shoulder and she remembered. He was the man watching English and his two gypsy friends follow her the other night. He’d tipped his hat at her.
She stepped over to another couch and sat where she could watch him.
He looked like he dropped out of the fifties. As he shuffled along toward the counter, she took in his suit and spit-polished black shoes.
His beige fedora struck her as very “Cary Grant”. He looked like a 1950’s FBI agent.
She waited and watched.
He made it to the main desk. The woman stepped out from a room behind the counter with a new coffee in her hand and said something in Hungarian. From where Sarah sat watching, all she heard was a whisper of their conversation.
Fedora Man reached in his pocket and produced a wallet of some sort. He showed it to her and the woman turned from him and walked back into the room behind the counter.
Then Fedora Man spun on his heels and stared directly at Sarah.
It’s on, she thought. This guy is here for me.
Whatever they want to do or however long they want to do it, they will never quell her desire to exact justice on Armond. All these assholes getting in her way were only distractions.
The man started walking toward her. Sarah stayed perfectly still, the newspaper folded in her lap with the cop’s gun hidden under its shelter of ink.
One flip of the edge of the paper and she’d be arrested again as the incriminating weapon was now in her possession.
Yesterday they could prove nothing until they found the gun. She led them right to it. And then this ass waited until she had it in her hand to make his move.
Fedora Man stopped six feet from her, reached up and tipped his hat. Just like the other night.
“Good morning.”
Sarah nodded.
“May I have a seat?”
Sarah nodded again. It was killing her. Why so polite? Why not drop the ball and get on with it? She was also surprised with herself. Maybe all the years of violence and confrontations had hardened her because she didn’t feel the least bit nervous. Cops had rules they had to live by. She wasn’t going to be killed or attacked. All they could ever do was talk a lot and remove her liberties, but as O.J. proved, with enough money and a good lawyer, many liberties could be returned.
He sat across from her, adjusted his jacket and leaned back into the cushioned softness of the leather couch he occupied.
If anything, Sarah was intrigued by his entrance. There was something dangerous about him because he exuded a power only serious confidence could create. This was a man who got the job done. She didn’t know who he worked for but whoever it was they had someone solid here.
What he didn’t know was that Sarah had more confidence. There was almost nothing he could do that would surprise her. She sat poised and ready to strike at the first movement she didn’t like. He was the one who needed to be on guard. She had a weapon at the ready.
“What are you planning?”
“Excuse me?”
His English was American. She was sure of it.
“I’m a friend.”
“Then explain something to me,” she said.
He lowered his head enough to see he was attempting a slow-motion nod.
“Explain what?”
“How come I don’t know you? I know my friends. If you’re a friend, then why don’t I know you on sight?”
He lifted his head and stared at her. “Not in that sense. I’ll say it differently. I’m a friendly. This means—”
“I know what it means, but thanks anyway. Don’t need friendlies.”
“Sarah, I think you do.”
Mr. Mysterious was starting to piss her off. Sarah felt her temper rising. Playing riddle man, and acting like this dance was a game, only served her a cold plate of fuck you . Time to draw him out.
“Either state your business or fuck off. I’ve got some touring of the city to do before my flight back to the States.”
“You’re not
She stepped over to another couch and sat where she could watch him.
He looked like he dropped out of the fifties. As he shuffled along toward the counter, she took in his suit and spit-polished black shoes.
His beige fedora struck her as very “Cary Grant”. He looked like a 1950’s FBI agent.
She waited and watched.
He made it to the main desk. The woman stepped out from a room behind the counter with a new coffee in her hand and said something in Hungarian. From where Sarah sat watching, all she heard was a whisper of their conversation.
Fedora Man reached in his pocket and produced a wallet of some sort. He showed it to her and the woman turned from him and walked back into the room behind the counter.
Then Fedora Man spun on his heels and stared directly at Sarah.
It’s on, she thought. This guy is here for me.
Whatever they want to do or however long they want to do it, they will never quell her desire to exact justice on Armond. All these assholes getting in her way were only distractions.
The man started walking toward her. Sarah stayed perfectly still, the newspaper folded in her lap with the cop’s gun hidden under its shelter of ink.
One flip of the edge of the paper and she’d be arrested again as the incriminating weapon was now in her possession.
Yesterday they could prove nothing until they found the gun. She led them right to it. And then this ass waited until she had it in her hand to make his move.
Fedora Man stopped six feet from her, reached up and tipped his hat. Just like the other night.
“Good morning.”
Sarah nodded.
“May I have a seat?”
Sarah nodded again. It was killing her. Why so polite? Why not drop the ball and get on with it? She was also surprised with herself. Maybe all the years of violence and confrontations had hardened her because she didn’t feel the least bit nervous. Cops had rules they had to live by. She wasn’t going to be killed or attacked. All they could ever do was talk a lot and remove her liberties, but as O.J. proved, with enough money and a good lawyer, many liberties could be returned.
He sat across from her, adjusted his jacket and leaned back into the cushioned softness of the leather couch he occupied.
If anything, Sarah was intrigued by his entrance. There was something dangerous about him because he exuded a power only serious confidence could create. This was a man who got the job done. She didn’t know who he worked for but whoever it was they had someone solid here.
What he didn’t know was that Sarah had more confidence. There was almost nothing he could do that would surprise her. She sat poised and ready to strike at the first movement she didn’t like. He was the one who needed to be on guard. She had a weapon at the ready.
“What are you planning?”
“Excuse me?”
His English was American. She was sure of it.
“I’m a friend.”
“Then explain something to me,” she said.
He lowered his head enough to see he was attempting a slow-motion nod.
“Explain what?”
“How come I don’t know you? I know my friends. If you’re a friend, then why don’t I know you on sight?”
He lifted his head and stared at her. “Not in that sense. I’ll say it differently. I’m a friendly. This means—”
“I know what it means, but thanks anyway. Don’t need friendlies.”
“Sarah, I think you do.”
Mr. Mysterious was starting to piss her off. Sarah felt her temper rising. Playing riddle man, and acting like this dance was a game, only served her a cold plate of fuck you . Time to draw him out.
“Either state your business or fuck off. I’ve got some touring of the city to do before my flight back to the States.”
“You’re not
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