He regards me with a look of shock I typically reserve for the intoxicated transvestite who occupies the corner of Richmond
“I’ve only just met you,” he says. Which is true. We’ve been sitting in this booth together for oh, twenty minutes. My friend Roshanda set us up. I can already tell that this blind date isn’t going well, but it probably has more to do with the fact that our server is part of a drug cartel and less to do with my choice of hairstyle.
“I swear to you,” I say to Sam, “I’ve seen him before. If I go home alone tonight I’m a dead woman. He recognizes me.”
“He didn’t say anything when we first came in,” Sam says.
Dear Lord. These dates just get dumber and dumber.
“Of course he wouldn’t say anything,” I hiss. “What, you think he’s gonna be all ‘oh hey, I think I know you from Morton Street
“But how do you know he’s running a drug ring in his basement? Are you a cop?”
I look into Sam’s dark chestnut eyes. He’s really quite beautiful. It’s too bad we won’t go on a second date. You know, because I’m going to be dead tonight after Mr. Tony Montana-server gets off his shift.
“Sam,” I say evenly. “Trust me. I’ve been investigating this guy for the past three months.”
“Investigating?” Sam raises an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
And okay, I get it. Doing Google searches and pulling up county property records doesn’t seem like much. But I’ve also gotten on my roof several times in the dead of night with binoculars. And maybe once or twice I’ve followed a red van clear to the next county. I know what I’ve found. By looking into Sam’s face, though, I can tell he doesn’t think I’m a sane person. He thinks he got set up with Miss Lost-Her-Marbles.
“It all made more sense tonight,” I say, hoping he’ll forget about how I’m avoiding his questions about my investigational skills. “I didn’t know he pretends to be a server. But it makes sense. This is probably where most of his communication happens. People come into the restaurant and he negotiates with them.” I peer around the room, and sure enough, see several seedy looking characters.
“Wait, wait.” Sam puts a hand on the table. “Pretends to be a server? How do you know he isn’t really one?”
“First of all, his name tag says Alex, but I know it’s Alessandro. The guy owns 19 properties North of Malheur County, totaling in over five million dollars. There’s no way he’s actually a waiter.”
“How do you know this?”
“Public property records,” I say.“He owns 19 properties but spends most of his time in a run down house on Morton Street
“But how do you know he sells—”
I immediately knock over my water glass in Sam’s direction and it pours all down his lap.
“Shit,” he says. Anything to shut him up, because Alex (Alessandro really) is back with the food for the neighboring table. Like I want him to overhear our conversation. The brute-like fake-server sees Sam overreacting.
“Can I get you a towel?” he asks Sam. Alessandro’s eyes look from my date to me. I smile nervously.
“I’m so clumsy,” I say. “How embarrassing.”
“A towel would be great,” Sam replies, irritated. “And maybe the check.”
I stare at Sam, horrified. Both of our plates are still full. Our date had just started. How can he tell if I’m his soul mate in twenty-five and a half minutes? And more importantly, as soon as Sam pays the bill, he’ll leave me and I will have to go back to my house alone, where I know immediate death will quickly follow. Or at least a kidnapping.
“Please,” I say desperately. “Don’t leave. Your life’s probably at risk now, too.”
Sam finishes mopping up his crotch with a napkin and looks at me.
“You’re life is not in danger. I will be fine. You watch too much CSI.”
Which is totally not even true. I watch Glee.
“I’m not kidding you,” I say. “Now that he’s seen us together, he’ll think you know everything that I know too.” Tears spring to my eyes.
Alessandro’s back with the towel. He hands it to Sam and then takes me in with his menacing eyes. In a voice rougher than sandpaper he says, “I’ll bring your check in a moment.”
As soon as our shifty server leaves, Sam says, “If you’re so concerned, why haven’t you gone to the police with this?”
Now was probably not a good time to tell him I thought a crooked cop was involved as well.
“I have,” I lie.
“And?”
I make up a story. “They couldn’t tell me much. Confidential case and all that. But they told me to stay away for my own safety.”
“As you should.”
“I can’t! He lives four houses down from me.”
“How are you so sure he knows you know? Whatever it is you think you know, that is.”
I don’t want to tell Sam about last Thursday night, either. About how the red van was getting loaded with boxes from the garage at three a.m., and of how I may or may not have accidentally knocked over some metal garbage cans while spying. There was a flashlight in my eyes for about two seconds, and then I ran. It’s a miracle I’m still alive, actually.
My mouth’s still hanging open when Alessandro brings the check. This is really not how I thought our first date would go. The tears that my lids have been holding finally pop and start to stream down my face.
“I wish that you would believe me.”
Sam starts to pull out his wallet.
“Make sure you leave a big tip,” I say. Like that will help.
“Elle,” he begins, “I’m really sorry this had to end this way. I really am. I think you should call your friend Roshanda or somebody.” And then he stands up to leave, wet pants and all. I scramble out of the booth. He doesn’t get it. Hasn’t he ever watched Slumdog Millionaire? Drug lords show no mercy.
*****
When I get outside, Sam is there, stopped, staring at my car, which is parked along the curb. I mean, I know I waxed it last Saturday, but it’s nothing breathtaking. And then I notice what he’s staring at. It’s my back tire, which is now flat. Like somebody slashed it. My eyes jump to his car, which is parked close by. His tires are fine, which makes sense. Alessandro and his gang probably recognized my car because I drive up and down Morton Street
Upon seeing my slashed tire, I begin to sob audibly. Sam does something unexpected by putting one hand over my mouth and grabbing my right hand into his.
“Come on,” he says. He pulls me towards his Volvo and shoves me inside. “Pretend for one second that I believe you.”
My tears stop and I nod.
“What am I supposed to do about it?”
I guess I hadn’t really thought of that.
“Come to my house,” I say. “I’ll show you everything.”
Sam puts my hand down. “I thought you said that wasn’t safe.”
“It’s not,” I reply. “But I really think something’s going to happen tonight. And then we’ll have evidence and can call the cops while it’s happening.”
“Are you for real?”
“Sam. If nothing happens tonight and I really am sick in the head, then tomorrow you can forget all about me. If you’re so sure all of this is fake, you have nothing to fear.”
He surprises me again by asking “And if it’s not?”
“Then this is about to become your most memorable first date ever.”
Sam buckles up, starts the car, and we’re driving.
“Where to?” He asks.
I give him some directions. We go through a few intersections, stop at a few signs, yield left, and then travel for a few miles on the freeway. I look in the rearview mirror.
“Take exit 258,” I command.
“I thought you lived near the cinema.”
“I need to get a few things at the store,” which is a lie.
We weave in and out of lanes, and get to the Wal-Mart parking lot. Sam is looking for a space. I check the mirror again.
Someone is following us.
“Never mind, Sam. Just keep going.”
“But I thought—”
“I DON’T need to go the store. It was just a trick to see if the black Highlander that has been tailing us for the past eight miles was going to keep following us or not. Alessandro probably called one of his buddies.”
Sam checks the mirror too. He presses the gas a bit too quickly and we pop over a speed bump.
“Get us out of here as fast as you can. But be casual. We don’t want them to know that we know they’re following us.”
“Right.” I sense a hint of nervousness in his voice. And clearly it’s not because of my outfit.
“This never would have happened if we had raided my trunk before leaving the restaurant,” I lament.
“Why’s that?”
“I keep a disguise box in my car. Wigs, glasses, hats, you know. The basics.”
“Right, right. The basics.” His voice cracks. “I mean, why doesn’t everyone keep a disguise box in their glove compartment?”
“I keep telling my friends.”
It’s then that I realize we need to go through the drive-through.
“Sam, we need to find a Taco Bell or a Burger King or something.”
He cranes his neck and looks at me. “How can you think about a Chalupa when we’re being tailed?”
“So you do believe me.”
“I believe the guy behind us is following us, yes. Whether or not he’s involved with selling drugs, I don’t know.”
“Listen,” I touch his arm. “We go through a drive-through. Order something. If he follows us, then the restaurant’s camera will pick up his face and we’ll be able to ID him later. I mean, I don’t want to be the one to hand him his Happy Meal at McDonald’s, but that doesn’t mean Beatrice behind the window can’t. We’ll get all of it on video.”
“And then what? Is he going to follow us for hours?”
“And then we’ll shake him.”
I can tell by my date’s facial expressions that he doesn’t know if he should trust my idea or not. However, three minutes later we’re pulling into a Wendy’s. Perfect. I was in the mood for a frosty. Besides, Sam hadn’t given me a chance to eat my dinner at the restaurant.
“Welcome to Wendy’s. I can take your order when you’re ready,” the box squawks.
“Uh….a large fries please?”
I lean over Sam so I can get closer to his open window. “And a baked potato—no sour cream, side salad, and a small frosty please.”
Sam’s brows show a puzzled expression.
“What?” I say. “While we’re here, might as well take advantage. You might not get to eat for a while. Especially if we get kidnapped.”
Sam’s eyes jump to his side mirror. Sure enough, the black Highlander is idling behind us. This tells me two things. 1) They are interested in finding out more about us, because if they wanted to kill us, they would’ve had a perfect chance while we were immobile. 2) They like their burgers cut square, or else they would’ve gone to the Sonic that is twenty feet to the left.
“Would you like anything else?”
“Yeah. An order of ten-piece chicken nuggets.” Clearly the reality of this is beginning to wear on Sam.
“That’ll be $11.49 at the window.”
We get our food and Sam pays (second dinner in one night), and then we’re sitting at the curb trying to merge back into traffic. The black Highlander is still behind us at the window, faking like they’re getting food too. But I know what will happen. As soon as we get in a lane, the vehicle behind us will dart from the pick-up window whether they’ve paid for their food or not.
“You need to wait,” I tell Sam urgently. “Wait until a lot of traffic is about to come, and then gun it. That way maybe we can get a few cars in between us and our stalkers.” If the process doesn’t get us smashed to pieces, that is.
“Right,” Sam agrees, biting his lip. Sweat beads are rolling down his forehead, like he’s actually worried or something.
Currently, there’s a big gap in traffic. A normal driver would pull in now. But we are not under normal circumstances. I can tell that the light from the intersection down the street has turned green, because all of a sudden a large stream of traffic starts cruising towards us.
I can sense Sam’s foot on the gas pedal, ready to go.
“Wait more.”
A green Nissan is quickly approaching.
I check the rearview mirror.
Sam’s knuckles grip the steering wheel.
Then, at the last possible moment, without any urging from me, Sam turns his car into the lane of traffic. I hear a screech of tires and a honk from the Nissan. Sam’s flooring it. The ominous black Highlander gets stuck behind five other cars.
“That was really excellent, Sam!” I say excitedly.
Pretty soon we’re weaving in and out of traffic, going 50 in a 35, running yellow lights.
“Start making some turns. Turn everywhere so they’ll lose the trail.”
He does. Left onto Jackson
*****
Thirty minutes later, at 8:26, we pull into the driveway of a gray two-story house. Sam turns the engine off. I’m confused.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“My parents’ house,” Sam replies.
Here I thought our date wasn’t going well, and he’s already brought me to meet his parents.
Sam jumps out of the seat while the engine’s still on, punches a code into a key pad mounted near the garage door, and next the mouth of the garage slowly starts to open, like Jaws (if Jaws were a slow, gear-powered, gray house instead of a fast and deadly gray shark). Sam gets back in his car and pulls it inside the two-car garage. A blue Honda Civic is parked in the other spot. The door closes behind us and we’re safely concealed.
I follow Sam out of the garage and into the kitchen of the house. It’s quietly empty.
“Where are your parents?” I ask.
“Out of town on vacation.” Sam fills up a glass of water and takes a swig. And here I thought I’d get to meet my future mother-in-law.
“So what happens now?” I question. Because obviously, Sam has to take me home at some point. We can’t just hole up in his parent’s suburban home all weekend. Not on a first date.
“You’re the detective, you tell me.”
I sit down on the bar stool near the kitchen counter and ponder for a moment. I think of how we need to get back to my street, to catch Alessandro and the drug gang in action. If we only could get back to my house safely. I’ve got binoculars, radios, disguises—everything we would need. I think of Sam’s parent’s Honda parked in the garage, of his mom closet up stairs. I piece together a plan.
Fifteen minutes later, after I’ve convinced Sam to have a drink of his dad’s brandy, I start to tell him my ideas.
“Hell no am I driving my parent’s car back into town.”
Okay, so I should have waited for him to have two drinks.
“But we have to,” I plead. “And no one will recognize us. We’ll be driving something different, and we’ll disguise ourselves with your parents’ clothes. Once we get there, we’ll park a few blocks away and then hoof it to my house. Then we can catch them tonight.”
“No.”
“Sam, haven’t you ever wanted to save the world?”
“No. I wanted to be a dentist.”
“Alright. Just imagine this is tooth decay. Rotting the mouth of the city. It needs to be stopped.”
We sit in silence for five minutes. Sam is massaging his temples like he has a headache, and I’m thinking of some other way I can convince him.
“Fine,” I say. “Will you at least let me drive the Honda back to my house? You can stay here. Pick up the car when you’re parents get back from the weekend.”
Sam’s eyes settle on mine, and he bites his lip in frustration. Even though I’ve just met him today, I know he won’t let me go back alone. Not now.
“I’ll go back with you,” he says in a whining voice.
“Great,” I say cheerfully. “Now about those disguises.”
Within moments I am browsing through Sam’s parent’s walk-in closet. Right now Sam is wearing dark-rinsed jeans and a red t-shirt, which shows off his biceps quite well. He needs a good disguise, maybe a mustache. I’m wearing a blue cotton sun-dress with sandals, which obviously needs to be changed. Like you can spy in a mini-skirt.
From Sam’s father’s side, I pull out a tropical printed Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. Then I spy a set of golf clubs nestled in the back of the closet, which gives me a clue about Sam’s father. I look around for an argyle printed polo shirt and white pants, because I’d much rather be seen with a golfer than with a tourist. I show Sam his options.
“How is that going to help me go unnoticed?”
Geeze, picky picky. He probably bought one of these shirts for his father for Christmas.
“This is just your driving outfit.” I yank a black shirt and pants off the hangers. “When you get to my house of course you’ll have to dress like a ninja.”
“I’ll wear that on one condition.”
“Yes?”
“I get to pick out your outfit.”
“Go for it.” Like it was a big deal. I’d be wearing whatever get-up he chose for forty minutes, tops. Once we got to my house I could slip into my black cat suit. That’s just an expression. What I mean is, I have dark clothes and a black beanie at home. This isn’t Entrapment.
I watch as Sam thoroughly enjoys himself picking out my disguise. He pulls out a long denim jumper and a peach colored top. I instantly grab it from him and hold it up next to me. He can see that the jumper is seven inches too long, and about ten inches to wide. Not that I’m calling his mother fat. Sam recognizes the problem and instead chooses a pair of shorts that fall nearly to my ankles, along with a mint green shirt with a picture of a kitten on the front. I’ll do her a favor and not return the shirt. Eyeing a basket of accessories, I start to dig for a belt, because I know I am going to need to cinch those shorts to hold them up. I also find a pair of sunglasses and a hat. I grab all of the stuff and take it into the master bathroom.
“Get dressed,” I command as I shut the door. After slipping in to my roomy disguise, I root around for make-up. Discovering a tube of Mary Kay lipstick, I apply the red cream generously to my lips. Next, I place the hat and sunglasses on and look into the mirror. I burst out laughing.
“Check this out,” I say, opening the door of the bathroom that joins the bedroom. Sam is standing there, trying to buckle a belt around his dad’s chinos. He wasn’t wearing a shirt.
For a guy who aspired to be a dentist, he sure did have nice abs. They were rippely and sort of tanned and I swore he flexed them on purpose as he pulled on his knit polo shirt. Even so, I couldn’t help but snicker. Clearly Sam is taller than his father, because the pants looked like high-waters.
He looks in the mirror at himself, then looks at me again. Laughter erupts from his lungs. It sounds like it is coming from deep within, from inside his soul or whatever. I start to laugh some more, tears springing to my eyes.
I grab my sundress. “Got your ninja clothes?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s roll out.”
*****
At ten-thirty we are picking through bushes in the dark, trying to get to my back door. We ditched Sam’s mom’s car three blocks over.
“Ouch,” Sam whisper-screams, and I know he’s just been attacked by the blackberry bush thorns. “I can’t see anything,” he whines. Which is totally the point. If he can’t see anything, then nothing can see him. Which means we’re safe.
“Come on,” I say, grabbing his hand and pulling him along. I’ve traversed this bush tunnel once or twice myself, though never on a date. Sam’s hand is rather large and I feel dumb holding it, because right now it’s like I’m his mother, dragging her child behind. I mean, I’m even wearing her clothes.
Eventually we hit a fence. It’s my fence, to my backyard. “Hoist me up,” I whisper. Sam more or less throws me over the top, and then climbs over himself. I squat in the backyard for awhile, listening to my house, trying to decide if it’s safe. I jam my key into the backdoor and enter, not turning on any lights. Once in the kitchen, I feel around for a cupboard and find a flash light.
“Wait here.”
I crawl into my dark bedroom and use my flashlight to search around for some equally dark clothes. I find a pair of black sweatpants and my black sweatshirt. I change quickly, grab my binoculars from my closet, and then crawl out to the kitchen again.
“Sam?” I don’t see him. My heart is beating out of my chest. “Sam, where are you?”
“Over here.” He’s sitting in the living room, already changed into the dark clothes that he toted along.
I crawl over to the living room window to peer down at Alessandro’s house. Most of it was out of my line of vision, but I could see that the lights were off and no cars were parked out front. Which meant we had time to wait.
“Are you sure something’s going to happen tonight?” Sam whispers to me over my shoulder. He’s crept up next to me.
How do I explain to him that I just know, because I have this feeling? I know people. I know what they are going to do.
“Sam. I’m a teacher. I work with a bunch of kids, and when they are trying to be sneaky, I know. I know they are going to be sneaky and do something bad before they even know it. I use clues.”
“This isn’t fourth grade.”
So he was listening to that part during dinner.
“Just go with it.”
What I’m mostly concerned about is getting out of my house while it’s still safe and finding a good location to spy. Lucky for me, I have another brilliant idea. They are building a two-story house next to mine, and it’ll make a great place to hide. As far as doors go, there really aren’t any yet, unless you count the sheet of plywood that I can easily slide out of the way. If we can get up to the second story, it will be the perfect place to watch our suspect’s house. The height will give us a better view, and no assassin will think to search a construction zone. I mean, the place doesn’t even have electricity yet.
“Come on, Sam, we need to leave.” He follows me out the backdoor and into the eerie darkness. I reach for his hand again, though this time it is mostly out of fear. I’m glad he’s a foot taller and about 80 pounds heavier than me, though from today’s performance, I’m not so sure he would be any better at protecting me than a toy poodle. But he did lose the Highlander, I’ll give him that.
We creep to the side of the next door house and I start to pull the sheet of wood away so we can get inside. Sam helps me. We move it back once we’re inside. The floor squeaks and it smells like a lumber yard. I’m not sure about the floor plan so I turn my flashlight on and shine it around. The frame of stairs has been installed. The steps are missing, so we have to carefully tiptoe up on about one inch thick of wood. Once we get to the top, I find a window that overlooks the drug lord’s house. We settle next to it and I take a deep breath in. I realize that I’m tired. Tired but not sleepy. It’s been a very long evening, and also the longest date I’ve ever been on. I’m extremely alert. My ears are listening for any sound of movement, and my eyes are zooming in on 7425 Morton Street
“So…what do you do for a living?” I ask. Because clearly he’s not a dentist yet.
“I’m a human resources consultant.”
“Oh.” I think. I have no idea what that means. “What do you do exactly?”
“I get to review and edit policy manuals and write job descriptions. I also provide training to employee groups on HR-related topics, stuff like that.”
I nod my head. A real thrill-seeker, this one.
“What sort of hobbies do you have?”
“Um, well. I like to go hiking and white-water rafting. And rock climbing, occasionally.”
I tilt my head, puzzled. Clearly I don’t have him all figured out.
We sit there talking for like, two hours. I learn that he broke his leg skiing when he was eight. That he hates pickles as much as I do. He has a dog named Tessa. He got sprayed by a skunk at summer camp in 7th grade.
I’m about to doze off when Sam touches my shoulder.
“Elle. Hey, I think something is happening.”
I snap to it, grabbing my binoculars. The red van is parked in front of Alessandro’s garage. Alessandro is loading something into it. He’s still wearing his server apron. I shift my sights onto another man, kind of balding, with a goatee. I realize I also recognize him from the restaurant. Pretty soon a silver BMW pulls in. A man gets out of it, carrying a briefcase, and Alessandro takes him inside. Two other guys continue to load the back of the van.
“Look,” I whisper fiercely, grasping Sam’s hand until my knuckles turned white. It was pitch black so I couldn’t check to see if they were for sure, but if it were daytime, I’m sure my knuckles would have been white. Girls’ knuckles are always turning white with fear while clutching their boyfriend’s arms. And okay, it was just a first date. But whatever. I guestered to the black Highlander inching down the street. No one got out of it. I suspected they had their eyes on my house. I swallowed.
Sam took out his cell, ready to dial the police.
“Wait,” I say. “Something’s not right.”
“What do you mean?”
I scanned the scene. The street was dimly lit, shadows were lurking everywhere. The darkness enveloped the neighboring houses like an eclipse.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick’s house. His light’s out.”
“So? It’s two o’clock in the morning.”
“No. Mr. Fitzpatrick is an insomniac. He always watches TV in his bedroom late at night. He’s like, seventy-five and never sleeps.”
“Big deal, so he took some Lunesta. What does that have to do with calling the cops?”
I notice the green truck parked near Mr. Fitzpatrick’s driveway. It had the name of a landscaping business printed on the side, but no phone number. That didn’t make sense.
“He’s not home.”
“Okay?”
“He lives right across from Alessandro and he’s not home.”
“Should we be worried?”
“I don’t think so. Let’s just wait a little bit longer. Besides, what are you going to say when you call? That a van is parked in its owner’s driveway?”
“No,” Sam replies. “I was going to do it Home Alone style. Say there was a robbery in progress at my house at 7425 Morton Street
We wait. The brutes finish loading up the van and go inside. Two minutes later, the door of Mr. Fitzpatrick’s house flies open. Eight guys wearing vests and combat boots, carrying shields, and armed with guns come piling out. A second later four cop cars pull up, though their sirens are silent and their flashing blue and red lights are turned off.
I smile. They already knew.
Sam turns to look at me.
“Elle. Elle, what’s happening?”
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’ll all be okay. Just wait.”
We hear yelling.
Gunshots go off.
The black Highlander tries to peel away but an officer shoots its tires and apprehends its driver.
Fat men wearing chained necklaces are handcuffed.
The contents of the van are transferred to the back of the SWAT team vehicle.
“You were right, Elle. You were right. I should have believed you all along,” Sam tells me in awe.
I smile softly. He puts a hand over mine.
We watch all of it, waiting for everything to get wrapped up. But evidence has to be marked and itemized, photos need to be taken, and the entire property needs to be fenced off with yellow caution tape. By the time everything has ended, the previously dark sky is starting to shine pink at the edges. A ray of sun beams out and hits the glass of the window we are sitting behind.
Sam yawns.
“So,” I say casually, “any chance for a second date?”
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