So I tried it with a baseball cap, with the hair slightly swept back and streaking out the back, which seemed to do the trick.
My appointment with Henry Eichenbach was set for the next morning at ten o’clock, so I spent the rest of the day and evening installing new gear, stocking the house with various necessities and organizing as efficient a domestic operation as possible. Having worked out of my home for years while my wife tended to her time-consuming office job, household management had fallen to me. Florencia was a neat person, but would never have risen to the level of tidy precision that I brought to the task.
She used to mock me that she was Julia Roberts in Sleeping with the Enemy , but she liked things clean and orderly, and efficiently configured, without having to make it so herself. In all our divisions of labor we were absurdly compatible, achingly so, I thought as I lay in bed that night, despite all my efforts not to think about such things.
I’ D CHOSEN the park bench at the beach in Norwalk because it would be impossible to photograph my face straight on, unless the photographer was out on a boat. The Thimble Islands were out there, lumps on the horizon, but too far away for anything but a spy satellite surveillance camera.
The bench was open to the west, but on the east was a windowless brick building housing a set of rest rooms.
I sat in the Outback before the appointed time—blending in with the cars and trucks whose drivers parked there to watch the water while they caught a smoke, ate lunch or had a cup of coffee—and watched for Henry’s approach.
He was on time, which was notable. He didn’t look around for a backup, also notable. I’m not an expert on surveillance, of course, but I have some experience with how people think and behave. It’s almost impossible to not steal a glance in the direction of a person you think is watching you. Henry’s glances were far more generalized, looking for the guy who was supposed to meet him on the park bench.
I was disappointed by his appearance. Full head of curly, but neatly cropped grey hair, heavy black-rimmed glasses, and a creepy grey Colonel Sanders goatee cut so it formed a point directly under his chin. His face and body were round, with most of the mass settled into his jowls and butt. None of which had any bearing on his skills or integrity as a journalist, so I shook off my first impression and strolled over to the park bench.
I was wearing a light coat with a big collar pulled up around my neck, with the lower half of my face covered in a scarf, and the hat, wig and sunglasses obscuring the rest. It wasn’t the most imaginative disguise, but good enough for the purpose.
“Give me the recorder or let me frisk you,” I said, sitting down next to him. I pitched my voice low and hoarse, like Clint Eastwood, whom I’d mimicked often to Florencia’s delight.
“I don’t have a recorder,” he said, after a pause, “and I’m sure as shit not going to let you feel me up.”
“Okay,” I said, and got up to leave.
“Wait,” he said.
I stopped. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small digital recorder. I told him to shut it off, rewind and erase our brief conversation. I watched him go through the actions, then sat back down.
“Paranoid, are we?” he asked.
“Cautious,” I said.
“Are you one of Sebbie’s boys?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Then what can you?”
“You’re here because you don’t know where he is. And you want to know,” I said, looking up and down the beach and out over the water.
“I do,” said Henry. “I miss the old sociopath. Hasn’t been nearly as much fun without him.”
“Are you freelance or staff?” I asked.
Henry pulled a small notebook out of his jacket.
“Mind if I take notes?” he asked, somewhat sarcastically.
“Nope.”
“Good,” he said, clicking a ballpoint pen, “let’s start with your name.”
“That’s up to you.”
“Huh?”
“You can
My appointment with Henry Eichenbach was set for the next morning at ten o’clock, so I spent the rest of the day and evening installing new gear, stocking the house with various necessities and organizing as efficient a domestic operation as possible. Having worked out of my home for years while my wife tended to her time-consuming office job, household management had fallen to me. Florencia was a neat person, but would never have risen to the level of tidy precision that I brought to the task.
She used to mock me that she was Julia Roberts in Sleeping with the Enemy , but she liked things clean and orderly, and efficiently configured, without having to make it so herself. In all our divisions of labor we were absurdly compatible, achingly so, I thought as I lay in bed that night, despite all my efforts not to think about such things.
I’ D CHOSEN the park bench at the beach in Norwalk because it would be impossible to photograph my face straight on, unless the photographer was out on a boat. The Thimble Islands were out there, lumps on the horizon, but too far away for anything but a spy satellite surveillance camera.
The bench was open to the west, but on the east was a windowless brick building housing a set of rest rooms.
I sat in the Outback before the appointed time—blending in with the cars and trucks whose drivers parked there to watch the water while they caught a smoke, ate lunch or had a cup of coffee—and watched for Henry’s approach.
He was on time, which was notable. He didn’t look around for a backup, also notable. I’m not an expert on surveillance, of course, but I have some experience with how people think and behave. It’s almost impossible to not steal a glance in the direction of a person you think is watching you. Henry’s glances were far more generalized, looking for the guy who was supposed to meet him on the park bench.
I was disappointed by his appearance. Full head of curly, but neatly cropped grey hair, heavy black-rimmed glasses, and a creepy grey Colonel Sanders goatee cut so it formed a point directly under his chin. His face and body were round, with most of the mass settled into his jowls and butt. None of which had any bearing on his skills or integrity as a journalist, so I shook off my first impression and strolled over to the park bench.
I was wearing a light coat with a big collar pulled up around my neck, with the lower half of my face covered in a scarf, and the hat, wig and sunglasses obscuring the rest. It wasn’t the most imaginative disguise, but good enough for the purpose.
“Give me the recorder or let me frisk you,” I said, sitting down next to him. I pitched my voice low and hoarse, like Clint Eastwood, whom I’d mimicked often to Florencia’s delight.
“I don’t have a recorder,” he said, after a pause, “and I’m sure as shit not going to let you feel me up.”
“Okay,” I said, and got up to leave.
“Wait,” he said.
I stopped. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small digital recorder. I told him to shut it off, rewind and erase our brief conversation. I watched him go through the actions, then sat back down.
“Paranoid, are we?” he asked.
“Cautious,” I said.
“Are you one of Sebbie’s boys?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Then what can you?”
“You’re here because you don’t know where he is. And you want to know,” I said, looking up and down the beach and out over the water.
“I do,” said Henry. “I miss the old sociopath. Hasn’t been nearly as much fun without him.”
“Are you freelance or staff?” I asked.
Henry pulled a small notebook out of his jacket.
“Mind if I take notes?” he asked, somewhat sarcastically.
“Nope.”
“Good,” he said, clicking a ballpoint pen, “let’s start with your name.”
“That’s up to you.”
“Huh?”
“You can
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