Impersonal Attractions Read Online Free Page B

fear.
    “Not me,” said Sam, “no way. Let them catch me if they can.”
    But bravado aside, for both of them the memory of that night was a bad taste that never quite went away.
    *
    At home, the red light on Annie’s answering machine flashed four times.
    David: “Hi, let’s get together for a little R & R.” His voice was low and insinuating.
    Her mother in Atlanta: “Hello, darling. Just checking to see if you’re all right. We haven’t heard from you in a while.”
    Sam: “I’m at the office. Nothing much happening here. Give me a call and we’ll write that ad.”
    And a fourth from ten-year-old Quynh Nguyen.
    “Hello, Auntie Annie. This is Quynh. I hope you’re fine. Hudson and I are looking forward to seeing you. Give us a call soon.”
    Annie smiled at a photograph of the two of them in a silver frame on the bookcase. Quynh’s beautiful, delicate-featured, Vietnamese face. She was very serious in the photograph—staring somberly into the camera. Hudson, on the other hand, wrapped around Quynh’s neck, was wearing a Cheshire grin.
    Hudson was the Abyssinian cat Annie had given Quynh as a kitten a year ago. If true to his breed, he would have grown cougarlike, but as elegant and delicate as Quynh. Instead, he was more like a linebacker. Annie kept threatening to buy him a baby 49ers jersey.
    Quynh always ignored her jokes about Hudson. He was her blanket, her mantle. He was her family, lost in that once beautiful, napalmed country so far away. He was her heart.
    Together they were the classiest twosome Annie knew. She couldn’t wait to see them.

SIX
    T he narrow street, lined with small, brightly painted Victorians, ran downhill from the heights of Dolores Street to the Mission, the Chicano ghetto. It was a place in transition—gentrified row houses with restored beveled glass, tin ceilings, and lace parlor curtains slugging it out with the fried chicken stand on the corner.
    This was a neighborhood of small, neat front lawns, wrought-iron fences, and pink and yellow rose bushes. It was difficult for the blond man, shivering in the darkness, lighting one cigarette after another, to find a place to hide. A large apartment house up on the corner of Guerrero provided him with a doorway. He could watch from here.
    He shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. It was cold out here. Was she going to show or not?
    He’d followed Cindy Dunbar from her office four days in a row. She’d stopped to run errands, pick up cleaning, and grocery shop, but was home most nights by six. When she went out again it was usually around seven or seven-thirty. Twice he’d seen her with the same man.
    Someone turned the corner and walked toward her house. He had to wait, didn’t want to attract attention, let her see him. That wasn’t the click of her high heels.
    Damn! It was that loony nigger he’d seen the night before, her nappy hair full of lint and grass from laying out in Dolores Park, reeking of booze and piss, layers of rags, pink house slippers. Hard to tell how old she was, but her hair wasn’t gray. Sucking up air, sucking up space. Shuffling around and around the city. Going nowhere. Talking to herself.
    Across the street, a tall black man in his mid-thirties walked briskly to the gate of Cindy Dunbar’s small house. He was dressed in a navy blazer, gray slacks, and a tan raincoat. A big man, he moved with the awkward roll of an ex-football player, proud but past his prime. In his hand he carried a cornucopia of green tissue paper.
    The blond man started. Ah—there he was. He stepped on his cigarette and rubbed his hands together. Miss Dunbar’s boyfriend. Carrying flowers. How sweet, he laughed. It wouldn’t be long now.
    He was right. Within moments Cindy and the man in the raincoat appeared, locking the front door, leaving.
    He couldn’t hear what they were saying. Their laughter floated in the air. Her voice was low for a woman, the man’s even lower, rumbling like the low tones on an