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“Like what? It seems like you have it all figured out, girl…” She says, her final words trailing off into a teasing whistle. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t told the girls about Sanders’, uh, prowess. They’ve been teasing me about it mercilessly.
“Oh, shut up, will ya?” I stop dead on my tracks before I’ve finished speaking, and I extend one arm to the side to stop Erica as well.
“Ouch,” she cries out, bumping her boobs against my arm. “What now?”
“There he is,” I tell her, pointing to the end of the street where Sanders is. He’s still standing in front of the main entrance to the Rockefeller Center, looking from one side to the other as if he’s appraising the crowd drifting all around him.
“You know this is a bit creepy, don’t you? I mean, spying on the man you’re sleeping with… That’s crazy-girl territory.”
“I know,” I sigh, lowering my tone of voice until it becomes just a whisper - even though Sanders is so far away that I doubt he’d hear us if we started shouting at each other.
“Then what the hell are we doing here? Do you think he’s cheating on you? Oh my God! He looks like a rascal, that’s for sure. Any idea on who the bitch is?” Erica is just like that: whenever she finds anything remotely amusing, she latches onto it and goes off in a tangent.
“It’s none of that,” I whisper again. I keep my eyes trained on Sanders, not wanting to lose him out of sight; I’m so focused that I don’t even blink, and I start feeling the tears stinging my eyes.
“Oh,” Erica says, sounding almost disappointed. She’s one of these girls that live for drama, I guess. Well, to be honest, we all love a little bit of drama, don’t we? As long as that drama doesn’t touch our personal lives, that is.
“Okay, seriously now,” Erica continues, “what in the hell are we looking for?”
“To be honest, I have no idea. But there’s something he isn’t telling me. There’s something off about him, you know? And I need to figure out what that is.”
“I see what you’re talking about. There’s something abnormal about a guy that can endure a four-hour long sex marathon,” she whistles into the air, bumping me with her elbow teasingly. “Look, Stacy, maybe you’re overthinking a bit. Maybe he’s just a bit weird, you know?. Some people are just like that, little quirks and all, doesn’t mean they’re bad,” she says with a bored shrug.
“Look… Maybe you’re right. But, thing is, I don’t want to risk getting my heart broken. There’s something going on and… I don’t know, Erica, but I don’t want to wake up one day and realize that I have a broken heart. So, whatever it is, I need to know. I need to make sure.”
“Broken heart, uh?” She turns to me, pushing her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and looking at me over their rim, a flicker of curiosity on her eyes. “You know what all that crazy talk means, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t, and --”
“It means you’re falling in love with him,” she states matter-of-factly, the expression on her face one born not out of concern but out of amusement. Thankfully, this is precisely when Sanders decides to turn around and start walking down the street, head lowered and hands on his pockets.
“Look, he’s moving,” I whisper and, grabbing Erica by the arm, start hurrying down the street.
It’s time I find out what Sanders’ all about.
43
Sanders
It’s been twenty minutes since Stacy entered Rockefeller Center, which means that by now she’s already at the studio. I glance at the endless river of New Yorkers flowing through the street once more and, satisfied that I don’t see anything out place, I blend in with the crowd.
Reaching for my back pocket, I take out a folded grey baseball cap, straighten it out and then place it on my head. I turn my back to the Rockefeller Center and I cross the street, making my way down the block. It’s only a short walk to 51st and Park Avenue -
only three blocks away from where I am -, and so I’m not in a hurry.
I get there right on time and I cross the road briskly, making a straight line toward one of the grey office buildings flanking the intersection. I check the address on my phone and, sure that I’m in the right place, I dial the number I’ve been given.
“I’m here,” I say as someone picks up on the other side, and the call’s over just like that. No response, but I know that none is needed. I place the cell phone inside my pocket and, knowing that I’ll probably have to wait a few minutes, I lean back against one of the columns around the building’s entry, and take out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from my other back pocket. I don’t really smoke - not since Iraq - but I don’t want to stand around like an idiot. So I do what I know best: I blend in.
“Hey, got a lighter?” I ask a woman in a business suit, cigarette locked between her middle and index finger, and she brings one out from her purse. “Thanks,” I nod, lighting my cigarette and joining her close to the ashtray column near the door. I take one deep breath, feeling the smoke fill my lungs and the nicone slip into my bloodstream just like the filthy bastard it is.
If anyone’s tracking my movements, they’ll probably think I’ve just stopped for a cigarette. And, if instead of tracking me they’re keeping tabs on this place, they’ll probably just take me as someone on his cigarette break. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but that’s a lesson I never managed to forget: being paranoid pays off. Sure, I’m no longer flushing out terrorists from dark tunnels or trying to avoid being blown up to pieces in the narrow streets of Fallujah, but you just never know.
I glance from the corner of my eye to the entrance of the building, and that’s when I see him. Thick grey beard, white hair combed back, and a hard expression on his stately face; he’s tall and thin, each of his limbs like twigs, but the way he carries himself tells me right off the bat that this guy is a veteran. He looks around seventy, which probably makes him a ‘Nam vet.
He doesn’t raise his eyes, but he makes me a beeline toward me all the same. Stopping a few feet away from me, he points with his chin at my cigarette.
“Can you get me one of these?” He asks me in a hoarse voice and I realize that, unlike me, this guy really smokes. Probably more than a pack a day, judging from the smell coming from his jacket.
