The taller, blond one spoke now. “You want money?” His accent wasn’t nearly as heavy as his companion’s, but he spoke in a clipped, careful voice that made it clear English was his second language.
I shook my head. “We don’t want money. We want a cure.”
He nodded. “What group are you for?”
I cleared my throat. “I, uh, represent EAT.”
He frowned. “Eat?”
“That’s right. E-A-T. It stands for Eliminate AIDS Today. That’s what our goal is, gentlemen. Surely you agree that it’s an important one.”
He studied me, and his eyes narrowed. “You have some literature for your group? A brochure, perhaps?” His careful, stilted pronunciation reminded me of a computerized answering machine.
I shook my head. “I don’t come to you with a sales pitch, I come to you with a cause. Are you unaware of AIDS, sir? Do you really need a paper filled with statistics to make the danger real?” I tried to make my tone somewhat hostile, to put him back on his heels and keep him from getting too inquisitive.
He looked at me with cold, calculating eyes, like a man studying cuts of meat in a butcher shop. I met his stare, and as I did I was sure he didn’t believe a word of my story.
“I’m harmless,” I said.
“You want money?” he repeated.
I smiled. “If you’d be willing to give, we’d be willing to accept. Each dollar is a small step toward a cure. Each small step toward a cure is another life saved. Possibly another child’s life.”
He reached into the back pocket of his black slacks and withdrew a thick wad of bills held in place by a gold money clip. The clip bore a military insignia, but his hand kept me from seeing it clearly. He slipped a twenty from the roll of bills and handed it to me.
“Twenty small steps, then,” he said, and the short man laughed.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “You couldn’t do anything better with your money.”
“Sure,” he said, then moved out of the way to let me pass. I walked down the steps and back up the sidewalk, whistling and trying not to look back, trying not to appear aware of the way they stood on the porch and watched until I was out of sight.
Joe’s Taurus was gone. I kept walking up the street, toward the corner. They were probably wondering why I wasn’t approaching other homes. Maybe they were coming after me now to ask me about it. Or break my legs.
A car slowed behind me. Joe. I stepped off the sidewalk and pulled open the passenger door, then dropped into the seat and said, “Drive.”
He turned onto Clark Avenue, and I looked in the rearview mirror. The Russians’ house was out of sight now, but at least they weren’t watching from the sidewalk.
“Great timing I’ve got,” I said. “We sat in the car for, what, two hours and they didn’t come home? Then I’m on the porch for twenty seconds and they pull in.”
“I thought about using the horn, but I decided it was pointless,” Joe said. “You wouldn’t have had time to get out of sight anyhow, and it would’ve attracted attention to me.” He pulled into a gas station parking lot and stopped the car. “So, what happened?”
I told him, and when I was finished he was laughing so hard he was resting his red face on the steering wheel.
“You took twenty dollars from them,” he said, struggling for breath. “That’s amazing, LP. Children are dying? That’s the first thing you can think of to say?”
I shrugged. “Hey, it worked.”
“I guess.”
“I don’t think the big guy believed me, though.” I thought about it, remembered those calculating, flat eyes, and shook my head. “I’m sure he didn’t. He knew I was lying, but he didn’t know why, so he let it go.”
“Wasn’t he the one that gave you the twenty?”
“Yeah, but I still don’t think he was fooled.”
Joe wiped at his eyes and took a deep breath. “What a stunt,” he said. “I was afraid you’d confront them about Ambrose’s car and I’d have to rescue your ass. Instead you give them a speech about dying children and fleece them for a twenty.” He laughed again, then started the car and drove us back to the same street. “I’ve got something to show you,” he said. “I wanted to hear your story first, and I thought it would probably be a good idea to get you out of sight, but you’ll be interested in this.”
He made a left onto the Russians’ street and drove down it slowly. “Check out the green Oldsmobile on your side.” He drove past it, and I kept my eyes straight ahead but got a good look at the car in the side-view mirror. Joe turned the corner and started to circle the block again.
“You see him?”
I nodded. “Guy sitting in the front, looked like he was watching the same house we’ve been watching.”
“You got it. He came in with the Russians but was hanging back a little. He circled the block once and picked a parking spot with a good view of the house, just like we did. Apparently we’re not their only secret admirers.”
“You get a plate number?”
He gave me a sour look. “Did I get a plate number? Who do you think you’re talking to? I got the plate number, and I took about six photographs of the car itself, as well as the Navigator the Russians drove.”
“My mistake.”
“Uh-huh. Well, we’ve got two of the Russians, and one car for them. Who are we missing?”
“Malaknik, I think. Amy said he lives on the east side.”
“Want to go have a look at him, or should we stay and watch these boys a little longer? Apparently, it’s a better show than we thought, because we’re not the only audience.”
I looked at the clock and saw it was approaching five. “You said you got photographs of the Navigator?” He nodded. “Well, let’s get back to the office, then. I want to e-mail that photograph to Amy and see if it’s the same car she saw. Then we can run out to Brecksville and check with the neighbors. We’ll worry about Malaknik tomorrow.”
Back at the office Joe uploaded the photographs from his digital camera to the computer. They were pretty decent shots, showing a good angle of the cars as well as shots with a tight zoom on each license plate. The green Oldsmobile had a South Carolina plate.
“He’s come a long way to watch the Russians,” I said to Joe. “Must be about something important.”
“The car’s come a long way,” Joe said. “Doesn’t mean the driver came with it.”
Once the photographs had been uploaded, I e-mailed them to Amy, and Joe printed out a few copies. Then we returned to Brecksville.
We spent half an hour combing houses. Everyone regarded us with suspicion, and everyone denied having seen the Navigator. After the fourth house, Joe began showing them photographs of the green Oldsmobile, too.
“Why not?” he told me. “As long as we’ve got the photographs, it doesn’t hurt to ask.”
It didn’t hurt. Five houses later, a woman who lived opposite the Westons and a few houses down nodded her head as soon as she saw the Oldsmobile.
“Well, sure,” she said. “He’s a police officer.”
“A police officer?” Joe said.
She smiled. “Yes. He came around yesterday, asking about the same type of questions as you. Wanted to know what cars we’d noticed, all that type of thing. We really didn’t have anything to tell him, though.” She looked at us sadly. “It’s so tragic. The little girl was so sweet.”
“This officer,” I said, “did he give you his name?”
She squinted, trying to remember. “Davis, maybe? Davidson? Something like that. He had a badge, though. He showed it to me.”