I turned left on Cambridge Street and drove a few blocks to the Charles Plaza. I pulled into the parking lot, took the ticket at the gate only three dollars per half hour; what a bargain and pulled across the lot until I was in front of the Holiday Inn. I walked inside the hotel like I had business there, turned right past the front desk and hopped the elevator to the third floor. I walked down the corridor until I found a window and stared down into the parking lot.

Blue Cap wasn’t wearing a blue cap today. He had on a white bicycler’s cap, the brim pushed back flat against his forehead. He still wore the wraparounds, though, and a white Nike T-shirt and black sweatpants. He stood just outside of his car a white Nissan Pulsar with black racing stripes and leaned on the open door while he decided if he should follow me in or not. I couldn’t see his license plate numbers from this angle, and from this height, I could only guess at his age, but I put him at twenty to twenty-five. He was big six two or so and he looked like he knew his way around a Nautilus machine.

Out on Cambridge Street, Angie’s car idled, double-parked.

I looked back at Blue Cap. No point sticking around. He’d follow me into the hotel or he wouldn’t. Either way, it didn’t make any difference.

I took the stairs down to the basement, opened a door onto a service driveway that smelled of exhaust fumes, and jumped off the loading dock. I walked past a dumpster that reeked of slowly stewing fruit and worked my way down onto Blossom Street. I took my time, but before you could say slick-as-a-wet-goose, I was back on Cambridge Street.

All over Boston, in places you’d never notice, there are garages. It doesn’t compensate for a city as short on parking space as Moscow is on toilet paper, but at least the rental fees are exorbitant. I stepped into one between a hair salon and a florist, strolled along the garage until I came to space number eighteen, and removed the slipcover from my baby.

Every boy needs a toy. Mine is a 1959 Porsche Roadster convertible. It’s royal blue, with a wood finish steering wheel and a twin cowl cockpit. True, “cockpit” is a term usually reserved for jets, but when I’ve taken this thing up to a hundred and forty or so, I’ve gotten the distinct impression that liftoff’s only a few more blurred road signs away. The interior is a rich white leather. The stick shift gleams like polished pewter. The horn has a keen horse emblem on it. I work on it more than I drive it, pampering it on weekends, polishing it, bringing it new parts. I’m proud to say I’ve never gone so far as to give it a name, but Angie says that’s only because I lack the imagination.

It started with the growl of a jungle cat on the first turn of the key. I took a baseball cap from under the seat, slipped off my jacket, adjusted my sunglasses, and left the garage.