CHAPTER XIII. THE BUS

Your hero has a thrill.

You are enjoying a classic. At least you should be. You also hanker for film noir? All right, I will indulge the whim, this once. Merrywood is the still the name on the marquee. Let the show begin.

 The hard-boiled detective is not a morning person. So though familiar with the street, first light found me furtive. The early birds had left for work, leaving curbside spaces open, but closer parking would risk detection. Marked men drive a memorable motor, so I pleaded another automotive distress and borrowed Jill’s Toyota. A sentry will draw notice; I pulled in a few doors down, which remove still allowed an unobstructed view. A private eye might need distraction. I had brought Wodehouse along for company, but had little patience for the prattle. And the radio waves failed the surfer: NPR was imposing a pledge drive, the other morning fare a famine.

 Sunrise paints fresh colors. I can still see the blaze of red that fronted the cream of the desirable Victorian, rose bushes canopying the path that led from an olive-green porch to the copper of leafy sidewalk. No property in the picturesque row comes with a double garage, and a black BMW stood in the sycamore shade, the master of the house still home. A few blocks distant, the quiet residential street intersected a busier thoroughfare, city buses passing with rush-hour regularity. A woman in a business suit emerged from a neighboring house, caught my watch, and skirted past, key in hand. I caught her glare in the mirror. Lady, I’m not casing the damn joint. Sure enough, ten minutes later a police cruiser swung by, the locals well connected. I attempted a guileless nod, my alibi prepared. Nice to see you, Officer. I’ve lost my dog, the mailman thought he saw it on this street.

 Dashboard digits displayed the news. My vigil had extended to a second hour. I was little pressed for time, the notice on the shop door announces ten thirty, but reality often disappoints the advertisement. The street came with a sign, NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH. A foreign spy accepted the invitation, to keep a close eye on the real estate. But boredom set in, my attention wandered, my muscles ached, but stretching my captive legs ran the risk of recognition. I discovered makeup in the glove compartment. A squirrel darted across the road, I applied a smudge of lipstick, and Connor closed the front door. He was leaving on his own, which crossed off one possibility. The black car took off, and I sneezed into the concealment of cupped hands.

 The clock showed nine. Life hid behind those stolid walls. A girl was smoking up a storm, feeding her fish, messing with her mother, brooding in bed? Maybe she had some company! Rapunzel’s knight confidently waited as she let her hair down, but my presumption of maidenly residence rested on no solid ground. My lady had absconded, already many leagues distant?

Merrywood! . . . Any better ideas, bucko? . . . All yours, on that beach.

I allowed myself ten minutes. Funereal faces leaving for work had offered a diversion, but the fleeting flurry was finished. A UPS truck pulled up; someone would answer the bell. If I just caught a glimpse, my time would not have been totally wasted. The driver left the parcel at a neighboring door.

Film noir, I prepared you for a show. The Big Sleep? If only! I got little the night before. And no coffee. Fumbling for the holder, I had spilt the contents of the cup. Some hard-boiled detective, you say? You might snipe, you might sneer, you might snigger. The underworld! Who was casing a joint, staking out a suspect, mocking the neighborhood watch?! Do you have the stuff?

Ten minutes passed. Paralysis postponed the promised parting. Customers would be lining up, but the store can open without the fullest preparation, and I could survive for once without a McDonald’s breakfast stop. A small package on the passenger seat now held only empty foil, but my jaw muscles continued to work a wad of gum. The sun rose over the roof and dazed my gaze. I lowered the sun visor, felt for the door pocket, reached for my shades, lost the glare, and found the girl.

The figure took flight. Low-hanging branches and parked SUVs allowed only intermittent vantage, but I let a calculated interval elapse before turning the key. And I timed my pursuit, reaching the quarry at the intersection. The pursued passed over the unprepossessing car, crossed the street, and plopped down on the bus-shelter bench. She was wearing the same dress, carrying the same cardigan, hoisting the same backpack. Her eyes on distant traffic, I turned the corner undetected and sped three blocks to the next stop, where I swung into side-street parking. A man in an overcoat was talking on a pay phone, but I had no reason to fear the vice squad. At least not yet. With neither spare time nor change, I was at the mercy of the meter maid and made out an illuminated bus number approaching the stop. A passenger might see me waiting, but so what? I’m a man about town. Alice! Great to see you. I’ve been running an errand. Small world.

I had no doubt. But the bus door slid open to a crowd of concealment. Clete gets cold feet, I boarded with calm—the onlooker at a roulette table follows the dice roll with detachment. The machine had no change, the driver no compassion, and I wasted a ten-dollar bill. And my largesse bestowed no privilege, late arrivals pressing against my ribs. The city was on the move, a wall of humanity that hampered easy espionage. However, a few stops down the road the bus route crossed a streetcar line to some passenger exodus, uncovering a new lineup of suspects, but no person of interest. I did spot an empty seat towards the rear and pushed my way back. A newspaper hid a prospect on the aisle, though the language alienated the reader. Closer approach revealed an elderly Chinese man, clad in khaki work clothes. A like-dressed woman sat behind, tapping on his shoulder, a seat back obscuring a shortish rider to her side. I drew abreast, and a glimpse of dark hair resolved into the portrait of an artist as a young woman.

Fortune favors the brave. And my daring met with further success, the bench at the back commanding the length of the bus. I could not see the sitter, but located her row and locked on that latitude whenever the bus slowed to a stop. Once she made for the front, I would be primed to follow. She would suspect nothing. We would tread the same sidewalk, wait at the same crossing, glance at the same shop window until her destination delivered the goods. The spy knows a thrill. I had found a new pastime, would pick on random pedestrians and tail their trajectory. I would be part of their lives, privy to their routines, closer than a best friend. They wouldn’t have a clue.

 The 57B owns the city. We barreled past movie-theater neon, derelict liquor stores, and street-corner hookers, before plunging into the canyons of the financial district, where the sun never shines. Office workers made their exit, merging into a flow that lugged briefcases and sipped from paper cups. The vacated seats were available. I wanted more, and the opportunity presented itself, across the aisle and one row behind. The Chinese lady denied a thorough inspection of her neighbor, but I could make out the pencil and pad on her lap. And I could trace a profile: a small round face, button nose, pale skin, ringlets tucked into red paisley cardigan, restless lips, eyes tightened in concentration. How would man feast on woman, did propriety not prohibit the peer?

My beam had one direction. We must have emerged from the concrete cliffs, like a canoe through a river gorge, but I knew neither time nor place. Elvis could have returned in sequined Vegas splendor, serenading us from the stairwell, and I would be the last to know. One incident could not escape my attention: The bus must have just stopped, freeing the seats immediately in front, and the khaki-clad woman crossed the aisle, firing staccato shots at her husband. He ignored the summons, but the disturbance had a greater moment: The space next to the girl was empty. I enjoyed an uninterrupted view of a delicate hand creating a cartoon, of a dress stopping short of the knees. She was a few feet away, yet in a world of her own.

 I had it made. The bus brushed a city park, where I could peer at pollarded planes, parading past the dust streaked windows. But a pair of paler limbs lay closer, in the corner of my eye. Peeping Tom? I do not make a habit, trust me. Monsieur Voyeur, cependant, ne pouvait pas demander plus! I should just enjoy the show, count the marvel of my blessings, get off the bus a fulfilled and reputable man. But no, the buck must push his luck. Prior success raised my level of ambition from risk to rank peril. I could get away with anything, forget all caution. The empty seat issued a terrible challenge. Confined to her creation, she would notice nothing else.

I made the move. My prediction proved perfect. She continued drawing without the slightest flicker. I made no attempt to brush, the adjacency was consummation. And I had no desire to touch, really. Closeness actually came with a cost; any contact would caution, bend of neck betray. I could still follow her handiwork: The cartoon creature was some carnivore. The fingernails gripping the pencil were free of varnish, and the knees that nudged the sketch pad bare. I had previously resigned myself, would never even see her again; now she was inches away, for ease of a wrap. Wonderland was waiting. I settled in, enjoying my rightful place. I closed my eyes, the better to savor the achievement. The throb of the bus engine massaging the reverie, I began to drift.

 “Animal!”

The Chinese woman spoke English. The blast jolted me awake to find the whole bus looking round. The speaker was stabbing a finger. Why?! What was she pointing at? I looked down. Horror. My pants were undone. But worse, so much worse. So much worse. A trouser malfunction might have an explanation, but engorged manhood no excuse. The offense was standing to attention, for all the world to see. I pleaded for mercy. I didn’t mean it. It was an accident. I was really no sicko, however bad it looked. I knew it sounded stupid. No one would understand.

“Stop the bus.” The girl had her own scream. “He’s been following me.” I had to escape. I ran towards the door. Too late, black-uniformed police flooded on board, guns at the ready. Life was over . . .

 My alarm clock takes a bedside chair. Electric red numerals were alone visible in the darkness. I woke from the nightmare shortly after midnight.