I didn’t notice the squat man until he went through an odd routine while lighting a cigarette. He seemed to have appeared from out of nowhere to take up a spot on one of the metal crash barriers outside the lot. He was holding a cigarette vertically between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand and rotating it gently, probably to get a smoother draw, and his attention was entirely fixed on the women across the street. Still, there was something sensual about the motion of his fingers, a product, perhaps, of the way he was staring so intently at Rebecca Clay through the window of the store. After a time he slid the cigarette slowly into his mouth, wetting it against his lips for a moment before applying a match to the tip. Then, instead of simply throwing the match away, or blowing it out, he held it between the same thumb and forefinger as before and allowed the flame to burn down toward the tips of his fingers. I waited for him to discard it as the pain increased, but he did not. When the end of the match was no longer visible, he released his grip upon it and allowed it to fall into the palm of his hand, where it burned into blackness against his skin. He turned his hand, allowing the charred wood to fall upon the ground. I clicked off a picture of him on the little digital camera that I kept in the car. As I did so, he looked around, seemingly aware now that the attention of another was fixed upon him in turn. I slid down farther in my seat, but I had caught a glimpse of his face, and had seen the three parallel scars on his forehead of which Rebecca had spoken. When I looked back he appeared to be gone, but I sensed that he had merely retreated into the shade offered by Joe’s building, for I saw a wisp of smoke carried out upon the street by a stray breeze.
Rebecca emerged from the store, carrying some papers. The other woman was beside her, talking and smiling. I called Rebecca on her cell and told her to keep smiling as she listened.
“Turn your back to Joe’s Smoke Shop,” I said. I didn’t want the watcher to see her reaction when I told her that I had spotted him. “Your fan is over at Joe’s. Don’t look in that direction. I want you to cross the street and go into Cunningham Books. Just act casual, like you have some time to kill. Stay there until I come and get you, okay?”
“Okay,” she said. She sounded only a little frightened. To her credit, she did not pause or even betray any emotion by a change of expression. She shook hands with her client, glanced left, then right, and proceeded to cross casually to the bookstore. She walked straight inside, as though that had been her intention all along. I got out of my car and headed quickly to the front of Joe’s. There was nobody outside. Only the butt of a cigarette and the fragmented remains of a match indicated that the squat man had ever been there. The tip had been squeezed flat. Something told me that it might well have been glowing redly when the fingers were applied to it. I could almost smell the scorching of skin.
I looked around and saw him. He had crossed Congress and was walking toward the center of town. He turned right onto Park, and I lost sight of him. I figured that his car was probably there, and he would wait for Rebecca to leave the bookstore before either following her or approaching her again.
I walked to the corner of Park and risked a glance down the street. The squat man was at the door of the red Ford, his head down. I stayed low and used the parked cars to approach him from the opposite side of the street. I had my.38 in a holster at my belt-it was a little more discreet than my big Smith 10 for work like this-but I was reluctant to show it. If I was forced to confront the watcher with a gun in my hand, then whatever chance I had of reasoning with him would evaporate, and the situation would deteriorate before I had even begun to understand its nature. I had an image of this man burning himself, and the apparent ease with which he had done it. It suggested an individual who had a considerable tolerance for pain, and such tolerance was usually hard-earned. A face-to-face with him would have to be delicately handled.
A Grand Cherokee turned down Park, an archetypal soccer mom at the wheel, and as it passed I slipped behind it and approached the Ford from the driver’s side. I could make out the outline of his quiff and the folds of muscle at the back of his neck as he sat at the wheel, fumes already emerging from the exhaust. His hands rested on the steering wheel, the fingers of the left tapping a rhythm upon the plastic. The right hand was roughly bandaged. Bloodstains showed through the fabric. At last, I let him see me approach. I kept my arms out and my fingers splayed slightly, but I was ready to scuttle for cover if his hands left the wheel. The problem for me was that once I got close enough to talk to him, there would be nowhere for me to run. I was relying on the fact that there were people around and the hope that he would see no percentage in reacting with hostility until he heard what I had to say.
“How you doing?” I said.
He peered lazily at me, as though it were all that he could do just to rouse himself enough to respond. He had another cigarette between his lips, and a blue pack of American Spirit rested on top of the dashboard in front of him.
“Fine,” he said. “Just fine.”
He raised his right hand to his mouth, drawing on the cigarette so that the tip glowed brightly. He looked away from me and stared through the windshield.
“Thought someone was paying me mind,” he said. “I see you got a gun.”
The bulge of the.38 was barely visible beneath my jacket, unless someone knew what he was looking for.
“Can’t be too careful,” I said.
“You don’t need to worry about me. I don’t carry a gun. I got no call for one.”
“I guess you’re just a gentle soul.”
“Nah, I can’t claim that. The woman hire you?”
“She’s concerned.”
“She has no cause to be. If she tells me what I want to know, I’ll be on my way.”
“And if she doesn’t, or if she can’t?”
“Well, that’s two different things, ain’t it? One can’t be helped, and one can.”
His fingers shifted from the wheel. Instantly, I was reaching for the gun at my waist.
“Whoa, whoa!” he said. He held his hands up in mock surrender. “I done told you, I got no gun.”
I kept my hand close to the butt of the pistol. “I’d still prefer it if your hands stayed where I can see them.”
He shrugged exaggeratedly, then allowed his palms to rest against the top of the wheel.
“Do you have a name?” I asked.
“I have lots of names.”
“That’s very mysterious of you. Try one and see how it fits.”
He seemed to give the issue some thought.
“ Merrick,” he said at last, and something in his face and his voice told me that this was as much as I was likely to get from him where names were concerned.
“Why are you bothering Rebecca Clay?”
“I ain’t bothering her. I just want her to be straight with me.”
“About what?”
“About her father.”
“Her father’s dead.”
“He ain’t dead. She got him declared dead, but that don’t mean nothing. You show me the worms crawling in the sockets of his eyes, then I’ll believe he’s dead.”
“Why are you so interested in him?”
“I got my reasons.”
“Try sharing them.”
His fingers tightened on the wheel. There was a small India-ink tattoo on the knuckle of his left middle finger. It was a crude blue cross, a jailhouse tattoo.
“I don’t think so. I don’t like strangers questioning me about my business.”
“Well, then you’ll know just how Ms. Clay feels.”
His teeth worried at the inside of his lower lip. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. I could feel the tension building up inside him. I had allowed my hand to drift to the butt of my gun, and my own forefinger was now extended above the trigger guard, ready to slip into place if necessary. Then the tightness released itself from Merrick ’s body. I heard him exhale, and he seemed to grow smaller and less threatening.