Soon his thoughts drifted away from Mr. Overcoat. They even skipped over what was coming a half hour from now: the knife work he’d been obsessing over for days.
And they settled on... what else? Shit. The weekend visit with his mother. She’d overfed him. She’d made him take her shopping at the most crowded mall on Long Island. And there hadn’t been much to talk about with her, of course — there never was — though the woman had managed to bring up Frank’s sister’s marriage at least a half-dozen times.
Part of that topic included the fact that Barbara and her husband would “surely have a baby in the next year or so.”
Which involuntarily had conjured an unpleasant image of his sister having sex, which put him off dinner last night, at least until dessert.
“Brobbie and Steve want four, you know. Ideally one year apart.”
What was his mother’s point? Did she think he could wave his wand (hmm, bad choice of word, that) and, poof, there was a wife popping out kids? Shit, didn’t she know he was doing the best he could? His life wasn’t like everybody else’s. Who, for instance, would understand his obsession?
The knives, the fighting, the blood...
Also, another thing: the practicality. Given his line of work, he didn’t meet many women.
Besides, he was holding out for one particular person.
Ah, Gabriela...
Tuesday, sure.
Her words, punctuated with a smile.
Frank was presently striding briskly back from Penn Station at Madison Square Garden. This was a pretty good walk, and guaranteed to burn off maybe a hundred calories, particularly in the chill autumn air. He’d purposefully taken off his jacket so his body would drop fat, burning calories in the chill — even though he didn’t like looking at his round figure in the storefront windows as he passed them. He shouldn’t have worn the knit shirt. It was clinging, revealing.
Well, don’t look, he told himself.
But he did.
Still, he kept the jacket off. Cold weather made you burn up to 50 percent more calories than you did in the heat. In the Arctic you could eat whatever you wanted and still lose weight. He’d researched it. Six thousand calories a day. He should spend a year there.
Frank glanced around again and noted that Mr. Overcoat was now on the same side of the street as he was, and the man’s pace continued to match Frank’s.
Stalking, attacking, killing...
Still, had to be paranoia.
What would this guy be interested in me for? And even if he is, how could he have found me here, on the street, striding south from Penn Station?
But, of course, Frank Walsh knew computers cold — the good side of machines, and the bad. He was well aware of phone tapping and datamining. He’d bought his ticket back to the city this morning with a credit card. He’d phoned his mother to tell her he’d made the train. If somebody wanted to, he could’ve found out what train Frank was on, when he’d be arriving at the station, even what he looked like — from the Motor Vehicle picture (even if the depiction was thirty pounds lighter than presently).
He then turned the corner onto his street in the Village and risked a fast look back, his hand on the knife in his pocket.
The curly-haired guy was gone.
Frank continued up the block and approached his eight-story apartment building. As he got to the door he stepped in quickly and looked around but the quiet, tree-lined street was deserted.
He stepped into the lobby and finally relaxed.
“Hi, Arthur.”
The doorman was old and when he walked he shuffled and he smelled of Old Spice. “Package for you, Mr. Walsh.”
“FedEx?” He was expecting the knife, the kukri. Those Nepalese were far more deadly than people thought.
Cheery Sherpas, my ass.
“No, it was a hand delivery. Some Hispanic fellow dropped it off yesterday.”
It was a plastic bag containing something rectangular and heavy. He took it.
“Thanks.” He hadn’t planned to give him a tip. Frank was plenty generous around Christmas. He looked into the bag and his heart thudded and he laughed as he read the note that accompanied it.
He handed Arthur five dollars.
The old man took it without thanks but with a raised hand that Frank chose to interpret as undying gratitude.
Frank unlocked his door and walked inside, tossing his jacket on his armchair in front of the big-screen TV.
The apartment, consisting of three rooms, was this: dark and insanely cluttered, yet comforting — if claustrophobic at times, depending on his mood. A kitchenette with a two-burner gas stove and oven big enough for a TV dinner or two. His microwave sat atop a table, sharing the space with books and magazines. But back in the day, in this locale of glorious bohemian art, you created your poetry or paintings, you smoked pot, you slept with as many women as you could and you drank to oblivion; cooking was secondary, if not wholly unnecessary.
Frank walked to the window and looked out at Westbeth, the famous artists’ community. He had a view of the very room where Diane Arbus had slashed her wrists in ’71.
At least that was what the real estate broker, sensing a hooked fish, had said. As if it would make this dive more appealing to be able to look out over the space where a very weird photographer had offed herself.
Then he shifted his gaze and scanned for men in black overcoats.
Not a single Matrix killer with slick, curly blond hair. He closed the curtain.
Frank then returned to the delivery he’d just received and, swollen with joy, lifted out the dark green box of Dom Pérignon champagne.
He peeled off the note.
Dear Frank. Thinking of you. We’ll share this soon! Really looking forward to Tuesday. I’ll call you! XOXO, Gabriela.
He felt like he’d just scratched off the last number in Lotto and won a million dollars. He laughed out loud with pleasure.
Champagne! And he didn’t think this was the cheap stuff, either.
He pictured Gabby’s slim waist, her high, spherical breasts, the thick, straight auburn hair that she seemed to wear up in buns or ponytails most of the time. But occasionally she wore it down, which Frank loved.
God, was she pretty.
He recalled seeing her in a yellow swimsuit, sunbathing in Central Park. He believed he’d seen a scar on her belly. He wondered if it was a C-section or from an accident.
He wondered how he could find out.
Ask her, dummy.
Their coffee on Friday had been great. He must’ve passed a test of sorts, because look at this! He regarded the green box again. Reread the note. Then again, and once more.
Hell, Dom Pérignon. He Googled.
Shit! A hundred fifty bucks!
Frank began to fantasize about when she came over on Tuesday. He’d have the place spick-and-span.
Vacuumed. And air-freshened; he sniffed and something smelled off.
Clean sheets on the bed...
Frank glanced at his watch. Well, he’d have to think about their date later. Now it was time for the fight.
Time for death, time for blood.
His palms began to sweat.
In his musty bedroom Frank Walsh emptied his pockets onto his dresser: forty-three dollars in crumpled bills, coins, receipts, a Necco Wafer wrapper, a Kit Kat wrapper, and the knife he always carried, a two-inch Swiss Army model with magnifier, toothpick and scissors.
He opened the closet door. Inside were dozens of shoes, one suit, four combat jackets and a hat rack with a single piece of headgear, a Greek fisherman cap. This he grabbed and pulled over his ruddy hair. He sat down in his creaky office chair and booted up his computer, kicking his shoes off. Squinting at the computer screen, Frank moused up the volume and music trilled, otherworldly music from a different dimension.