I
spotted him right away - a solitary figure, peering into
a shop window, hands tucked in the pockets of a rather
worn pair of jeans, jacket with some kind of bull horn
symbol across the back - he looked like any
down-on-his-luck man in his late 30's might look except
for one thing. I knew who he really was. And I was there
to find him.
I'd tracked him across two continents and more
international borders than I cared to remember. And now,
after I'd practically given up and was out for a
self-conciliatory lunch at a place I normally wouldn't
go to, there he was. Right across the damned street from
where I sat by the restaurant window. If I hadn't looked
up from my study of the menu right when I did, I'd have
missed him.
"Your choice for luncheon was. . ." the waiter left the
question discreetly floating in the air somewhere over
my bemused head and when I finally jerked my attention
back to him, he gave me the noncommittal but superior
look waiters at such establishments often wear. It named
me foreign, possibly tourist or maybe business,
middle-aged, single female in a good though non-exciting
suit with expensive accessories. Who was I to argue - he
was right on all counts except the tourist designation.
"I'll have the Steak Diane on the rice pilaf," I told
him, "with a small salad, raspberry vinaigrette
dressing. And bring the dessert menu later, please." He
wrote down my order and vanished. I don't know how they
do it - vanish in a puff of smoke like that. It was an
art I'd never learned in my college years as a waitress
in California. I glanced out the window again, almost
hoping my quarry had vanished in the same smoke as the
waiter, only to find myself practically face to face
with him through the window glass. He was standing
outside reading the menu.
I know I started in surprise, and he must've seen the
sudden movement because his eyes jumped from the menu
right onto me. I gave him what I hoped was a vague smile
and looked into my handbag as though searching for
something. I did not want him to know I'd recognized
him. Nor that I was on his trail. My ruse seemed to work
- he came into the restaurant's small vestibule, spoke
in a low tone to the maitre d' and was shortly seated at
a nearby table. Luckily he was side-on to me, so we
weren't likely to look one another in the face unless he
deliberately turned his head to look in my direction.
The waiter brought my salad, the basket of rolls and my
chardonnay right then, so I began eating. It allowed me
something to do with my hands while I thought about what
to do with him. I had not expected to have Russell Crowe
fall PLOP into my lap in the White Hart cafe in SoHo,
London, England - but there you go. You just never know
what might happen in life. Sometimes the surprises are
nice, sometimes not.
He appeared to be totally alone - no security, no
companion and none expected. He ordered tea, and they
brought that before his salad arrived. He pulled a worn
paperback book of some sort out of a jacket pocket and
commenced reading as he drank several cups of tea and
ate a roll. When the salad came, he put the book down
and ate, barely glancing up except once, casually, when
the waiter came with the peppermill for his salad. He
declined it and the waiter glided off.
It was interesting that they didn't find his appearance
out of the ordinary. He was the only man in the place
not in a suit or at least an expensive sport jacket over
slacks. I realized he must come often and they accepted
him as he was. More interesting - maybe they weren't as
snooty an establishment as I had thought. Maybe he
tipped extremely well.
I smiled at the notion and the waiter smiled back as he
put my entree in front of me. "Would you care for more
wine, madam?" I declined and he disappeared again,
leaving me to my food.
While I ate, I watched Russell covertly, experiencing a
near miss one time when he seemed to feel he was being
watched and swiveled his head once, searching for the
source of his uneasiness. I managed to get my face
turned the opposite direction in the nick of time, so he
didn't seem to catch on to me. Whew. Close call. He
didn't miss much - I'd been told that and now I saw it
was true. I would be more careful in the future.
I finished my meal, ate a small strawberry tart drizzled
with chocolate and drank a cup of coffee before rising
out of my chair to leave. I left the waiter a good tip
for good service and great food, and walked back to use
the ladies' room before leaving. I had to decide then if
I was going to follow through on my assignment or just
walk away from it. I hadn't realized when I took the job
that he was a real person, you see. And I hadn't
realized he was a real person until I saw him peering
into that shop window, shoulders hunched, looking rather
forlorn and alone.
I answered Nature's call, smoothed my brown hair with
the artfully applied blonde highlights, dabbed on some
lipstick - not too bright, not too pale - and exited the
restroom. Waving good-bye to the host, I then exited the
restaurant and started down the street.
It was a cloudy day in London - normal, in other words -
with a somewhat damp wind blowing. I was glad of my wool
pants and blazer - glad of the tights I'd worn under
them instead of nylons that day because they kept my
legs warm. Besides, the chocolate brown matched my shoes
and blended with the tweed of my pantsuit. I buttoned
the jacket over my cream silk blouse and waited for the
traffic signal to change. When it did, I walked across
the street with a half dozen or so other pedestrians -
mostly tourists out doing the sightseeing - window
shopping bit - and headed for the car park where I'd
left my rental. I handed the ticket stub to the
attendant, and waited.
"You're not too good at this, luv," came an unmistakable
voice in my ear.
I
jumped, startled, and glanced up and back, flustered.
How had he followed me without my knowing it? I must
really be slipping! "Excuse me?" I tried, face carefully
blank.
His lips thinned into a tight line as he shook his head
at me, "Not good enough - I've seen you on my tail
before, luv." And he took hold of my forearm, big
fingers tightening painfully even through the wool of my
jacket. "We need to talk."
I pulled at my arm, trying to get away from him, break
off his grip, but he had me solidly in tow and wasn't to
be shaken off so easily. Besides, here came the valet
with my car. I did not, under any circumstances, want to
make a scene that would draw attention to us. He was too
well known, and I didn't want to see us on the nightly
news. When he took control of my car, I got in the
passenger side as if it was totally fine with me that he
drove. "Where?" he asked once, no nonsense.
I gave him the address of my hotel and we started off.
"You're making a mistake," I tried.
"Shut the fuck up," he said pleasantly, glancing at me,
the aqua eyes cool and apparently unfazed by playing
detective novel games.
"Fine - suit yourself - but don't say I didn't warn
you," I answered.
He just made a derisive noise under his breath and
continued driving. It began raining harder.
My day was not going well.
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