Christopher Sorrentino - Trance

“I suggest that we at least put a team on at Morse,” says Nietfeldt.

“Somebody was already there when Roger drove up,” says Bockenkamp.

“Maybe he leaves the lights on when he goes out,” says Polhaus.

“My mom used to do that,” says Langmo. “To scare away burglars.”

“Did it work?” asks Holderness.

Polhaus ignores them. “Precita is where we need to concentrate our attention.”

“What about San Bruno?”

“We already found them. We aren’t going to lose them again.” If his logic strikes Polhaus’s subordinates as flawed, they say nothing. “Anyway, we need all the firepower we can spare. Remember what happened the last time they were cornered in a house.”

“You planning on doing that in Bernal Heights, sir?” Nietfeldt raises his eyebrows. “The whole district’ll go up.”

“Personally I would have to mark my ballot against burning down the city,” says Langmo.

“This isn’t a democracy,” says Polhaus.

“Death to the fascist insect.” Nietfeldt leans in close to Langmo and whispers this.

The surveillance takes shape, establishes its cadence. A panel truck with curtained rear windows takes up a space on Precita right near the park, earning two parking tickets. Two other cars cruise the neighborhood. Men with pushcarts selling paletas, churros. The smell of fried dough in the air. The whole scene is very agreeable to Nietfeldt. An old city boy, used to catch the J-Church not too far from here and ride it to Mission High. His father would take them to Speckmann’s for sauerbraten and stuffed cabbage rolls. Stole his first kiss in a dark doorway on Liberty Street. How ironic, how literary, is that?

Another variant: your middle name and the place you first made out. Charlie Liberty.

That girl’s lips tasted like fresh sweet corn.

Day one. Roger Rorvik appears in the Ford around 10 in the morning, once again headed up the street the wrong way. Susan emerges from number 288 and gets into the waiting car. In the van, Bockenkamp and Protzman take pictures with a telephoto lens. Girl walking, girl waiting, girl with finger up nose. Langmo gets out of the sedan a block away and walks past the house, holding a rolled-up magazine in his hand. He and Nietfeldt rendezvous around the corner. Nothing to be seen from the street. Curtains pulled. A dreary day. McQuirter gets shit on by a bird and makes a big deal out of his new checked sports jacket. Somebody’s lunch order gets screwed up.

Day two. Rorvik shows around 10:30, headed in the right direction this time. Inside the van there is a spontaneous round of applause. Susan comes out and the cousins drive off. Another ticket is placed with the others under the van’s wiper blade. Failure to properly block wheels on grade.

“Hey, get over here and tell me if you think I’m parked at an angle,” radios Protzman.

“An angle to what?” asks Langmo.

“Don’t be a juvenile. I’m serious.”

Nietfeldt, driving for the hell of it with one finger on the wheel just to demonstrate the delicious responsiveness of GM power steering, rounds the corner onto Precita to comply with Protzman’s request when the door opens at 288 and who should come outside but a short bearded bespectacled fellow with dyed black hair. He walks down the steps leading to the sidewalk.

“You guys fucking see that?” Protzman’s overwrought voice crackles over the radio. Nietfeldt passes the house slowly, and both men take a sidelong look.

“Shepard?”

Langmo is studying their collection of Drew Shepard headshots, laid out in a strip. None shows him wearing a beard. None shows him in prescription eyeglasses. “Can’t tell for sure.”

The man stands with his hands on his hips, looking first one way and then the other, up and down the block. Then he turns and trots back up the steps.

At 11:30 Nietfeldt is about to say something about lunch when the call comes in.

“Two subjects, double-timing it. Heading your way.”

Nietfeldt sees two figures jogging toward them. The man from the stoop and, to his right, a woman. Shorts, T-shirts, sneakers.

“You know,” says Langmo, “I doubt they’re armed right now.”

“That’s definitely something to bear in mind,” says Nietfeldt.

“You think they do this every day?”

The joggers pass them. The man seems to be straining to keep up with the woman. Neither pays the car or its occupants any mind.

“What about her then?” asks Langmo.

“Well, it isn’t Herself. And it isn’t Shimada, that’s for sure.”

“Diane.” Langmo is looking at his photos.

“That’s my guess.”

“Drew and Diane. Tell me why am I not that excited?”

“We’re all here for the same person.”

“I feel as if, I don’t know.”

“You have a goal. You don’t have a partial goal.”

“The thing is, I’d rather have Herself and leave them.”

“Then you’re just too complex a lawman for me.”

Langmo looks at Nietfeldt, ready to needle him back, but realizes that he is speaking perfectly sincerely.

“This is the one,” says Stepnowski, poking one picture of a smiling Shepard with his index finger, “the one I was talking about before.”

The agents sit crammed around a table in a Mission Street taqueria.

“Oh, you’ll like it here,” says Nietfeldt.

“I missed this,” says Langmo. “What were you saying?”

“Check out his teeth.” Stepnowski jabs the picture.

“I fail to see what’s so great about this place.” Holderness picks up a bottle of green sauce from the table and gives it a sniff.

Nietfeldt leans forward as if he’s about to lay a hot stock tip on Holderness. “No rice.”

Stepnowski says, “Those upper front teeth don’t come down as far as the ones on either side of them.”

“Guy looks like a fucking vampire,” says Protzman.

“Smaller burritos, but they don’t fill them up with rice. Meat, cheese, beans. That’s it.” Nietfeldt is whispering.

“Maybe he just has little front teeth is all,” says Langmo.

“It’s good without the rice,” says Protzman. “Not as filling.”

“We need a good look at him.”

“I favor the carnitas,” says Nietfeldt.

“NO rice?” says Holderness, suddenly, as if the import of what he is being told has just sunk in. “You mean, NO rice at ALL?”

“The fuck you shouting for?”

Mystery Man goes into a laundromat two blocks down, carrying a white canvas bag marked us MAIL.

“Isn’t that a federal crime?” asks Langmo.

“Get in there and check out the teeth.”

“What business do I have in a laundromat?”

“Ask directions. What do I know?”

When Langmo enters, he heads for a phone booth in the corner, keeping an eye on the man across the two rows of Speed Queens. He lifts the receiver and speaks into it. He says, “The boy stood on the burning deck. Yup. Whence all but he had fled. The flame that lit the battle’s wreck shone round him. O‘er the dead. Right. Yet beautiful and bright — bright, yeah, uh-huh — beautiful and bright he stood. OK? G’bye.”

Mystery Man sorts laundry. Two piles, whites and coloreds. His mother would be pleased. So would the KKK. He opens the lid of one of the top loaders and is obscured from view. Langmo steps out of the booth and walks to the attendant, who sits on a high stool reading the Sporting Green , jingling his change apron.

“Change of a dollar,” says Langmo.

“Where’s your clothes?” asks the attendant.

“Oh, I just. Parking meter, you know.”

“Change for customers only.” The green sheet comes up again.

Langmo drops it. He turns, folding his dollar bill lengthwise, and here’s Mystery Man, ready to get his own change, lips pursed. Their eyes meet. Langmo breaks into a big smile and a shrug, meaningless but friendly. Mystery Man stares holes through him. Needless to say, he doesn’t smile back. Langmo gives him a last once-over; notes a scar on the man’s left knee.