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Show ^0 wondered Fogarty, had that man's relationship with Sparkle been like? Therphantom signature, on the Rental Agreements and old receipts, revealed nothing. Around two he made his way across the moonlit street, made brighter by the blue City phosphorescence, with the notice rolled in his hand, his fist. The asphalt was still warm to his bare feet. Inside the darkened building he stopped to listen. He heard nothing. He felt like a criminal. Or a cartoon detective. He went down the hall and stood in front of Sparkle's door, where the imitation brass number five stared at him in the vague half-light like a tattoo on a dead man's arm. He half-expected her to suddenly come up behind him. Surprise him and say. Hey, I'm back, let's go to your place. He could not fix the notice to her door with the thumbtack he had brought for that purpose. Instead he simply stood, dumb and yet more distracted, before her door. Then backed down the hall, or rather turned and crept, to the mailboxes. Even without the hall lights he could easily make out hers. Blue Magic Marker, a beautiful childish scrawl: Sparkle. He slid the notice through the slot. What else could he do? Then he recrossed the street to linger on the gray tattered edge of a half-night's sleep. The next morning Forgarty stuck close to home, kept a weather eye on the Newgate, did not cross the street. He saw no sign of |
