9

If Reba recognized the pudgy man who had been driving the white Cadillac the night before, she gave no sign. She never gave him a second glance–her eyes were riveted to the man standing next to him…an outrageously overdeveloped bodybuilder with a shaved skull whose heavily corded, deeply veined muscles seemed to threaten the confines of his skin. The bodybuilder was dressed in a pale pink silk tank top and a pair of Spandex white shorts with a matching pink stripe down the side. But Reba's eyes never left the man's face, marveling at the heavy application of rouge, the dark eyeliner, the lip gloss…and the earring that dangled from one ear on a long chain…a miniature of a wrecking ball.

"God! You see that?" she whispered to Anna.

"I see it but I don't believe it. You think it's one of those S&M things?"

"I don't know. I thought I'd seen everything at least once, but…"

"He's here, you know," Anna said, dropping her voice.

"I know," Reba said, her eyes glancing over to a far corner where the tall man in black lounged, a tiny smile playing across his thin lips. "He won't try anything as long as I'm around, the sonofabitch."

"Just relax," Anna said, patting her friend's forearm. "That's what he wants, for you to make a scene. Did you speak to that man? The one–?"

"That was him. Last night."

"That guys He didn't look like much."

"It's not a beauty contest, girlfriend."

The youthful performers came out one at a time for floor exercises, mostly tumbling runs set to music. As the pudgy man became more one with his surroundings, the bodybuilder seemed to swell with outrageousness, imitating the tumbling moves, screaming encouragement to the kids, raising enough of a fuss so that he soon had a clear circle of empty space around him, spectators clucking their tongues in disapproval as they gave him room. The man in black was still, only his eyes animated.

"That was Roscoe Holmes!" the announcer said over the P.A. system as a caramel–skinned boy maybe twelve years old bowed deeply at the conclusion of his routine. "Next up, Angel Andrews!"

The little girl bounded onto the mat, gave a brief bow to the audience, waved gaily at her mother, and charged to the far corner, flinging herself into an airborne one–and–a–half gainer before landing lightly on her feet.

"Way to stick it, honey!" Anna shouted.

As the child got deeper into her routine, the man in black pushed himself off the wall, unlimbering his videocam, moving closer. The bodybuilder tracked him like a heat–seeking missile, banging his way through the crowd. Standing just off the man in black's right shoulder, the bodybuilder spoke in an overenthusiastic, booming voice.

"Hey! Is that one of them mini–cameras? Damn, it sure looks like fun."

The man in black looked over his shoulder, shuddered, and moved quickly to his left, slamming into the pudgy man who had quietly taken up that post.

"Please," the man in black said. "She's almost through. I have to–"

"Can I see?" the bodybuilder asked, reaching for the camera.

The man in black snatched it away, but he was too slow. The bodybuilder's hand wrapped around the man's biceps, squeezing it into liquid pain. The videocam slid from the man's hand, and the bodybuilder grabbed it, holding it to his eye. Before the man in black could react, the bodybuilder pointed the camera at his shocked face and pushed the RECORD button.

"You can't do this!" the man in black protested. "Give it back to me!"

"Oh, calm yourself, Mary," the bodybuilder said, continuing to aim and shoot.

The crowd's attention was pulled away from the gym mat, but the little girl didn't seem to notice, going through her routine with practiced, confident precision.

"Give it to me! Give it to me!" the man in black was screaming.

The pudgy man stepped forward. "I want to apologize for my friend," he said smoothly. "He's just…excitable, you know? Tell you what, we'll pay you for the tape he wasted, okay? Give me the camera, Princess."

The bodybuilder sheepishly handed over the camera. The pudgy man expertly popped out the cassette, handed the empty camera back to the man in black together with a fifty–dollar bill. "Keep the extra for your trouble, okay, pal?" he said.

The man in black's face flushed, red, then white. He grabbed the empty camera and walked out of the gym, stiff–legged.

The pudgy man pocketed the cassette, turned to the bodybuilder. "Cross said he needed an hour–Ace did the freak's car, just to be safe."

"Can we watch the rest of the routines?" the bodybuilder asked. "Can we, Buddha?"

"All right, Princess. Just don't get into anything…"

10

The man in black stalked angrily out to the school parking lot, the videocam in a white–knuckled grip, muttering a string of obscenities to himself. He stopped short when he saw his blue Lincoln kneeling on four neatly–flattened tires. He punched a keypad he removed from a side pocket to unlock the doors, ripped his car phone from its housing and was just preparing to dial when an unmarked police car pulled up. A sandy–haired man with a mustache stepped out of the sedan, moving toward the Lincoln much faster than his gait would appear. The sandy–haired man leaned in through the opened window.

"Detective McNamara, sir. I noticed the condition of your car….Any trouble?"

"Trouble? Yes, I have some trouble, Officer. I know who did this. Her name is Reba, Reba Andrews. I used to coach her daughter–I'm a gymnastics coach…maybe you heard of me? R.J. Wieskoft?"

"No sir, I'm sorry. I don't really follow that sport. Why would you think this Mrs. Andrews was responsible?"

"Well, who else could it be? I mean…she even threatened me once."

"Threatened you, sir?"

"Yes, that's what I said–are you hard of hearing?"

"I don't believe so, sir," McNamara said. "If you'll just remain calm, I'm sure we can–"

"Calm? Why should I have to be calm–I'm the one who's being harassed."

"Yes sir. I'm sure. But without some proof…"

"Never mind," the man in black snapped, reaching for the car phone again. "I'll just call my garage. If that bitch thinks she's going to…"

He was so absorbed in his own anger that he didn't notice McNamara pulling out of the parking lot.

11

That lock was Swiss cheese," the small–boned, fine–featured black man said from a leather easy chair. He looked as relaxed as a man lounging in his own home except for the sawed–off shotgun balanced delicately across his knees. "Whoever this freak is, he ain't no heavy hitter, home."

"We'll see," Cross said over his shoulder, working diligently with a set of lock picks at a gray metal filing cabinet that dominated the studio apartment. "Got it," he finally said.

His gloved hands rifled through a sheaf of papers, moving rapidly but with assurance–just another day at the office for a pro burglar.

Time passed. The black man checked his watch, but Cross's eyes never looked up from his work. "Twenty minutes," the black man said.

"Damn!"

"Z'up, home? Twenty is plenty, what we got to do."