told him everything, from my meeting with Dr. Carpenter to my late-night encounter with Kelly, the traveler, and his dog, to last night’s turbulent visit to Ravenette. A couple of times, he made me go back over what she had told me about the radiomen broadcasting prayers.
When I was finished he let out a long, low whistle. “Yikes,” he said.
That seemed to express just about everything there was to say. “Exactly,” I agreed.