On the agenda for today: The People's Guardian has more mischief planned.
And a beautiful day for it too.
I've spent some time with Alicia, comforting her. She's off to do some work (she's a bookkeeper, a sort-of accountant, though I couldn't tell you where she works or exactly what she does. Fact is, she's not excited about it and therefore I'm not either. We're not a typical couple; our lives do not, of course, completely coincide). I'm enjoying first one then a second breakfast sandwich at the window of my apartment in Chelsea. Tasty, full of salt. My blood pressure is so low that a doctor asked jokingly during a checkup if I was still alive. I smiled, though it was not really funny coming from a medico. I was inclined to crack his skull but I didn't.
I chew the second sandwich down fast and get ready to go out.
Not quite ready for PG's full-on assault, though; I have an errand first.
New outfit today--no cap for a change, my blond crew cut is there for the world to see. A running suit, navy blue, stripes along the legs. My shoes. Nothing to do about them. I need a special size. My feet are long, like my fingers, the way my skinny body is tall. The condition is Marfan syndrome.
Hey, Vern, sack of bones...
Hey, Bean Boy...
Can't reason with people, can't say: Wasn't my choice. Can't say, God blinked. Or He played a joke. Doesn't work to point out that Abraham Lincoln was one of us. Doesn't work to say what's the big deal?
So you let it go, the taunts. The punches. The pictures slipped in your locker.
Until you choose not to let it go. Red's partner, this Lincoln Rhyme, his body's betrayed him and he copes. A productive member of society. Good for him. I'm taking a different path.
Backpack over my shoulder, I head out onto the street, radiant on this glorious spring day. Funny how beauty blossoms to fill the world when you're on a mission.
So. I go west toward the river and the closer I get to the gray Hudson the farther back in time I go. Chelsea east and central, near me, is apartments and boutiques and chic and New York Times-reviewed restaurants. To the far west it's industrial--like it was in the 1800s, I imagine. I see the building I'm looking for. I pause, pull on cloth gloves and on the prepaid I make a call.
"Everest Graphics," a voice answers.
"Yes, Edwin Boyle, please. It's an emergency."
"Oh. Hold on."
Three minutes, three solid minutes, I wait. How long would it be if this weren't an emergency--which it isn't but never mind.
"Hello, this is Edwin Boyle. Who's this?"
"Detective Peter Falk. NYPD." Not so much into TV, no, but I loved Columbo.
"Oh. What's wrong?"
"I'm sorry to report your apartment's been broken into."
"No! What happened? Druggies? Those kids hanging out on the street?"
"We don't know, sir. We'd like you take a look and tell us what's missing. How soon can you be here?"
"Ten minutes. I'm not that far away... How did you know I work here?"
I'm prepared. "Found some business cards on the floor of your place. It was ransacked."
Such a great word.
"Okay. I'll be right there. I'm leaving now."
I disconnect and examine the sidewalk. Other companies and commercial operations squat here. One pathetic ad agency, striving to be cool. Sidewalks pretty deserted. I step into the loading dock of an abandoned warehouse. It's no more than three minutes before a figure steams past, sixty-ish Edwin Boyle, eyes forward, concern on his face.
Stepping forward fast, I grab his collar and yank him into the shadows of the loading dock.
"Oh, Jesus..." He turns toward me, eyes wide. "You! From up the hall! What the hell?"