ma’am? I got some hot coffee in there.”
The woman held his eyes for a long moment. Nodded.
“Horace, you just give us a couple of minutes, all right?”
“I’ll check the grounds,” the younger man said, walking off to save face.
3
“It’s my husband,” the woman finally said.
“Your husband?”
“He’s been tomcatting around. I just know he is. But I didn’t know where. And then my girlfriend Mary Beth, she heard he was . . . involved with this married lady.”
“What’s her name?”
“Mary Beth, I just told you.”
“No, the woman your husband’s supposed to be—”
“Oh. I don’t know her name. But I know where she lives. Right there,” the woman said, pointing at the house across from where her car was parked. “Eleven Morningstar Place. I figured I’d just sit here and watch. See for myself. It could be just gossip, I know that. But I had to see for myself. And if I see his car coming . . .”
The older cop’s laugh was a dry thing in the darkness of the prowl car.
“What’s so damn funny?” the woman asked in a hurt voice.
“Ma’am, I hate to tell you . . . but even if your husband was getting it on with some other woman—and I have to say, from the looks of you, he’d be blind
and
stupid if he was—you’re not going to catch him here.”
“And why not?”
“This isn’t Morningstar, ma’am. It’s Morning
side
. You’re on the wrong side of town.”
“Damn!” the woman said softly. “I can’t do nothing right. I . . .” She started to cry then.
4
An hour later, the ancient Impala nosed its way through a junkyard until it stopped between a pair of abandoned wrecks waiting for the chop shop’s day shift to complete their demise. The woman got out, snapping a lighted cigarette into the darkness. From her purse, she took a small ratchet wrench and went to work on the Impala’s license plates. She put the plates into a blue gym bag. Then she pulled the black wig off her head and shook out her shoulder-length chestnut-brown hair. She pulled a pre-moistened towelette from her purse and scrubbed her face hard. The mole came off with the heavy makeup. Next she unbuttoned the Western shirt and stood stork-legged in a white bra as she pulled off the boots one by one. As soon as she slipped on a pair of scuffed white sneakers, she was five inches shorter. From her purse she took a small compact, popped it open, and surveyed her face. Deft movements with her fingers removed the blue contact lenses, revealing lustrous brown eyes. Finally, she pulled an oversized white sweatshirt over her head, pulled it down until it covered her hips. Then she started to walk through the junkyard.
5
A red Camaro IROC was parked a couple of blocks away. The woman unlocked it, climbed inside, and took off with a chirp from the rear tires.
Fifteen minutes later, she pulled to the curb next to a Goodwill bin. Stepped out and tossed the boots inside.
A Dumpster a few blocks down got the Western shirt. And a sewer got the wig.
As she drove away, she shredded the LaVonda Greene driver’s license in her long-nailed hands, allowing the wind to scatter the pieces out the window.
6
“You’re a genius, Vangie,” the man said. “A pure genius, I swear it.” He was tall and whip-thin, long black hair combed straight back in waves from a high forehead. His green eyes dominated a handsome face—prominent cheekbones, a slightly hawkish nose, cleft chin. The man was wearing a black silk shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, sitting at a pink Formica-topped kitchen table. Before him sat six short stacks of gold coins. They looked like a millionaire’s poker chips.
“Nobody saw you?” the woman asked.
“Not a soul, honey. It was just like you said. I swear, I don’t know where you find stuff out.”
“People talk in beauty parlors,” the woman said. “They just talk and talk. They never expect the poor girl with her hands in their ratty hair is actually listening.”
“But
The woman held his eyes for a long moment. Nodded.
“Horace, you just give us a couple of minutes, all right?”
“I’ll check the grounds,” the younger man said, walking off to save face.
3
“It’s my husband,” the woman finally said.
“Your husband?”
“He’s been tomcatting around. I just know he is. But I didn’t know where. And then my girlfriend Mary Beth, she heard he was . . . involved with this married lady.”
“What’s her name?”
“Mary Beth, I just told you.”
“No, the woman your husband’s supposed to be—”
“Oh. I don’t know her name. But I know where she lives. Right there,” the woman said, pointing at the house across from where her car was parked. “Eleven Morningstar Place. I figured I’d just sit here and watch. See for myself. It could be just gossip, I know that. But I had to see for myself. And if I see his car coming . . .”
The older cop’s laugh was a dry thing in the darkness of the prowl car.
“What’s so damn funny?” the woman asked in a hurt voice.
“Ma’am, I hate to tell you . . . but even if your husband was getting it on with some other woman—and I have to say, from the looks of you, he’d be blind
and
stupid if he was—you’re not going to catch him here.”
“And why not?”
“This isn’t Morningstar, ma’am. It’s Morning
side
. You’re on the wrong side of town.”
“Damn!” the woman said softly. “I can’t do nothing right. I . . .” She started to cry then.
4
An hour later, the ancient Impala nosed its way through a junkyard until it stopped between a pair of abandoned wrecks waiting for the chop shop’s day shift to complete their demise. The woman got out, snapping a lighted cigarette into the darkness. From her purse, she took a small ratchet wrench and went to work on the Impala’s license plates. She put the plates into a blue gym bag. Then she pulled the black wig off her head and shook out her shoulder-length chestnut-brown hair. She pulled a pre-moistened towelette from her purse and scrubbed her face hard. The mole came off with the heavy makeup. Next she unbuttoned the Western shirt and stood stork-legged in a white bra as she pulled off the boots one by one. As soon as she slipped on a pair of scuffed white sneakers, she was five inches shorter. From her purse she took a small compact, popped it open, and surveyed her face. Deft movements with her fingers removed the blue contact lenses, revealing lustrous brown eyes. Finally, she pulled an oversized white sweatshirt over her head, pulled it down until it covered her hips. Then she started to walk through the junkyard.
5
A red Camaro IROC was parked a couple of blocks away. The woman unlocked it, climbed inside, and took off with a chirp from the rear tires.
Fifteen minutes later, she pulled to the curb next to a Goodwill bin. Stepped out and tossed the boots inside.
A Dumpster a few blocks down got the Western shirt. And a sewer got the wig.
As she drove away, she shredded the LaVonda Greene driver’s license in her long-nailed hands, allowing the wind to scatter the pieces out the window.
6
“You’re a genius, Vangie,” the man said. “A pure genius, I swear it.” He was tall and whip-thin, long black hair combed straight back in waves from a high forehead. His green eyes dominated a handsome face—prominent cheekbones, a slightly hawkish nose, cleft chin. The man was wearing a black silk shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, sitting at a pink Formica-topped kitchen table. Before him sat six short stacks of gold coins. They looked like a millionaire’s poker chips.
“Nobody saw you?” the woman asked.
“Not a soul, honey. It was just like you said. I swear, I don’t know where you find stuff out.”
“People talk in beauty parlors,” the woman said. “They just talk and talk. They never expect the poor girl with her hands in their ratty hair is actually listening.”
“But
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