Page 44 of Nobody's Fool

I look at the screen as I move, which is no easy feat in Times Square. It’s still fairly early in the morning, but the costumed beggars or whatever you call them are already out in force. As anyone who has visited Times Square in the past decade knows, it is flooded with costumed Batmans and Spider-Mans and Olafs and Minions and Elmos and Mickey Mouses (Mice?), hoping for tourists to take a photo with them in exchange for fees or tips. I always find this particularly weird. Mickey Mouse is about Disney, right? Not New York City. Why would you want a photograph with Mickey Mouse here? And these costumed cretins may seem harmless, but I know from my time on the force, they create a lot of crime. Some tourists snap photos not realizing that Mickey expects a tip for that and when you don’t pay, it leads to intimidation and even violence. Some of those hidden by costumes get overly “handsy,” if you catch my drift, and there is a fine line between quirky and creepy, or maybe the line isn’t so fine, but too often, the whole experience lands in the creepy and flirts over toward the downright criminal.

I wish I’d brought earphones, but I hadn’t, so I have to keep the phone next to my ear.

“Oh, one other thing,” Gary says.

“What?”

“The driver.”

“What about him?”

“Stiff gait. Too big a sports coat. Shifty eyes. I think he may be carrying.”

“He probably doubles as her security,” Polly says.

“We know Belmonds like their privacy,” Gary adds.

“Hold up,” Polly says.

“What is it?” I ask.

Polly says, “I’m on Forty-Second Street in front of the New Amsterdam Theatre and… Gary, is the driver wearing a camelhair sports coat?”

I’m getting bumped by too many people, so I press against the window of a Red Lobster that feels like it’s coated with drawn butter. I stick to it. Diners stare at me. I check the phone and see that I’m within a hundred yards of Anna. She’s right here on Forty-Second Street. I hurry my pace.

And suddenly, there she is. I pull up.

Anna. Victoria. Whatever.

She’s talking with Camelhair Coat Driver, though I know him by another dumb in-my-head nickname.

Gun Guy. He’s Gun Guy from the other night at the estate.

My hands form fists. I owe that dude a sucker punch.

They finish talking under the marquee. There is a big crowd now flowing into the theater. Gun Guy opens one of the doors. Anna walks through a metal detector—a metal detector to see a Broadway musical—what a country—and enters. Gun Guy watches through the windowed door. Satisfied, he moves away.

I say into the phone, “Polly?”

“I’ll stay on him.”

Gary asks, “Could you see anything, Polly?”

“She went inside and got her ticket scanned,” Polly says. “I guess she’s seeing the musical.”

Gary: “Is itHamilton?”

“No.”

“Wicked?”

“No.”

“Should I keep guessing, Polly, or do you want to tell me?”

“Guys,” I say.

I’m not sure of the move here. I head toward the box office. Asecurity guard has me go through the metal detector. I head over to the box office window. “Any seats available?” I ask.

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