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driver’s window, there was the glint of sunlight off the
snaps of Kirk’s shirt. Western-style, Frank noted, eyes dropping to
the square-toed boots, leather scuffed, sagging at the ankles.
    Frank tugged his sunglasses down and studied
the face over the rims. Its likeness to his own appeared doubtful.
He flashed on last night, when he had compared their faces on one
of Charlie’s computer screens. Except for the hair color it had
been a better match at the time.
    That’s all right, Frank told himself. It’s a
matter of human nature. Remembering now what he had once read.
Without a way to compare properly, none of us know what we really
look like. Self-image equals false-image. Frank certain that for
most it was vanity that fed the delusion. People too weak-minded to
get through the day without it.
    On the other side of the street Kirk passed
in profile. Frank took his sunglasses off and used the side mirror
to watch him continue down 10th. Frank kept his eyes on the
receding figure and imagined his blond hair and eyebrows dyed to
match Kirk’s. But not quite ready yet to see himself in those
clothes, the kind he hadn’t worn in a very long time.
    Frank started the Lincoln, pulled forward
and went into a U-turn on Cabrillo. Evidently his pigeon hadn’t
parked on the street, still in sight moving down 10th, nearing
where it crossed Gaffey. Maybe he worked in the neighborhood, or
maybe—forget it, Frank said to himself. For now it was more
important that he was on the scent.
    Coming out of the U-turn he checked to make
sure the patrol car hadn’t returned; nowhere to be seen. Frank
proceeded to coast down 10th. He rode the brakes and kept his
distance, following as Kirk caught the light and crossed Gaffey.
Then another block down to Grand, and then another to Pacific,
where Kirk turned right and disappeared.
    Frank pulled curbside at 10th and Pacific.
He looked through the tinted passenger window and saw his pigeon at
the bus stop, slouched on the bench with arms folded.
    Folded to keep the jacket closed, Frank
figured, thinking what an awful life this guy must have. No car, a
jacket with a broken zipper, and a pair of boots that were about to
split open.
    “Christ sake,” Frank muttered as he pictured
himself dressed like that after the switch had taken place.
    The bus rolled through the intersection and
stopped to pick up its passenger. Frank made the turn and followed
south on Pacific. Like Gaffey it was a main stretch that had seen
better times. Cruising a block behind the bus he saw an old movie
theater up ahead. Its marquee read BARGAIN OUTLET.
    The bus made more stops. When it got to
22nd, Kirk got off. Frank pulled over and waited. He watched Kirk
walk up to 23rd. Crossing it he went through the opening of a fence
that bordered a lot at the far corner.
    Frank drove forward and passed slowly by the
lot. It was an auto repair shop, a half-dozen foreign cars sitting
behind the fence. Beyond them he saw Kirk enter the office. Here to
pick up his car, Frank assumed, not as down-and-out as he had
thought he was.
    Reaching 24th, Frank swung around and came
back to park on the other side of Pacific. He looked over at the
shop’s office. Its window mirrored the winter sunlight. He averted
his eyes and scanned the lot’s ailing cars.
    Volvo, BMW, Mercedes, Jaguar, a Ferrari, and
a beat-up classic Triumph. From what he had seen of John Kirk,
Frank guessed it would be the Triumph he would be following this
morning.
    He brushed the blond hair off his forehead
and eyed the rest of the place. The office with its two adjoining
service bays, both shuttered with roller doors. Painted above them,
STAUB’S IMPORT MOTORWORKS, the letters chipped and faded.
    The first bay door rolled upward. A stocky
middle-aged man in jeans and flannel shirt secured it open, the
rack behind him down and empty. Frank lost sight of him as he
stepped toward the office side of the bay.
    The other door rolled upward. A young Latino
in blue coveralls