The Racketeer

and wonderfully, similar to the night before, and in the same hotel room. This could be habit forming. Our plans for the third night, though, are derailed when her son calls. He’s passing through town and needs a place to stay. She figures he’ll need some money too.
    We’re finishing dinner when the cell phone in my pocket vibrates. The caller ID says “Unknown,” but then all calls to this phone are unknown. Expecting big news, I say to Vanessa, “Excuse me,” and step away from the table. In the foyer of the restaurant, I answer the phone.
    A vaguely familiar voice says, “Mr. Reed Baldwin, this is Nathan Cooley. I got your letter.”
    I tell myself to speak slowly and deeply. “Yes, Mr. Cooley, thanks for the call.” Of course he got my letter—how else would he have my phone number?
    “When do you want to talk?” he asks.
    “Anytime. I’m in Washington right now and we finished filming today. I have some downtime, so right now is perfect. What about you?”
    “I’m not going anywhere. How did you find me?”
    “The Internet. It’s hard to hide these days.”
    “I guess so. I usually sleep late, then work at the bar from about two until midnight.”
    “How about lunch tomorrow?” I say, a bit too eagerly. “Just the two of us, no cameras or recorders or stuff like that. I’m buying.”
    A pause, and I hold my breath. “Okay, I guess. Where?”
    “It’s your neck of the woods, Mr. Cooley. You pick the time and place. I’ll be there.”
    “Okay, at the Radford exit off Interstate 81 there is a place called Spanky’s. I’ll meet you there at noon tomorrow.”
    “I’ll be there.”
    “How will I recognize you?” he asks, and I almost drop my phone. Recognition is a far greater issue than he’ll ever realize. I have subjected myself to surgery that radically altered my face. I shave my head every other day and my beard once a week. I have starved off twenty pounds. I wear fake tortoiseshell glasses with round red frames, along with black T-shirts, fake Armani sport coats, and canvas sandals one would find only in Miami or L.A. I have a different name. I have a different voice and delivery.
    And this entire charade has been carefully put together not to mislead the people who want to follow me or kill me but to conceal my real identity from you, Mr. Nathan Cooley.
    I say, “I’m six feet tall, black, thin, a slick head, and I’ll be wearing a white straw hat, Panama style.”
    “You’re black?” he blurts.
    “Yep. Is that a problem?”
    “No. See you tomorrow.”
    I return to the table where Vanessa is waiting anxiously. I say softly, “It’s Cooley. We’re meeting tomorrow.”
    She smiles and says, “Go for it.” We finish dinner and reluctantly say good-bye. We kiss outside the restaurant and act like a couple of teenagers. I think about her all the way to Roanoke.

    I arrive fifteen minutes early and park so that I can watch the vehicles as they turn in to the Spanky’s lot. The first thing I’ll see is his car, or truck, and this will reveal a lot. Six months ago he was in prison, where he had served a little over five years. He has no father, an alcoholic mother, and no education past the tenth grade, so his choice of vehicle will be interesting. As we talk, my plans are to make a mental note of everything I can possibly see—clothing, jewelry, watch, cell phone.
    The traffic picks up as the lunch crowd rolls in. At 12:03, a sparkling-new silver Chevrolet Silverado half-ton pickup arrives, and I suspect it’s Nathan Cooley. It is, and he parks on the other side of the lot. He glances around nervously as he walks to the front entrance.
    It’s been four years since I’ve seen him, and he appears to have changed little. Same weight, same blond shaggy hair, though he once shaved his head in prison. He looks twice at the Florida tags on my car, then goes inside. I take a deep breath, put the Panama hat on my head, and walk to the door. Be cool, you idiot, I mumble to myself as my bowels flip. This will take a steady hand and nerves of steel.
    We meet inside the front foyer and exchange pleasantries. I remove the hat as we follow the hostess to a booth in the rear. Across the table, we face each other and talk about the weather. For a moment, I’m almost overwhelmed by my ruse. Nathan is talking to a stranger, while I’m talking to a kid I once knew quite well. He doesn’t seem at all suspicious: no staring at my eyes or nose; no squinting, or raised eyebrows,