We sat and waited. I was thankful the temperature had crawled a little higher than in recent days, because we had to keep the engine off to avoid attention, and that meant no heater. The street was quiet. Behind us, on Clark, the traffic was thick, but on the little side street only a few cars passed. Once a man in an old military parka with several days’ worth of stubble on his face stumbled down the sidewalk and glanced in the car, saw us, muttered something, and crossed to the other side. He was carrying a paper bag in his left hand, and I saw him lift it to his lips as he neared the corner.
“Told you this car wasn’t discreet,” I said. “He thought we were cops.”
“Guy like that? Probably thinks every third car on the street is a cop.”
“What do you think was in the bag? Southern Comfort?”
“Old Grand-Dad,” Joe said confidently. “No doubt about it.”
An hour passed, and then the monotony was broken by the arrival of the mailman. He moved slowly from house to house, wincing as he took the steps, as if maybe the years and the weight of the mailbag had taken a toll on his back.
“Think we should check their mail?” Joe asked. “See if maybe there’s a letter from Hubbard in the box?”
“Don’t see what it would hurt.”
“It’d hurt if one of them is in the house, or they drive in while you’re up on the porch.”
“I like how smoothly you do that.”
“Do what?” Joe said, eyes wide, the picture of innocence.
“Make it so I’m the one who’s going up on the porch.”
He smiled and spread his hands. “Hey, you’re the one who’s so anxious for action with these guys. I’d hate to stand in your way.”
I stepped out of the car and walked down the sidewalk, head down, hands in my pockets. Just another neighborhood guy out for a stroll. I needed the bottle wrapped in the paper bag, though, to blend in better.
The house was about two hundred feet from where we’d parked. No one seemed to notice me, and the only car that passed didn’t slow down. I took the four steps up to the porch, the dried, flaking paint crackling beneath my shoes. The two windows facing the porch were dusty, and inside it was dark. A heavy-duty steel storm door protected the wooden front door. The old tin mailbox was fastened to the wall beside the door. I lifted the lid with my finger and slipped the contents out. Four envelopes; four pieces of junk mail. A wasted trip. I dropped them back into the box and pulled on the handle of the storm door. It was locked. I stepped up to the window, put my face close to the glass, and shielded my eyes with my hand, trying to make out the interior. Tires crunched on the street behind me, and I turned to see a black Lincoln Navigator pulling into the driveway.
Two men sat inside, and neither looked particularly friendly. They opened the doors and stepped out of the vehicle, watching me carefully. The driver was a few inches shorter than me but thick, with dark hair, pale skin, and a jutting jaw. He had a heavy blue jacket on, and as he walked around the Navigator he pulled the zipper down, allowing him to reach inside the coat if he wanted to. The passenger was taller, with very broad shoulders and blond hair. His nose was large and slightly hooked, and his cheekbones and jaw were clearly defined and solid, giving a quality of strength to his face.
I remained on the porch, a smile fixed on my face, but I didn’t speak. They approached slowly, then walked up the steps and stood in front of me, spaced so they blocked the steps completely.
“Children are dying,” I said.
They exchanged a glance. Confused. The shorter one said, “What do you talk about?” His accent was thick.
“AIDS,” I said casually. “Children are dying, now, gentlemen. Not just adults. Children. Think about that. Then think about what you’ve done to help the problem.” I watched them as they stared at me. “It’s okay, gentlemen. Not many of us are doing our share to combat the disease. That doesn’t mean it’s too late to step in and do your part, though.”
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.”