Chapter 17
The man walked back into the Tenderloin, careful not to make direct eye contact. In San Quentin a look could get you jumped. A stare that challenged might get a man killed in Folsom. Here in the City, a look might invite conversation or curiosity. A glance could create a memory. A stare could generate fear. But, refusal to make casual eye contact might be remembered as furtive. The man smiled with pride. This was not sinful pride. He did not even know what the word furtive meant until a few years ago.
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It was hard to fight old habits. He made himself relax, moving into a smooth, and confident, but not so confident as to be arrogant, stride. He glanced up with an open brow-neither afraid nor challenging. The man stopped and looked at his watch. He had time to pray for a few hours before he needed to check email again. He would pray for forgiveness and a second chance. It was so important to be allowed to serve. He found his calling so late. He wasn’t even forty, but the ticking bomb that was the virus meant he didn’t have time. He had so much to make up for.
The man’s knees hurt, not so badly this time, when he stood. He crossed himself and left the church. He took a different indirect route, and walked by two Internet cafés before choosing a third. Most of the customers in this one were Hispanic. The place smelled of hard work, refried beans, and fear. He had to wait ten minutes for the booth in the back, the one in the security camera’s blind spot. He glanced left and right before he sat. The fellow in the booth to his left watched a baby held up to the video camera.
The fellow on the man’s right watched porn and rubbed his crotch. Just after the man sat down, someone yelled “La Migra!” The man knew his papers were good. He didn’t look South American, Asian, or Eastern European. His accent was American. He stayed where he was, surfing the net, reading unrelated news stories. He made casual eye contact with the Immigration screws as they strutted into the café. He did not reach for his ID. Immigration stomped out of the store and minutes after that the patrons were back.
He logged on to one public email through another. Then he logged into another and finally into his invisibletrail.net account. There was a message! The man closed his eyes and prayed quickly. The man’s hands shook as he carefully deciphered the message. He took twenty minutes, most of the time to make sure, and some of the time to avoid knowing.
The man would have cried if he remembered how. He was being given a second chance. He would gladly spend time in purgatory to stop the sinners from interfering with his savior’s work. If only they would know the truth. He often wondered why the Church didn’t simply publicize the madness.
The man signed off. He knew further instructions could be obtained at the next dead drop. The man had no way of knowing where that was. Not yet. He glanced at his watch. He had another hour before he would be able to find out. He knew that he would need money to continue his mission, no matter what it was. He needed to collect.
The man walked back to where Manuel was still trying to ply his trade. The man’s legs were not as weary now. Earlier in the day the effort of walking without a limp in the prosthetic built into his shoe had almost been too much for him. Now, even with his weary legs, he walked with a little spring in his step.
The evening had turned cold, fog sliding in off the Bay. A gold Toyota Avalon pulled up and Manuel pranced to the driver’s side window. As sick as Manuel was, he occasionally found takers. Not today. The car screeched away across traffic to the sound of two horns and a curse.
The man watched for a few more minutes. No other cars even slowed. He sprinted across the street and came up on him from Manuel’s blind side.
“Got my money?” he asked, enjoying the sudden stiffening in Miguel’s back and the fear in the bitch’s eyes when he turned. The man realized his joy was wrong, even as fear itself was necessary. He would pray for forgiveness tonight.
Manuel fumbled in his jeans, pulling out a thick envelope. He held out the envelope and said, “They didn’t give me as much as you said they would. They said the stuff was on a list. They said…”
The man grabbed the envelope and walked away, not bothering to listen to the rest. He waited until he turned the corner before he stopped in the shadows to count the money. The cash was warm and a little moist from Manuel’s pocket. The tennis bracelet and matching earrings brought almost $8K. This was enough for the man to live on for a few months. He wanted to live longer than that, but he didn’t need to.
The man glanced at his watch again. It was time. He took five twenty-dollar bills out of the envelope and moved the bills into his front, right pants pocket. The rest he zipped into the hidden pocket inside his jacket. He had already sussed out the cut-rate electronics store on the corner, two blocks down. Sussed out. His cellmate in Folsom had originally been from Liverpool.
He picked this store because he knew the security camera was a fake. He also needed to use this store for the bag. He paid the Sikh clerk cash for a phone with a hundred minutes of talk time. The clerk began to stuff the phone into a small bag.
“I need to buy some food on the way home. I’d like a middle-sized bag,” he said as he stood looking at the clerk until he got the right bag. He then walked sixteen blocks to get to his room four blocks away. He charged the phone for a half hour.
When the phone showed enough charge, he dialed the number he had memorized and punched in the code for voicemail he had learned a month ago.
The digitalized voice said. “You will get on the Muni at the stop nearest Golden Gate and Larkin at 9:25 PM.” He had plenty of time to destroy the phone, scatter the pieces, and make the bus.