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Show 56 man-wearing a dirty scoop-necked t-shirt and stubbled beard, and not working nearly as hard as the rest of them-whom he recognized as the driver of the pick-up. Only Sparkle herself was missing. The woman stood by her station wagon, dispensing beers as people completed their second or third load. The side doors of the van had been opened, the tailgate of the station wagon lowered. Some items were immediately loaded into one of the vehicles or lifted into the truck, according to the woman's directions; others were deposited on the City grass between the curb and the sidewalk. Fogarty wondered, of course, if they recognized him for who he was; certainly they could see him, as easily as he could see them. In either case, they gave him no notice. The loading-up was not frantic, but under the older woman's waving hand it was deliberate, orderly, efficient. And fast. A second round of beers was handed out before the final boxes, bags and battered suitcases were transferred from the grass to the vehicles. The pick-up truck was now full. Everything had been piled high, stacked to the limit between the couch and the cab, but the rigging of ropes made everything appear secure. And Fogarty thought: I should call Jackson, I should call the police, knowing that he would not. I could go over there, at least tell them that what they are doing is wrong. But he was not so sure that it was. They had, at least, come after her. He watched: until everything was loaded, a third and final beer dispensed with loud healthy pops in the still night air; until everyone had moved to some final station. Watched until the kitchen |