I pull off my disguise. The wig is itchy as hell, especially with this hat pulled down on top of it. I yank off my sunglasses, too.
The cab driver probably thought I was half off my rocker, wearing glasses in the middle of an afternoon with barely any sun.
I knock for the third time, then use the ridiculously frivolous knocker, feeling like an ass because it’s smaller than the palm of my hand. A pineapple-shaped knocker—who would have thought?
I wait.
And wait.
Since I’m an impatient man, I pull out my phone and shoot a text to Eli, but it doesn’t deliver. Shit, that’s right—he’s on a flight and doesn’t land for another hour. Shouldn’t the dude have onboard Wi-Fi or some shit so I can get ahold of him in case there’s an emergency, this being an emergency?
He makes enough damn money that he can afford it.
No one is supposed to know I’m here, so the last guys I’m going to call are Jack Jennings or Sloan Powell, two men I’ve played against from time to time who live in the city nearby, neither of whom I want to share my whereabouts with.
The last time I was in the same room with Sloan Powell, he gossiped nonstop about who was sleeping with who and whose wife was caught cheating. Not cool.
Just as I’m fixin’ to throw a hissy fit, I get a brilliant idea.
“I’ll just mosey around to the back and see if I can’t find a magic door that’ll let me in.”
I decide to give myself a tour of the exterior, confident there’s a back door that might be unlocked. Or a key hidden under a doormat.
Making my way to the backyard, I take the center of the narrow driveway—it’s the old concrete kind with the grass down the middle and a basketball hoop above the detached shed slash garage.
The yard, I discover, is surrounded by a tall hedgerow; plenty of trees, and frankly, I’m surprised by the privacy. Ivy climbs up the back brick walls, too, giving the house a decidedly old-school vibe.
I wonder if ivy is any good for the longevity of the brick. Doesn’t that shit fuck up the mortar?
Eh.
Why do I care?
Climbing the two steps of the small back porch, I open the screen door and knock on the glass.
Nothing.
“Hello?” I pause. “Your guest has arrived.”
Rattling the doorknob, I find it locked, which shouldn’t irritate me but does anyway. Well, one thing is for certain, this Posey person isn’t irresponsible. If I lived in a house like this, I probably wouldn’t feel threatened by the neighborhood and probably wouldn’t lock the doors.
Ain’t no one gonna come bother me here.
I’m confident of that.
This place looks like some storybook character lives here—Mother Goose or some shit—with its green shutters and potted plants and the swing hanging from the giant oak tree in the center of the bright green grass.
It’s been cut recently and smells incredible.
Fresh.
Bet it’s rained in the last few days.
I glance up at the sky as I stand there, watching a few clouds roll by.
Sighing, I tap the toe of my cowboy boot, and it echoes against the wooden porch floor.
Tap.