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Show *7 suddenly her walk accelerated and then she was herself by the truck at the driver's window, leaning forward, blocking the pinpoint of glowing red light. And when she moved away from the truck it was with a nod at the driver. She went into the Newgate. Fogarty watched as a square of light, from Sparkle's kitchen window at the back of the building, suddenly illuminated a patch of green grass. Then he watched as the figure behind the wheel of the truck got out and slowly followed her in. Fogarty could not see him well, but well enough to know that it was not Sparkle's brother. This was an older man, a man of middle-age, like himself; a man old enough to be Sparkle's father. All the next day the truck did not move from its spot at the curb. Nor did Fogarty move from his place on his couch, where he had slept, fitfully, until nearly noon when Jackson bleeped. "It's Thursday," said Jackson, "my oldest daughter's birthday. What have we got from nine?" Once again Fogarty had forgotten about nine. He should have gone over there last night, made some demands. "I went over there last night," he said, "and made some demands. They said later today or tomorrow. I'll call you." "No. I'd better come by. I'm desperate. Even a twenty would help. What's a birthday party without cake and ice cream? She's got two dozen friends coming. My wife will kill me. I should have stayed on the farm, hay fever or no hay fever-too far for so many |
