Frank De Felitta: Audrey Rose

Later in the day, to confirm his suspicions, Bill ran a tape in the big computer that Simmons Advertising used for its demographic breakdowns. He fed the machine all the data he could think of: population density, area of encounters, time elapsed, distance between two encounters, and even fed it their sexes, probable ages, and an estimate of their physical fitness. The machine came back with a probability of one in ten million that two such encounters could occur within two days.

Still, Bill was willing to grant the outside possibility that it might have been a coincidence.

Twice, yes. Three times, no.

One of Bill’s accounts was a mutual fund with offices down on Wall Street. He and Don Goetz had spent an entire Monday morning presenting their spring ad campaign to the board of directors. The wrangling by the board would continue through the day, so Don and Bill escaped to a nearby restaurant for an early lunch.

They had finished their sandwiches and were sipping their second cups of coffee when Bill’s eyes caught the familiar sight of Sideburns floating in the rear of a mob of waiting customers near the doorway. The man was barely visible since people’s bodies were blocking all but a fragment of his head. Yet Bill was certain he was the same person.

After they paid their checks, Bill pushed through the waiting mob clotting the doorway, keeping his eyes peeled for the man with the sideburns. But in the time it had taken him to pay his check and put on his coat, the man had vanished. Bill glanced back into the restaurant to see if he had been seated. He was nowhere in sight.

Bill was worried. He was obviously being followed. By whom? A cop? The FBI? And for what reason?

That evening, balmy with Indian summer, Bill strolled slowly up the path that flanked the small lake in Central Park. Swans and geese swam in gentle, patient circles in search of stray crumbs of popcorn or peanuts. Bill walked to an empty bench and sat down.

His was a logical, orderly mind. If he was being followed and if it was the FBI, then there had to be a reason. Sitting in the shadow of the Plaza Hotel which loomed impressively above the lake, Bill probed his memory for anything he might have done in college, any organization or club he might have joined, any donations he might have made, any lectures he might have attended that could possibly give the FBI a reason for being interested in him. He reviewed each episode of his youth, each small area of his school years, minutely scoured each miserable day of his one-year hitch in the Army, and still, he could come up with nothing. He was clean. Of that he was sure.

The man was obviously wearing a disguise. The mustache, the sideburns, the whole thing was amateurish. Maybe he wasn’t a professional at all? Maybe he was just some nut. God knows, the city was filled with them. You met them on buses, in subways, in broad daylight, walking down Fifth Avenue, screaming, yelling, cursing, no cops around, and nobody daring to stop them. Yes, the city was infested with psychotics. And if you were smart, you never let them catch your eye.

Bill remembered what happened to Mark Stern. A promising career was cut short because of a nut. Mark and his wife had parked their car on a side street near Lincoln Center. They were members of the Metropolitan Opera Association and had lifetime seats in the Founders’ Circle. After the opera they’d gone to where their car was parked and found this person pissing against the fender. Mark got angry and pushed him away from the car, so the man started pissing on Mark and his wife. Mark hit him in front of witnesses and knocked him down. The man suffered a small concussion but was out of Bellevue in two weeks. He got a lawyer and swore out an assault and battery complaint against Mark. The trial was by jury. Mark was found guilty. He did sixteen months in jail, lost his job, a vice-presidency with Gelding & Hannary, and the last that Bill heard, his wife was divorcing him.

Bill couldn’t figure out why he was smiling. What happened to Mark was tragic, and yet he couldn’t help wondering who wound up with the lifetime subscription to the Met.

He sighed and rose from the bench. Sideburns just had to be some nut.

The next day Bill was forced to reassess that opinion.

He and Don had spent the morning trying to land another agency’s client—a client they had once represented but who had been snatched away from the Simmons agency some years before. Don felt encouraged by the reception they got, but Bill, a trifle older and wiser in the ways of the street, got a different message.

“They let us leave,” Bill explained to Don as they rode back to the office in a cab.

“Well, they want to think about it,” protested Don. “What’s wrong with that?”

“If they have to think about it, we’ve lost them,” Bill said with a note of finality.

Bill liked Don Goetz; he was bright, aggressive, loyal, and eager to learn. Bill had taken him as an assistant right out of Princeton three years before. He never regretted the decision.

Approaching his desk, the first thing Bill saw was the interoffice envelope. He glanced briefly at his phone messages before opening it. The envelope contained an eight-by-ten glossy photo of himself—an updated portrait he’d sat for last year at Bachrach’s. It accompanied his bio, which was kept in a file case in Personnel. A handwritten note from Ted Nathan, personnel director of Simmons, was attached: “Forgot to include this with your bio. Sorry. Ted.”

Bill shook his head foggily and tossed it aside.

He took care of several of the more important calls on his message sheet before dialing Ted’s interoffice number.

“What’s the mug shot for, Ted?” Bill asked when Ted came on the other end.

“What do you mean?” Ted said. “We always send them along with the bios.”

“What bio?”

“The one you asked for.”

“Hold on, old friend. Let’s start at the beginning. You say I asked you for a bio on myself?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Ted Nathan’s voice showed a slight nervous strain as he enunciated his words with care.

“All right, Ted,” Bill said gently. “When did I ask for it?”

“This morning. A little after nine. I had just gotten in when you called. You wanted it on the double, for your presentation. Don’t you remember, Bill?”

“Sure, Ted, sure. Slipped my mind for a sec. Thanks, pal.” And then: “Oh, say—by the, way—you didn’t tote it up yourself, did you?”

“Course I did. Nobody else is here at that time.”

Cleared of any wrongdoing. Ted Nathan’s tone became pointedly self-righteous. “I put it on your secretary’s desk like you told me to.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Bill said genially. “Thanks, Ted.”

Bill hung up the phone lightly. He sat back in his Eames tubular recliner and focused his eyes on the big Motherwell print that dominated the wall opposite him. His eyes burrowed into the soothing brown and black juxtapositions, drawn into the hypnotic spell of the artist’s vision.

Sitting silently, immobile, Bill Templeton had real things to think about.

Somebody wanted to know all about him. Obviously. Somebody who had done his homework. Who knew that Bill’s secretary didn’t arrive at the office till nine thirty. Who knew that Ted Nathan always arrived shortly after nine. Who knew that on this particular morning Bill would go directly to his appointment and not come into the office at all. Who knew how to imitate Bill’s voice well enough to fool a man whom Bill had known for more than nine years. Somebody with the training and resourcefulness to plan a break-in and accomplish his mission without getting caught. A person of talent and dedication—and daring.

One week later Sideburns showed up at school.