Mirror Image

“Too much excitement.”

Actually, she was sick with worry and considered warning Tate of the danger he was in. She regarded the bandage on his forehead as an obscenity. Next time it might not be an empty beer bottle. It might be a bullet. And it might be deadly.

“Tate,” she asked hesitantly, “have you seen a tall, gray-haired man?”

He laughed shortly. “About fifty of them.”

“One in particular. I thought he looked familiar.”

“Maybe he belongs in one of those memory pockets that hasn’t opened up for you yet.”

“Yes, maybe.”

“Say, are you all right?”

Forcing a smile, she raised her lips to his ear and whispered, “The candidate’s wife has to go to the ladies’ room. Would that be kosher?”

“More kosher than the consequences if she doesn’t.”

He stood to assist her out of her chair. She excused herself. At the end of the dais, a waiter took her hand and helped her down the shaky portable steps. As unobtrusively as possible, she searched the crowd for the man with gray hair while making her way toward an exit.

As she cleared the doorway, she felt both frustrated and relieved. She was almost positive he had been the same man she’d spotted in West Texas. On the other hand, there were tens of thousands of tall Texans with gray hair. Feeling a little foolish over her paranoia, she smiled to herself ruefully.

Her smile congealed when someone moved in close behind her and whispered menacingly, “Hello, Avery.”

Thirty

At midnight, the McDonald’s restaurant at the corner of Commerce and Griffin in downtown Dallas looked like a goldfish bowl. It was brightly lit. Through the plate glass windows, everyone inside was as clearly visible as actors standing on center stage.

The cashier was taking an order from a somber loner. A wino was sleeping it off in one of the booths. Two giddy teenage couples were squirting catsup on each other.

Breathless from having walked three blocks from the hotel, Avery approached the restaurant cautiously. Her formal attire distinguished her from everyone else who was out and about. It was foolhardy for a woman to be walking the downtown streets alone at this hour anyway.

From across the street, she peered into the capsulized brilliance of the dining room. She saw him, sitting alone in a booth. Fortunately, the booth was adjacent to the windows. As soon as the traffic light changed, she hurried across the broad avenue, her high heels clacking on the pavement.

“Mmm-mmm, mama, lookin’ good!” A black youth licentiously wagged his tongue at her. With punches and guffaws, his two chums congratulated him. On the corner, two women, one with orange hair, the other with burgundy, competed for the attentions of a man in tight leather pants. He was leaning against the traffic light post, looking bored, until Avery walked by. He gave her a carnivorous once-over. The orange-haired woman spun around, propped her hands on her hips, and shouted at Avery, “Hey, bitch, keep your ass outta his face or I’ll kill you.”

Avery ignored them all as she walked past, moving along the sidewalk toward the booth. When she drew even with it, she knocked on the window. Van Lovejoy looked up from his chocolate milk shake, spotted her, and grinned. He indicated the other bench of the booth. Avery angrily and vehemently shook her head no and sternly pointed down at the grimy sidewalk beneath her black satin shoes.

He took his sweet time. She impatiently followed his unhurried progress through the restaurant, out the door, and around the corner, so that by the time he reached her, she was simmering with rage.

“What the hell are you up to, Van?” she demanded.

Feigning innocence, he curled both lanky hands in toward his chest. “Moi?”

“Did we have to meet here? At this time of night?”

“Would you rather I had come to your room—the room you’re sharing with another woman’s husband?” In the ensuing silence, he casually lit a joint. After two tokes, he offered it to Avery. She slapped his hand aside.

“You can’t imagine the danger you placed me in by speaking to me tonight.”

He leaned against the plate glass window. “I’m all ears.”

“Van.” Miserably, she caught her head with her hand and massaged her temples. “It’s too difficult to explain—especially here.” The women at the corner were loudly swapping obscenities while the man in leather cleaned his fingernails with a pocketknife. “I slipped out of the hotel. If Tate discovers that I’m gone—”

“Does he know you’re not his wife?”

“No! And he mustn’t.”