The First Councel

A half hour later, I’m sitting on the same wooden bench, studying the crowd. It doesn’t take long to spot the pattern. Family in, family out. Family in, family out. Still, throughout the constant flux of people, one thing remains: “Popcooorn… Popcooorn!” Over and over, the refrain is grating. “Popcoooorn… Popcoooo-”

“I’ll take one,” a deep voice says. I look up, but he’s facing the other direction-a tall man in dark jeans and a bright red polo shirt. Handing the kid a dollar, he grabs a box of popcorn. Without another word, he readjusts his sunglasses and heads to a bench on the opposite side of the promenade. I’m not sure what it is-maybe it’s the fact he’s alone; maybe it’s my own paranoia-but something tells me to watch him. Yet, just as I’m about to get my first good look at him, someone steps in front of me, blocking my view.

“Popcoooorn!” the kid announces, holding his red-and-white box in front of my face.

“Out of the way!” I shout.

He couldn’t care less. “Popcoooorn!” he continues. “Peeeee Vaaaaughn!”

I do a quick double take. “What’d you just say?”

“Popcoooorn…!”

As he steps aside, I look across the promenade. The man in the red shirt is gone. Turning back to the kid, I ask, “Was that-?”

He holds out his last red-and-white-striped box. “Popcoooorn… Pop-”

“I’ll take it.” One dollar later, the kid’s moved on, and I’m alone on the bench. I’m tempted to check over my shoulder, but it’s more important to appear calm. As casually as possible, I open the box. Inside, there’s barely any popcorn-just a handwritten note taped inside. I have to angle the box just right to read it. “Four P’s Pub. Three blocks north. Next to the Uptown.”

Closing the box, I can’t fight my instinct. I check to see who’s watching. As far as I can tell, no one’s there. A quick survey of the promenade shows everything’s normal. Family in, family out. Family in, family out. As the parade of smiles marches on, I walk back toward Connecticut and pass the popcorn cart. “Popcoooorn…!” Fully restocked, the kid doesn’t give me a second look. Instead, he heads back into the crowd. And I head three blocks up the street.

***

Sticking to the shady side of Connecticut Avenue, I try to keep my pace as quick as possible. At this speed, if someone’s behind me, they should be easy to spot. Still, my eyes dart from every parked car, to every tree, to every storefront. It all looks suspicious. Coming toward me, I see a woman jogging with her black Labrador. As she’s about to pass, I step into the street and look away. I’m not taking any chances-as long as I keep my head down, she can’t make an ID. When she’s gone, I get back on track.

In the distance, I can already see the red neon sign of the Uptown, the city’s greatest old-fashioned movie house and the neighborhood’s most popular monument. To its left, half a dozen restaurants and shops fight for attention. Dwarfed by the Uptown, they rarely get a second glance. Today, however, one jumps out: Ireland’s Four Provinces Restaurant and Pub.

Under the run-down green and red sign, I take a quick look up the block. Everything checks out-no khakis or polos in sight; none of the nearby cars have government plates. I even brush my eyes past the roof of the Uptown. Far as I can tell, no one’s taking photos. Heading for the entrance, I know this is it. Time to meet Vaughn.

As I pull open the door, I’m slapped in the face with bar whiff. It immediately reminds me of my first night with Nora. Inside, it’s set up like a real Irish pub. Sixteen to twenty tables, some framed stained glass Irish crests, and an old oak bar along the back wall. To my surprise, the place is packed. One guy’s wearing a mailman uniform. Another’s dressed by FedEx. I like this place. No tourists. Local crowd.

“Take a seat at the bar,” a waitress says as she blows by me. “I’ll have a table in a second.”

Following her instructions, I pull up a stool and scan the lunchtime group. Nothing too suspicious.

“How you doing?” the bartender asks as he pours a couple of sodas.

“Okay,” I say. “And you?”

Before he can answer, I hear a door on my far right creak open. Following the sound, I see a muscular guy wearing a ratty black T-shirt step out of the men’s room. He’s got a great Neanderthal brow that puts Darwinism to the test. Focused on the box scores of his folded-up newspaper, the man seems startled when he looks up and notices me.

“Wat you looking at, putzhead?” he asks in a heavy Brooklyn accent.

“No, nothing,” I reply. “Nothing.”

Shrugging me off, he moves back to his table in the corner. “Where the hell’s my san’wich?” he asks his waitress.

“Don’t bitch at me,” she warns. “They’re backed up in there.”