The server came to take away our plates. He seemed impressed with Angel and Louis’s demolition of their food, and commensurately disappointed in me. We ordered coffee, and watched the place begin to empty.
“Is there anything we can do?” asked Angel.
“No. I think this one is mine.”
He must have spotted something playing on my mind, its movements replicated on my face.
“What aren’t you telling us?”
“The old man, Durand, he said that a young man—late twenties, according to him, maybe a little older—had come to his place a couple of months ago. He was snooping around. Durand called him on it, and the guy said he was ‘hunting.’”
“In Pearl River?” said Angel. “What was he hunting: leprechauns?”
Louis spoke. “Might be nothing to do with you.”
“Might not,” I agreed. “But he asked if Durand knew what had happened there.”
“Thrill seeker. Murder tourist. You’ve had them before.”
height="0%" width="5%"“Durand said that the guy made him uneasy, that’s all. He couldn’t put his finger on why.”
“Not much you can do, then, unless he shows up again.”
“Yeah, a late twenty-something guy in New York who makes people uneasy. Shouldn’t be hard to spot. Hell, that description even covers half of the Mets’ starting lineup.”
We paid the tab, then headed out into the night.
“You call us, anytime,” said Angel. “We’re around.”
They hailed a cab, and I watched them head uptown. When they were gone from sight, I went back into the restaurant and sat at the bar, sipping another glass of wine. I thought about the hunter and wondered if it was me he was hunting.
And part of me willed him to come.