I?d never been so furious with her. My voice had risen, and my breath was coming in short gulps. I could feel a tiny throbbing in my left temple.

The force of my anger froze her in place. Her eyes went round and cavernous, like those of a doe caught in high beams. A car passed and her face flickered white then red, amplifying the image.

She held a moment, a catatonic cutout rigid against the summer sky. Then, as if a valve had been released, the tension seemed to drain from her body. She let go of the handle, lowered her briefcase, and settled back into the seat. Again, she turned inward, reconsidering. Perhaps she was deciding where to begin; perhaps she was scouting alternative escape routes. I waited.

At length, she took a deep breath and her shoulders straightened slightly. She?d settled on a course. As soon as she spoke I knew what she?d determined to do. She would let me in, but only so far. She chose her words carefully, threading a guarded path through the emotional quagmire in her mind. I leaned against the door and braced myself.

?I?ve been working with some-unusual-people lately.?

I thought that an understatement, but didn?t say so.

?No, no. I know that sounds banal. I don?t mean the usual street people. I can handle that.?

Her choice of words was tortuous.

?If you know the players, learn the rules and the lingo, you?re fine down there. It?s like anywhere else. You?ve got to observe the local etiquette and not piss people off. It?s pretty simple: Don?t trespass on someone?s else?s patch, don?t screw up a trick, don?t talk to the cops. Except for the hours, it?s not hard to work down there. Besides, the girls know me now. They know I?m no threat.?

She went mute. I couldn?t tell if she was closing me out again, or if she?d gone back to the shelves to continue her sorting. I decided to nudge.

?Is one of them threatening you??

Ethics had always been important to Gabby, and I suspected she was trying to shield an informant.

?The girls? No. No. They?re fine. They?re never a problem. I think they kind of like my company. I can be as raunchy as any of them.?

Great. We know what the problem isn?t. I prodded some more.

?How do you avoid being mistaken for one of them??

?Oh, I don?t try. I just sort of blend in. Otherwise I?d be defeating my own purpose. The girls know I don?t turn tricks, so they just, I don?t know, go along with it.?

I didn?t ask the obvious.

?If a guy hassles me, I just say I?m not working right then. Most of them move on.?

There was another pause as she continued her mental triage, considering what to tell me, what to keep to herself, and what to scoop into a heap, not tendered, but accessible if probed. She fumbled with a tassle on her briefcase. A dog barked in the square. I was sure she was protecting someone, or something, but this time I didn?t goad her.

?Most of them,? she continued, ?except this one guy lately.?

Pause.

?Who is he??

Pause.

?I don?t know, but he has me really creeped out. He?s not a john, exactly, but he likes to hang out with prostitutes. I don?t think the girls pay much attention to him. But he knows a lot about the street, and he?s been willing to talk to me, so I?ve been interviewing him.?

Pause.

?Lately, he?s begun following me. I didn?t realize it at first, but I?ve started noticing him in odd places. He?ll be at the M #233;tro when I come home at night, or here, in the square. Once I saw him at Concordia, outside the library building where I have my office. Or I?ll see him behind me, on a sidewalk, walking in the same direction I am. Last week I was on St. Laurent when I spotted him. I wanted to convince myself it was my imagination, so I tested him. If I slowed down, so did he. If I speeded up, he did the same thing. I tried to shake him by going into a patisserie. When I came out, he was across the street, pretending to window shop.?

?You?re sure it?s always the same guy??

?Absolutely.?

There was a long, laden silence. I waited it out.

?That?s not all.?

She stared at her hands, which, once again, had found each other. They were tightly clenched.

?Recently he?s started talking some really weird shit. I?ve tried to avoid him, but tonight he showed up at the restaurant. Lately it?s like he?s equipped with radar. Anyway, he got off on the same stuff, asking me all kinds of sick questions.?

She went back inside her head. After a moment she turned to me, as if she?d found an answer there she hadn?t seen before. Her voice was tinged with mild surprise.

?It?s his eyes, Tempe. His eyes are so weird! They?re black and hard, like a viper, and the whites are all pink and flecked with blood. I don?t know if he?s sick, or if he?s hung over all the time, or what. I?ve never seen eyes like that. They make you want to crawl under something and hide. Tempe, I just freaked! I guess I?ve been thinking about our last conversation, and this shitfreak you?re cleaning up after, and my mind took the first bus outa there.?

I didn?t know what to say. I couldn?t read her face in the darkness, but her body spoke the language of fear. Her torso was rigid and her arms were drawn in, pressing the briefcase to her chest, as if for protection.

?What else do you know about this guy??

?Not much.?

?What do the girls think about him??

?They ignore him.?

?Has he ever been threatening??

?No. Not directly.?

?Has he ever been violent or out of control??

?No.?

?Is he into drugs??

?I don?t know.?

?Do you know who he is or where he lives??

?No. There are some things we don?t ask. It?s an unspoken rule, sort of a tacit agreement down here.?

Again there was a long silence while we both weighed what she?d said. I watched a cyclist pass along the sidewalk, pedaling with unhurried strokes. His helmet seemed to pulsate, blinking on as he passed beneath a streetlamp, then off as he moved back into darkness. He crossed my field of vision then disappeared slowly into the night, a firefly signaling his passage. On. Off. On. Off.

I thought about what she?d said, wondering if I was to blame. Had I set her fears in motion by talking about my own, or had she actually encountered a psychopath? Was she amplifying a set of harmless coincidences, or was she truly in jeopardy? Should I let things ride for a while? Should I do something? Was this a police matter? I was running through my old, practiced loop.

We sat for some time, listening to the sounds of the park and smelling the soft summer night, each of us drifting alone in separate reflections. The quiet interlude had a calming effect. Eventually Gabby shook her head, dropped the briefcase to her lap, and leaned back in the seat. Though her features were obscured, the change in her was visible. When she spoke, her voice was stronger, less shaky.

?I know I?m overreacting. He?s just some harmless weirdo who wants to rattle my cage. And I?m playing into his game. I?m letting this fuckhead grab my mind and shake me.?

?Don?t you run across a lot of ?weirdos,? as you call him??

?Yeah. Most of my informants aren?t exactly the Brooks Brothers crowd.? She gave a short, mirthless laugh.

?What makes you think this guy may be different?

She thought about it, worrying a thumbnail with her teeth.

?Ah, it?s hard to put into words. There?s just a-a line that divides the crackpots from the real predators. It?s hard to define, but ya know when it?s been crossed. Maybe it?s an instinct I?ve picked up down there. In the business, if a woman feels threatened by someone, she won?t go with him. Each one has her own little triggering devices, but they all draw that line on something. Could be eyes, could be some odd request. H #233;l #232;ne won?t go with anyone who wears cowboy boots.?

She took another time-out to debate with herself.