Lawrence Block - Getting Off

She stopped at the supermarket on the way home, careful not to buy more than she could carry, but the bag boy automatically placed her groceries in her shopping cart. No one came here on foot, she realized, and everybody wheeled their purchases to their cars.

She followed the cart all the way home.

What they said seemed to be true: You didn’t forget how to ride a bicycle.

She rode Rita’s the next morning to Barling Industries. The parking lot was unattended, and she was able to stash her bike between a couple of minivans and walk around in search of Weider’s Subaru. She’d had a good look at the license plate while he moved the tricycle, and made a point of memorizing the first three digits, so she knew his car when she came upon it.

So he was here. Somewhere within the concrete-block cube, doing whatever it was they paid him to do, so he in turn could go on paying the mortgage on the nice little suburban house and buy the kid a real bike when he was ready to step up from the tricycle.

Now what?

A thought, unbidden: What she could do, and it would be simplicity itself, was forget all about Graham Weider. What did the man who moved the tricycle have to do with the man who’d taken her to lunch and to bed? Why remain committed to this curious mission to purge the planet of her past and future lovers? He had a kid, he lived in the suburbs, and what did he have to do with her, or she with him?

She pushed the thought away. This is what I do, she told herself. This is who I am.

She got on her bike, rode away, rode around. And was back in the Barling lot by noon. This time she stationed herself where she could see both his car and the employee entrance, and she spotted him right away when he left the building in the company of another man. They both wore shirts and ties, but they’d left their suit jackets inside.

They walked to the Subaru, got in, and drove off. Two fellow workers, she decided, on their way to a casual lunch. She could follow, but only if Rita’s bike were jet-propelled.

So? What was she supposed to do now, hang around and wait for him to come back, then follow him home and watch him move the tricycle again?

She hopped on her bike, headed for home.

Saturday morning she took a bus to Seattle and found her way to Spy Shoppe, a retail firm with a showroom one flight above a sporting goods store. Spy Shoppe worked both sides of the espionage avenue, offering a wide range of eavesdropping gadgets and just as wide a range of devices made to foil them. Want to tap a phone?Want to know if your phone is tapped? They were like international arms dealers, she thought, cheerfully peddling weapons to opposing factions.

The gear they had on offer was so fascinating it was hard to stay focused on her reason for being there. The salesman was a prototypical geek, all Buddy Holly glasses and Adam’s apple, perfectly happy to show off for her. There was a homing device to be attached to a car’s bumper, and she asked about that, and learned how it worked.

But it was pretty expensive, and that was just the beginning. Then you’d need something to pick up the signal and locate it for you, and that was more expensive by the time you put the whole package together, and then where were you? You could find out where he and his friend were lunching, and if you pedaled like crazy on your bike, you might get there before they finished their second cup of coffee.

Pointless, really.

Of course, she could get everything she needed for free. All she had to do was date the geek.

That was something that didn’t even occur to her until he cleared his throat and stammered and looked at his feet, and blurted out that his work day ended at six, and that maybe they could meet for coffee, his treat, and uh talk about things and uh—

“Well, I could meet you,” she said, “but then I’d have to kill you.”

He stared at her, puzzled, until he figured out that it was a joke. And laughed accordingly.

Sunday afternoon she went to a movie, and when she got home Rita had dinner on the table, with two places set. “It’s easier cooking for two than for one,” she said, “so I took a chance. I hope you haven’t eaten.”

The meal was meatloaf and mashed potatoes and creamed corn, comfort food, and she let herself enjoy it, and Rita’s company. Afterward they sat in front of the TV and told stories of their childhoods. Her own were improvised, but she figured Rita’s were probably true.

She wondered what Rita would do if she made a pass at her.

And wondered where that thought had come from. She’d never been with another woman herself, although she’d thought about it from time to time. Never very seriously, though, and she wasn’t giving it serious consideration now, but it did raise some questions. For instance, would it count? Would she feel the same need to wipe the slate clean afterward?

Monday morning she didn’t get to the Barling lot until 11:45. It wasn’t until 12:20 that she spotted him, and for a change he was all by himself. He headed for his car, and she began walking in that direction herself. Oh, aren’t you Graham Weider? A chance meeting in a parking lot where she had no reason to be. No, she thought, maybe not.

She stopped walking and watched as he got into his car and drove off. He was wearing a jacket this time. It was at least as warm as it had been the other times she’d watched him head off to lunch, and previously he’d always gone in shirtsleeves, so what would Sherlock make of that?

A lunch date with someone from outside the company. A business associate? A golf or tennis partner? Or, just possibly, a lady friend?

If she had a car she could follow him. If someone had just left a key in their ignition—

Oh, please. What were the odds of that? No point in looking, and couldn’t she come up with a better way?

She got out her phone, punched in numbers, found a way around voicemail. To the woman who answered she said, “Is Graham Weider there? I missed him? I was afraid of that. I’ve got something he needs for his meeting and I was supposed to drop it at the restaurant, but I can’t remember…Yes, of course, that’s it. Thanks, thanks so much, you’ve been very helpful. And could you please not tell him I had to call? He’ll think I’m an idiot.”

It took fifteen minutes of hard pedaling to get her to the Cattle Baron, a strip mall steak house that didn’t look very baronial from the outside. Was she dressed for it? Could she leave her bike and expect it to be there later? And, after all that bicycling, did she smell?

She brushed the questions aside and entered the restaurant. She spotted Weider right away in a corner booth with three companions, all of them men in suits. Which made it easier, really, than if he were with a woman.

She told the maitre d’ a friend would be joining her, and he put her at a table for two. She ordered a white wine spritzer, then went straight to the restroom to freshen up and put on lipstick. She checked, and her underarms passed the sniff test. While she didn’t exactly feel like an Irish Spring commercial, neither was she likely to knock a buzzard off a slaughterhouse wagon.

She headed for her table, then did a take when she caught sight of the four men in the corner. She hesitated, then walked directly to their booth. They all looked at her, but she looked only at Weider.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but aren’t you Graham Weider?”

He hesitated, clearly not knowing who she was, and the man sitting next to him said, “If he’s not, ma’am, then I am. I’m sure I’d make just as good a Graham Weider as he ever could.”

“It’s been a few years,” she said. “And I only met you briefly, so you’re forgiven if you don’t remember my name.” Or, clearly, anything else about me. “It’s Kim.”