Overload (61 page)

First, he walked into the busy main lobby of a hotel. After glancing

around, he ducked into a men's room and a few minutes later came out

wearing dark glasses and a soft felt hat, whereas before he had been

bareheaded. The change did not fool Nancy. However, his appearance was

different and she realized that, if Birdsong bad been dressed that way

to begin with, she probably would not have noticed him. He left the hotel

by a side door. Giving him a comfortable start, Nancy followed.

She almost lost him then because, further along the street from the

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hotel, be was boarding a bus which promptly closed its doors and moved

away.

There was no time to return to her car, but luckily a taxi was

approaching. Nancy bailed it. She flashed a twenty-dollar bill and told

the driver, a young black, "Keep that bus in sight but don't make it ob-

vious we're following it. Every time it stops, though, I want to see who

gets off."

The driver was instantly with it. "Will do, ladyl just sit back. Leave

the action to me."

He was smart and resourceful. He passed the bus twice, then each time

eased into right lane traffic so the bus, in an outside lane, would pass

him. While both vehicles were close, Nancy kept her bead averted. But

whenever the bus stopped to take on or disembark passengers, the taxi was

positioned so she could see clearly. For what seemed a long time,

Birdsong did not appear and Nancy wondered if she bad missed him after

all. Then, about four miles from his point of boarding, he got off.

She could see him looking around.

"That's the one-witb the beard," she told her driver.

"I see him!" The cabby accelerated past, without glancing in Birdsong's

direction, then eased into the curb. "Don't turn around, lady. I got him

in the mirror. Now be's crossing the street." After a minute or two: "Be

damned if he ain't getting on another bus."

They followed the second bus too. It was going in an opposite direction

from the first and retraced some of the original route. This time

Birdsong got off after a few blocks, again looking around him. Close by

were several parked taxis. Birdsong took the first and, as it pulled

away, Nancy could see his face peering through the rear window.

She made another decision and instructed, "Let him go. Take me back

downtown."

Nancy reasoned: there was no sense in pushing her luck. She hoped

Birdsong bad not detected her taxi trailing him, but if she persisted he

undoubtedly would. Solving the mystery of where he went, and why, would

have to be done some other way.

"Geez, lady, kinda bard to figure you out," the cabby complained when

they had changed direction. "First you wanna tail the guy, so we do okay.

Then you quit." He went on grumbling, "Didn't even get close enough to

see the other hack's number."

Because he had done his best, she decided to explain why she didn't want

to be that close, and possibly be seen. He listened, then nodded.

"Gotcha!"

A few minutes later the young driver turned his bead. "You still wanna

find out where the beard goes?"

"Yes," Nancy said. The more she thought about Birdsong's elaborate

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precautions, the more convinced she became that something important was

happening. Something she had to know.

The driver asked, "Know where the guy hangs out mostly?"

"His home address? No, but it wouldn't be hard to find."

"Maybe we could work a deal," the driver said. "Me and two buddies. They

ain't working, and they got cars with CB radios. I got a CB too. Three

of us could take turns following the beard, pulling a switcheroo so he

don't keep seeing the same heap. We'd use the radios. That way, when one

guy eased off, he'd call another in."

"But to do that," Nancy pointed out, "you'd have to keep watch on him all

the time."

"Can do. Like I said, my friends ain't working."

The idea had possibilities. She asked, "How much would it cost?"

"Have to figure that out, lady. But not as much as you'd think."

"When you've done your figuring," Nancy said, "call me." She scribbled

her apartment phone number on the back of a business card.

He called late that night. By then she had looked up Birdsong's home

address which was in the phone book.

"Two hunnert and fifty a week," the cabby said. "That's for me and the

other two."

She hesitated. Was it important enough to go to all that trouble and

expense? Again her instincts told her yes.

So should she ask the Examiner for the money? Nancy was doubtful. If she

did, she would have to disclose everything she had uncovered so far, and

she was certain the paper would want to publish immediately the material

on Davey Birdsong and his p&lfp. In Nancy's opinion that would be

premature; she believed strongly there was more to come and it was worth

waiting for. Another thing: The newspaper's pennypinching management

bated to spend money unless it had to.

She decided to go ahead on her own. She would pay the money herself and

hope to get it back later. If she didn't it would be no great disaster,

though it would violate one of the rules she lived by.

By most standards, Nancy Molineaux was wealthy. Several years ago her

father established a trust fund which provided her with a regular,

comfortable income. But, as a matter of pride, she kept her private

finances and professional earnings separate.

For once, pride would have to be humbled.

The cabby said he would like something in advance, which was reasonable,

and Nancy told him to drop by and pick it up.

After he did, she heard nothing for six days. At the end of that time,

the young cabdriver, whose name was Vickery, brought her a report. To

Nancy's surprise it was detailed and neatly written. All of Birdsong's

movements were described; they were routine and innocuous. At no point

bad be shown awareness of being followed. More significant: He made no

attempt to throw any follower off.

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"Goesta show one week ain't enough," Vickery said. "Wanna try another?"

Nancy thought: What the hell, why not?

In another seven days Vickery was back. He had the same kind of detailed

report, with similarly negative results. Disappointed, she told him,

"Okay, that's all. Forget it."

The young man regarded her with unconcealed contempt. "You gonna give up

now? Look whatcha got investedi" When he sensed her wavering, he urged,

"Go for broke! Try one more week."

"You should be a frigging salesman," Nancy said, "not driving a back."

She thought about it. She had proof that Birdsong was a fraud; did she

still believe he was a crook? And would finding where he went so

mysteriously help the story she intended to write? Finally, should she

cut her losses or-as the smartass kid put it-go for broke?

Her instincts again. They told her all three answers should be yes.

"Okay, botshot," she told Vickery. "One extra week. But no more."

They hit pay dirt on the fourth day.

Vickery phoned, then came to her apartment, that night. "Figured you'd

wanna know right away. This aft the beard tried to shake anybody off, the

way he did that day with you and me." He added smugly, "We beat the

sonovabitcb."

"For what it's cost me," Nancy said, "I should goddam hope so."

The young man grinned as he presented the usual written report. It showed

that Davey Birdsong had driven his own car from his apartment garage and

parked it on the opposite side of the city. Before leaving the car, he

bad put on dark glasses and a bat. Then he bad taken a taxi back across

town, followed by two bus rides in differing directions, and finally a

walk-a roundabout route to a small house on the city's east side.

He went into the house. The address was given.

"The beard stayed inside two hours," Vickery said.

After that, the report continued, Birdsong took a taxi to a point a few

blocks from where his car was parked. From there he walked to the car and

drove home.

Vickery asked hopefully, "Warmus to watch the beard some more?" He added,

"Them buddies of mine still ain't working."

"With you for a friend," Nancy said, "they shouldn't worry." She shook

her head. "No more."

Now, two days later, Nancy was seated in her car, observing the house

which Davey Birdsong had visited so secretively. She had been there

nearly two hours. It was approaching noon.

Yesterday, the day after Vickery's final report, she spent completing an

Examiner feature assignment, though she had not yet turned in her copy

to the city desk. She would do so tomorrow. Meanwhile her time was her

own.

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The house she was watching was number 117 Crocker Street. It was one of

a dozen identical row houses built in the ig2os and, a decade ago,

refurbished by a speculative builder who believed the district was

destined for revival and upgrading. The builder was wrong. Crocker Street

remained what it bad been-an unimpressive, drab thoroughfare where people

lived because they could not afford something better. And the refurbished

houses were slipping back into their former state, attested to by chipped

masonry, cracked windows and peeling paint.

To Nancy's eyes, number 117 seemed no different from the rest.

Cagily, she had parked her Mercedes a block and a half away, where she

had a clear view of the house but believed she would not be observed

herself. The presence of several other parked cars helped. She had

brought binoculars but had not used them for fear of arousing the

curiosity of some passer-by.

So far there had been little activity on the street, none whatever at

number 3 IT

Nancy had no idea what to expect, if anything, nor had she any plan. As

the morning passed she wished she might see something of the occupants

of the house, but the wish went unfulfilled. She wondered if she had

stayed long enough. Perhaps she should leave now and return another day.

A vehicle passed her parked car, as had several others during the pre-

ceding two hours. She noticed casually that it was a beat-up Volkswagen

van, painted brown and with a broken side window. The window was roughly

patched with cardboard and masking tape.

Abruptly Nancy became alert. The VW had swung across the street and was

stopping in front of 117-

A man got out. Nancy risked using her binoculars. She saw that he was

lean, with close-cropped hair and a bushy moustache: she judged him to

be in his late twenties. In contrast to the van, be was neatly dressed

in a dark blue suit and wore a tie. He went to the rear of the vehicle

and opened its door. The binoculars were powerful-she used them in her

apartment to watch shipping in the harbor-and she caught a glimpse of the

man's hands. They appeared to be badly stained in some way.

Now he was reaching inside the van and he lifted out a substantial

red-colored cylinder. It seemed to be heavy. Setting the object down on

the sidewalk, he reached inside again and produced another, then carried