under the big black sun: a fable
As she goes up the sidewalk she sees another female opposite, coming down. Skirt, heels. Hard to see at night. Who in the world besides herself would be in this part of town looking like that?
They meet at the open door of the Coney Island, facing each other. Gayle: "Have you . . ?" Kelly: "No. Haven't you . . ?" They peer together into the narrow corridor of stools and bar. A couple of grinning faces in cartoonish invitation. No Martin, no Mac, no Ret, not even Paletello. Just the sullen woman behind the counter.
They move away a few steps out of the doorlight to a short stretch of blank brick wall. "The answering machine just beeps and cuts off."
"It does that after about fifty messages."
"I've been by the apartment a hundred times since four-thirty. You've got a key?"
"Just empty cans on the table."
"Well. I don't know then."
"I answered the phone. His editor wanted to know where Martin is with the story about Mac's release—in theory it's Martin's territory and he had thirty to respond before another reporter who would actually get in touch has the assignment."
"Such a nice person."
"So how did they find out?"
"Here it is: Pat found Ret, then went to the grandmother. Turns out, Glasseye has been gone since the Reverend's disappearance. Nobody's seen him. The grandmother mentions relatives in Arkansas. Eldorado. Pat sends the police department there the Volvo's license number, and soon enough they apprehend him."
"So they got the right one, did he do it?"
"Why not? Somebody did it."
"Why? What happened? Why did he do it?"
"They found marks on her arm, where she'd struggled to keep her purse. He wanted something inside."
"Her purse? What?"
"Her gun. He wanted it. Dr. Sarah carried a pistol."
"Oh."
"For protection." They consider this, standing on the sidewalk.
