for you now.’
CHAPTER
26
11:35 a.m., Sunday
15 minutes earlier
In the trenches …
Think, figure this out, Hal Dixon told himself.
You work in the trenches. Improvise.
He looked around the streets, spotted someone he thought could help.
Dixon strode up to the hot dog vendor, who guided away the smoke of the coals warming chestnuts and pretzels in his cart with the wave of a hand. The smoke returned instantly.
The smell made Dixon hungry but he was on his mission and he ignored the sensation.
‘Please, I need to ask you something,’ he said to the skinny vendor in jeans and a Mets T-shirt. ‘A couple came by here, a man and a woman. Just a few minutes ago.’
The man glanced at Dixon’s wrinkled gray suit and bright yellow shirt and maybe came to some conclusion about the color combination. Then he was looking back at Dixon’s sweaty face. ‘Man and woman?’ A faint lilt of accent.
Dixon described them.
The hot dog man was instantly uneasy. ‘I didn’t see anything. Nothing. No.’
‘It’s okay. I’m a deacon.’ Trying to calm him.
‘A …?’
‘In a church, Presbyterian,’ the rumpled man said breathlessly. ‘In New Jersey. A deacon.’
‘Uhm,’ said the street vendor, who seemed to be a Muslim and would probably have no idea what a deacon was but might appreciate devotion.
‘Religious. I’m a religious person.’
‘A priest?’ the man asked, becoming confused. He was again regarding Dixon’s old suit and yellow shirt.
‘No. I’m just religious. A deacon’s a layperson.’
‘Oh.’ The vendor looked around for somebody he could sell a hot dog to.
Mistake. Dixon said, ‘I’m like a priest.’
‘Oh.’
‘A private person who helps the priest. Like helping the imam.’
‘Imam?’
‘Look.’ Dixon reached into his breast pocket and took a small, black-bound Bible from it.
‘Oh.’ The man said this with some reverence.
‘I was just on Madison Avenue.’ He gestured broadly though the vendor would obviously know where Madison Avenue was.
‘Yes.’
‘And what happened was, I saw this woman commit a crime, a bad crime. The woman I just described.’
‘A crime?’
‘That’s right.’
The vendor touched his chest with his fingertips, perhaps a form of prayer. Dixon noted his hands were filthy. He decided he’d never get a hot dog from a street vendor again. The man asked, ‘All the sirens? Is that what’s going on?’
‘Yes, all the sirens. Lots of sirens.’
Dixon pulled a napkin out of the holder, then two more. He wiped his face.
‘You want some water, Father? I call you “Father”? Is that what you say?’
‘No, I’m not a reverend,’ Dixon said. ‘I don’t want any water. A deacon. It’s like a priest.’
‘Okay, but if you do, just ask. A bottle. Or a soda.’
‘Here’s what I need—’
‘You don’t have a cell phone and you want to borrow mine?’
‘No, no. I need to find out where they went – she and this other man, a friend of hers, I guess. I’m going to talk to them, help them give themselves up.’
The vendor blinked, waved at the smoke again.
Dixon repeated, ‘She should surrender to the police. I’ll help her. But she has to do it now. If they run, the police will think they’re guilty and they may just shoot them down. They’re panicked. I know they are.’
‘You’re … what do they call that, people in your bible? Who help other people?’
What? Oh. ‘Samaritan,’ Dixon said, wiping more sweat. The pits of his shirt were grayish yellow.
‘Yeah, that’s it.’
My bible …
‘I guess I am. I don’t know. They came this way.’
The vendor was more comfortable now. ‘Yes, these people you’re talking about? I saw them. A few minutes ago. I saw them because they were walking fast. And they were rude too.’
Dixon’s heart beat a bit faster. ‘Where did they go?’
‘They went into that store there. Do you see it?’
‘On the corner.’
‘Next to the corner. The
CHAPTER
26
11:35 a.m., Sunday
15 minutes earlier
In the trenches …
Think, figure this out, Hal Dixon told himself.
You work in the trenches. Improvise.
He looked around the streets, spotted someone he thought could help.
Dixon strode up to the hot dog vendor, who guided away the smoke of the coals warming chestnuts and pretzels in his cart with the wave of a hand. The smoke returned instantly.
The smell made Dixon hungry but he was on his mission and he ignored the sensation.
‘Please, I need to ask you something,’ he said to the skinny vendor in jeans and a Mets T-shirt. ‘A couple came by here, a man and a woman. Just a few minutes ago.’
The man glanced at Dixon’s wrinkled gray suit and bright yellow shirt and maybe came to some conclusion about the color combination. Then he was looking back at Dixon’s sweaty face. ‘Man and woman?’ A faint lilt of accent.
Dixon described them.
The hot dog man was instantly uneasy. ‘I didn’t see anything. Nothing. No.’
‘It’s okay. I’m a deacon.’ Trying to calm him.
‘A …?’
‘In a church, Presbyterian,’ the rumpled man said breathlessly. ‘In New Jersey. A deacon.’
‘Uhm,’ said the street vendor, who seemed to be a Muslim and would probably have no idea what a deacon was but might appreciate devotion.
‘Religious. I’m a religious person.’
‘A priest?’ the man asked, becoming confused. He was again regarding Dixon’s old suit and yellow shirt.
‘No. I’m just religious. A deacon’s a layperson.’
‘Oh.’ The vendor looked around for somebody he could sell a hot dog to.
Mistake. Dixon said, ‘I’m like a priest.’
‘Oh.’
‘A private person who helps the priest. Like helping the imam.’
‘Imam?’
‘Look.’ Dixon reached into his breast pocket and took a small, black-bound Bible from it.
‘Oh.’ The man said this with some reverence.
‘I was just on Madison Avenue.’ He gestured broadly though the vendor would obviously know where Madison Avenue was.
‘Yes.’
‘And what happened was, I saw this woman commit a crime, a bad crime. The woman I just described.’
‘A crime?’
‘That’s right.’
The vendor touched his chest with his fingertips, perhaps a form of prayer. Dixon noted his hands were filthy. He decided he’d never get a hot dog from a street vendor again. The man asked, ‘All the sirens? Is that what’s going on?’
‘Yes, all the sirens. Lots of sirens.’
Dixon pulled a napkin out of the holder, then two more. He wiped his face.
‘You want some water, Father? I call you “Father”? Is that what you say?’
‘No, I’m not a reverend,’ Dixon said. ‘I don’t want any water. A deacon. It’s like a priest.’
‘Okay, but if you do, just ask. A bottle. Or a soda.’
‘Here’s what I need—’
‘You don’t have a cell phone and you want to borrow mine?’
‘No, no. I need to find out where they went – she and this other man, a friend of hers, I guess. I’m going to talk to them, help them give themselves up.’
The vendor blinked, waved at the smoke again.
Dixon repeated, ‘She should surrender to the police. I’ll help her. But she has to do it now. If they run, the police will think they’re guilty and they may just shoot them down. They’re panicked. I know they are.’
‘You’re … what do they call that, people in your bible? Who help other people?’
What? Oh. ‘Samaritan,’ Dixon said, wiping more sweat. The pits of his shirt were grayish yellow.
‘Yeah, that’s it.’
My bible …
‘I guess I am. I don’t know. They came this way.’
The vendor was more comfortable now. ‘Yes, these people you’re talking about? I saw them. A few minutes ago. I saw them because they were walking fast. And they were rude too.’
Dixon’s heart beat a bit faster. ‘Where did they go?’
‘They went into that store there. Do you see it?’
‘On the corner.’
‘Next to the corner. The
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