The Night Falconer by Andy Straka Page A

the Mrs. with whom we were dealing. “I don’t know,” the woman said, not turning but keeping her gaze fixed on us. The green-eyed monster blinked an instant appraisal. I must not have measured up.
    “Sorry, buddy, but you’ve been asked to leave.”
    I must admit, I have never responded well to intimidation. Maybe it’s a faulty gene somewhere, a throwback to some primordial past.
    “Really,” I said. “I don’t recall hearing that request.”
    “Well you’re hearing it now.” The big stiff advanced around the side of the woman’s desk.
    Nicole brought her diplomatic charms to bear. “No big deal,” she said, stepping between us. “We’ll be more than happy to go.”
    “That’s more like it,” the man said, crossing his arms.
    “But we still would like to talk to your boss. Maybe Monday?”
    The man said nothing. Mrs. Watisi shook her head.
    “Must be something you people don’t like talking about,” I said.
    Mrs. Watisi said, “My husband is a very busy man, Mr. Pavlicek. He has more important things to worry about than a few spoiled apartment owners who have nothing better to do than to try to create a public spectacle over nothing.”
    “Like sending Ivan here to jam a Jim Bowie blade into ‘that black woman’ friend of mine’s child booster seat, I suppose.”
    Actually, the glimpse of the dark head in green I’d caught flashing down the stairs at the airport looked nothing like the top of this goon’s bald head, though he could have been wearing a ski cap, I suppose.
    Mrs. Watisi glared at me. “Please leave these premises immediately,” she demanded.
    “Okay. But you may want to keep that lawyer’s number handy,” I said. “We’ll be back.”
    * * * * *
    Or, I forgot to add, we might never leave.
    Out on the street, we took in the scene around the Porsche.
    “Be a shame to give up this parking space,” I said. The block was quiet, peaceful. Nothing happening.
    Nicole. “You want to sit on him then?”
    “There might be a back entrance in the alley. You have your cell?”
    “Always.”
    “Okay. You go ahead and slide into the car. I’ll take the alleyway.”
    Nicole looked around us at the row houses and newly gentrified residences. From somewhere not too far away, the notes of Latin music drifted down the sidewalk. The air was stickier than ever and smelled of charcoal. “Do you have any idea what normal people are doing this afternoon?” she asked.
    “A weekend holiday? Pushing their kids’ swings in the park. Headed out to a ballgame. Grilling hamburgers. Why?”
    “I was just thinking, that’s all.”
    “Why did you step in like that, I mean between me and the lug?”
    “Because I didn’t think it was a good idea, before we’ve even talked to Watisi, having two mounds of testosterone go toe to toe. Plus, the guy had almost twenty years and a hundred pounds on you. I didn’t know if you stood much of a chance.”
    “You’re right,” I said. “About the first part, at least.”
    I left her tuning the Porsche’s stereo, her eyes locked on the front of the brownstone, and walked down the street to a convenience store on the corner, where I bought a newspaper and a chocolate bar, before heading back to the alley. A gray dumpster full of construction debris offered just enough space for a car to pass and me enough cover between the building to move a stray cinderblock into position, sit down, and keep an eye on things without being obvious. The nose of a dark blue Mercedes was visible in a parking slot at the rear of the brownstone. The heat in the alley was stifling but not so bad down low against the cool wall of the building.
    I too began to wonder where “regular” people were this afternoon. What was Marcia doing back in Charlottesville? Tending to her garden? Visiting an elderly acquaintance? Famous in her neighborhood for keeping track of everyone’s troubles, Marcia always found the time. Who tended to such needs here in the city where the enormity