jabbed by the press at a celebrity or newly bereaved relative of a disaster victim.
Most of the beggars had cell phones on their belts.
Was there a panhandlers' network, exchanging the time, place, and description of easy marks?
One kept pace with him, insisting he had been robbed and only needed bus fare to get home. The story would have been convincing had the same mendicant not made the same pitch last week. It would also have helped had the man's breath not reeked of MD 20/20. At $2.75 a half pint, it was downtown Atlanta's most popular fine wine.
Lang reached the Five Points MARTA station, its entrance transformed into a shabby North African bazaar. Stands displayed everything from fresh fruit to pirated rap CDs. Two tall, suited black men preached from the pages of the Bibles they held. Passengers streamed by, unconcerned that the end was at hand and damnation certain.
As Lang turned left to enter Underground, he noticed one stand's potential customer, a man in an overcoat and watch cap who seemed occupied with an arrangement of fruit juices.
Although Lang had left the Agency almost two decades earlier, its training had become habit, as natural as sleeping or eating. Anomalies were like a missed note in a symphony: a scruffy car in an upscale neighborhood, someone running away from, rather than toward, the sound of a burglar alarm.
The day was far too warm for the coat and cap.
Possibly the man had already scored enough cash to feed whatever pharmaceutical demons he snorted, smoked, or shot up. He could well believe he was in an arctic winter.
But Lang didn't think so.
Addicts tended to move at a less animated pace, if they moved at all. This man appeared to be in a lively argument with the stand's owner..
Lang was fairly certain the man had been among those who had pounced with demands for money as soon as
Lang had reached the sidewalk in front of his building. He was the only one Clothed against cold weather in late April.
Lang watched as the discussion broke off and Overcoat headed toward him. Their gaze met briefly. Lang did not see a rheumy-eyed, slack-jawed face of society's jetsam. Instead Overcoat stood erect, without the slump of an ordained loser. He was young, his beard stubble no more than a day or two old at most,
Lang had the impression that the man was going to say something to him. Instead he veered off and turned a corner.
Not surprisingly Lang had his selection of tables at the restaurant. He chose one looking down the street of old facades decorated with the carvings popular in the 1890s. He could also see two bag ladies and a street vendor of indeterminate sex who seemed to be selling used clothes.
Alicia waved to him as she arrived at the maître d's stand. Lang stood and pulled out a chair.
"Glad you could make it," he said as she straightened her skirt and sat.
She smiled up at him as he returned to his own chair. "Now, why would I miss charming company and an enjoyable lunch?"
"You've obviously never eaten here before."
"That bad?"
"Depends."
She looked over the top of her menu. "On what?"
"Whether you order anything that requires more culinary skill than throwing something on the grill." He glanced at his own menu. "I don't remember any complaints about the lunch salads, either."
"Burger or salad. You really know how to fill lunch with excitement."
He had forgotten the sarcasm that characterized her conversations.
Lang looked up, anticipating the waiter's approach. Instead he saw Overcoat striding across the restaurant floor.
"Look here," the maître d' sputtered. "You can't—"
Overcoat turned, taking something metallic from his pocket.
Lang could not see the object, but when the officious maître d' made a dive for the swinging kitchen door, he could easily guess what it was.
Even more easily could he guess where Overcoat was headed. There were no other diners.
The gun came up in Overcoat's hand, its muzzle a black hole staring directly at Lang.
Later he
Most of the beggars had cell phones on their belts.
Was there a panhandlers' network, exchanging the time, place, and description of easy marks?
One kept pace with him, insisting he had been robbed and only needed bus fare to get home. The story would have been convincing had the same mendicant not made the same pitch last week. It would also have helped had the man's breath not reeked of MD 20/20. At $2.75 a half pint, it was downtown Atlanta's most popular fine wine.
Lang reached the Five Points MARTA station, its entrance transformed into a shabby North African bazaar. Stands displayed everything from fresh fruit to pirated rap CDs. Two tall, suited black men preached from the pages of the Bibles they held. Passengers streamed by, unconcerned that the end was at hand and damnation certain.
As Lang turned left to enter Underground, he noticed one stand's potential customer, a man in an overcoat and watch cap who seemed occupied with an arrangement of fruit juices.
Although Lang had left the Agency almost two decades earlier, its training had become habit, as natural as sleeping or eating. Anomalies were like a missed note in a symphony: a scruffy car in an upscale neighborhood, someone running away from, rather than toward, the sound of a burglar alarm.
The day was far too warm for the coat and cap.
Possibly the man had already scored enough cash to feed whatever pharmaceutical demons he snorted, smoked, or shot up. He could well believe he was in an arctic winter.
But Lang didn't think so.
Addicts tended to move at a less animated pace, if they moved at all. This man appeared to be in a lively argument with the stand's owner..
Lang was fairly certain the man had been among those who had pounced with demands for money as soon as
Lang had reached the sidewalk in front of his building. He was the only one Clothed against cold weather in late April.
Lang watched as the discussion broke off and Overcoat headed toward him. Their gaze met briefly. Lang did not see a rheumy-eyed, slack-jawed face of society's jetsam. Instead Overcoat stood erect, without the slump of an ordained loser. He was young, his beard stubble no more than a day or two old at most,
Lang had the impression that the man was going to say something to him. Instead he veered off and turned a corner.
Not surprisingly Lang had his selection of tables at the restaurant. He chose one looking down the street of old facades decorated with the carvings popular in the 1890s. He could also see two bag ladies and a street vendor of indeterminate sex who seemed to be selling used clothes.
Alicia waved to him as she arrived at the maître d's stand. Lang stood and pulled out a chair.
"Glad you could make it," he said as she straightened her skirt and sat.
She smiled up at him as he returned to his own chair. "Now, why would I miss charming company and an enjoyable lunch?"
"You've obviously never eaten here before."
"That bad?"
"Depends."
She looked over the top of her menu. "On what?"
"Whether you order anything that requires more culinary skill than throwing something on the grill." He glanced at his own menu. "I don't remember any complaints about the lunch salads, either."
"Burger or salad. You really know how to fill lunch with excitement."
He had forgotten the sarcasm that characterized her conversations.
Lang looked up, anticipating the waiter's approach. Instead he saw Overcoat striding across the restaurant floor.
"Look here," the maître d' sputtered. "You can't—"
Overcoat turned, taking something metallic from his pocket.
Lang could not see the object, but when the officious maître d' made a dive for the swinging kitchen door, he could easily guess what it was.
Even more easily could he guess where Overcoat was headed. There were no other diners.
The gun came up in Overcoat's hand, its muzzle a black hole staring directly at Lang.
Later he
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