Close Call Read Free

the dash shimmy.
    Paul eased his head back against the vinyl seat. He wasn’t sure what smelled worse—the cab’s mildewy plastic or his clothes. His ability to blend in with a crowd, to rate no more detailed a description than “sixty-something white guy,” was key to his success. Smelling like a pickle factory jeopardized his anonymity. As the taxi sludged along in the stop-and-go traffic, he concentrated on clearing his mind, emptying it of all thought and emotion. It was a trick he’d developed working with a Buddhist monk in Laos when he was in country for the third time in the late ’70s, after the war was officially over. It kept him focused.
    The opening glissando of Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” trilled from his pocket, almost drowned out by the cabbie’s rap crap. What the—? He pulled out the cell phone, conscious of the driver’s gaze, and answered cautiously, “Yes?”
    A recorded voice said, “This call is for Sydney Ellison from Dr. Field’s office to remind you of your dental appointment on Tuesday, August eighth, at eight o’clock. If you need to reschedule, please call—”
    â€œGo back,” he told the startled cabbie.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œTo the deli. And turn off that fucking noise.”
    Paul’s fingers worried at the curling end of duct tape that patched a foot-long tear in the seat beside him. Every red light and delay twanged his taut nerves. There was no relief at the deli—his phone wasn’t there. No one remembered seeing it. He should never have set it on the counter, not for an instant. At least he’d emptied the call log, as always, when he'd hung up. He didn’t give a damn about the phone—it was pay-as-you-go and replaceable—but he needed to make sure his client didn’t call and say something to this Sid Ellison guy that could incriminate both of them. He’d have to alert his client via email—that was safer and quicker than a face-to-face with Ellison to trade phones.
    He climbed back into the cab and pulled his laptop out of its case. “Starbucks. The closest one.”

3
    Sydney
    Sydney stared at the phone in her hand. Damn. How could she have picked up the wrong phone? It was identical to hers, but still. A black man wrapped in an Army surplus jacket, fingerless mittens, and several scarves despite the heat wandered closer, eyeing the deli bags at her feet. A Heinz 57 dog with hound ears pasted himself to the man’s shin. She could count his ribs.
    â€œD’ya have any change?” the man asked, bloodshot eyes flitting to her face, then to the neon bar sign behind her, the squirrel chittering from a nearby tree, the crack in the sidewalk. She’d seen the man around since early spring and thought his name was Eli. The dog sat and scratched one floppy ear vigorously with his hind paw.
    She found one of the fast-food gift cards she kept on hand and made a mental note to stick some dog biscuits in her briefcase for the next time she saw the pair. And maybe a flea collar, she thought as the dog kept scratching. “Here, sir.”
    He glanced at the card, sucked air through his teeth, and shuffled off, turning to say thank you after a few yards. The dog ambled after him.
    She waved, picked up the bags, and started walking again. She couldn’t go back to the deli now; she’d lose half an hour. Jason was waiting with “big news,” he’d said, and she’d promised to be home by six, which was five minutes ago. Plus, she didn’t feel up to dealing with the deli clerk’s speculation or questions. She could use the new phone to dial her cell number and arrange an exchange with whoever had her phone.
    But something about the call she’d answered kept her from dialing. The job? Accident? The only part of the call that had made sense was the reference to Montoya and the election. Clearly the caller was talking about