Free Falling Angel by William Hjortsberg Page B

same spot across Seventh, and I headed for it when the light changed. The loiterers on the corner had moved on, their place taken by a thin, dark woman wearing a bedraggled fox fur. She swayed back and forth on her spike-heeled shoes, sniffing air rapidly through her nostrils like a coke fiend on a three-day blow. “Spo’tin’, mister?” she asked as I passed. “Spo’tin’?”
    “Not tonight,” I said.
    I got in behind the wheel and lit another cigarette. The thin woman watched me for a while before weaving off down the avenue. It was not quite eleven.
    Around midnight, I ran out of smokes. I figured Toots wasn’t going to bolt until after work. There was all the time in the world. I walked a block and a half up Seventh to an allnight liquor store and bought two packs of Luckies and a pint of Early Times. On the way back, I crossed the avenue and lingered a moment by the entrance to the Red Rooster. Toots’ blend of barrelhouse and Beethoven boomed inside.
    It was a cold night, and every so often I ran the engine until the chill was off. I didn’t want it warm. Too easy to fall asleep. By the time the last set ended at quarter to four, the dashboard ashtray was full and the Early Times empty. I felt fine.
    Toots came out of the club about five minutes before closing time. He buttoned his heavy overcoat and joked with the guitar player. A passing cab squealed to a stop at his shrill, two-fingered whistle. I switched on the ignition and started the Chevy.
    Traffic was sparse, and I wanted to give them a couple blocks, so I left the lights off and watched in the rearview as the cab made a U-turn on 138th Street and started back up Seventh in my direction. I let them get as far as the allnight liquor store before I switched on my lights and pulled away from the curb.
    I tailed the cab to 152nd Street, where it turned left. Midway down the block it stopped in front of one of the Harlem River Houses. I continued on over to Macomb’s Place, swung uptown, and circled back to Seventh at the upper end of the housing development.
    Near the corner, I saw the cab waiting out front with the door open and the roof light off. No one was in the back seat. Toots was just running upstairs to get rid of his chicken foot. I turned my headlights off and double-parked where I could watch the cab. Toots was back down in minutes. He carried a red plaid canvas bowling-ball bag.
    The cab took a left at Macomb’s Place and continued downtown on Eighth Avenue. I stayed three blocks back and kept it in sight all the way to Frederick Douglass Circle where it swung east on 110th and followed the northern wall of Central Park to the point where St. Nicholas and Lenox Avenues have their bifurcated beginnings. As I drove past I saw Toots holding his wallet and waiting for change.
    I hung a sharp left and parked around the corner on St. Nicholas, sprinting back to 110th in time to see the cab driving off and the retreating form of Toots Sweet, a shadow sliding into the shadow world of the dark and silent park.

SIXTEEN
    He kept to the path bordering the western rim of Harlem Meer, passing through the pooled light under a succession of lampposts like Jimmy Durante saying goodnight to Mrs. Calabash. I stayed off to one side in the shadows, but Toots never looked back. He hurried along the edge of the Meer and under the arch of Huddlestone Bridge. An occasional cab whizzed uptown on East Drive overhead.
    Beyond the Drive was the Loch, the most remote section of Central Park. The path wound into a deep ravine crowded with trees and shrubs and completely cut off from the city. It was dark here and very still. For a moment I thought I lost Toots. Then I heard the drums.
    Light glimmered like fireflies in the underbrush. I edged through the trees until I reached the cover of a large rock. Four white candles flickered on saucers set on the ground. I counted fifteen people standing in the dim light. There were three drummers, each playing an instrument of a