"I keep my eyes wide open all the time"
-- Johnny Cash, I Walk the Line

The next day I was climbing the walls. I decided to take a risk and venture out for a bit. I would have loved to resume my old routine of rising early, taking a long walk, working out, and then breakfast. I didn't like the thought of exposing myself where I could be easily followed, and there would be no cover or witnesses. I stayed in my comfortable hole until lunchtime, and then I ventured out to taste the world. Wandered in the direction of the river and a little restaurant in the Army Corps of Engineers building of all places. They did a more than passable burger.

With lunch out of the way, it was time to do a little shopping. First on my mental list was to replace my few changes of clothes for an actual wardrobe. For far too long I had done my best to be generic, except when there was a specific occasion to look a particular way. I had been devoid of style, but now I had no idea how I wanted to look.

I was far from alone in that problem. Fortunately there is a kind of store that employs people to help those like me. I was issued an attractive young woman named Caroline to guide me though the unfamiliar waters. I'd point out items I liked, and she would make suggestions based on current fashion. I wasn't a neophyte, just out of practice. On a whim and pushed on by my temporary assistant, I added a handful of ties to the ensemble. Maybe it was time to stir the mix more than a little.

I had liked the shirt I had taken off of the Billyboy in the squat. I hadn't kept it -- it could link me to what happened. I found a vintage clothing store not far from Powell's, and bought a couple of close matches. I wasn't adopting the scene, but I wasn't above gleaning the things I liked either -- no scene, but my scene.

For me to stay in my hole without venturing out on more risky expeditions, I'd need more to read. I had music, I had the TV, but I wasn't going to let my appetite for the written word go unsated. I bought fiction and non-fiction, anything that caught my fancy. No mysteries, at least not for a while. I had a nice pile when it came time to check out. Hopefully they would be enough to keep me in.

I suppose I could have spent my time planning and my return. There was much I needed to do. Look for a place to live, or at least find out what my options were. There were people from my old life to look up. I'd start by emailing them, saying I was coming back to town and would they like to have lunch and catch up. At least I would know who gave me a second thought.

I didn't do any of that. I wasn't just avoiding keeping my profile low -- I was licking my wounds as well. I was done with self-pity, but I had to think about what had happened. It all happened because of one horrible event. No, that's not quite right. There had been a series of events that led up to that night, and then I ran away so I wouldn't have to face the consequences.

Maybe Wilson was right. Maybe my real crime was running away. I can't even be sure how much Becks understood what happened that night. Then I took away the chance for her to understand by disappearing. I wasn't going to make that mistake again. I learned that lesson. I looked at my watch. It was time to get back in my burrow, and not come out for a while. I would think, and read, and sleep on soft sheets.

The walk back to the hotel was slow and pleasant. I stuck to streets with people on them, nothing to make me stick out. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I kept it silent when I could so I wouldn't attract notice. Besides, I never liked it intruding on others. The point of devices like that was to put you in control of how and when you want to communicate. I cannot understand people who let the phone rule them. If you don't control it, it controls you.

I checked the display. It wasn't on the short list of local numbers I recognized.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Heya, this Quinn?" The voice was female. I suddenly had the vision of red-hair and ruby lips dragging on a cigarette.

"Well hello Betty" I said it in a playful singsong. I was glad she called. I had taken a liking to her. It didn't matter why she called; it brightened my day, beside the need to warn her

She giggled. It was an actual giggle. It was hard to reconcile that against the fact that she was in charge of the bouncers at the RadSkull.

"Hiya" she said. "This a good time?"

"Of course, " I said.

It's not like I had a crowded social calendar at the moment: Breakfast, hide, lunch, hide, etc.

"Got your message, thanks." She said. "I'll watch my back."

"Good," I said. "I don't know for a fact that he's coming here, just that there's a risk."

"I gotcha," she said. "Hey! Bobby the bartender said you were into the band when ya were here."

"I suppose I was," I agreed.

"Oh geeze!" she said. "I shudda asked, ya back?" She sounded nervous.

"Yes," I said, "yes I am. I got back two days ago."

"Short trip," she said. "Ya find what you were looking for?"

"Kind of," I said, "there wasn't any point in sticking around."

"'Kay," she said. "You're gonna have to let me buy you a round, and you tell me the story."

She accepted that I wasn't going to explain it all on the phone. I appreciated the fact that that she kept the whole conversation coy on the phone.

"You got it," I said. It would be nice to see her again.

"So yeah, you liked that band yeah?" She asked and then went on before I could answer. "Cuz they're filling in tonight. The regular gig canceled."

"Don't you have to work?" I asked. "I don't want to get in your way." Nor did I want to bring any further risk to her.

"Naw," she said. "I got the night open. I mean, if your worried about... him, you don't got to. I got a whole crew who got orders to watch out for him. So if you wanted to..." she let the other half of the sentence hang in the air.

"I'd love to" I said.

Actually the thought made me queasy. I wanted to get out, and I definitely wanted to see her again. On the other hand, I was supposed to be out of sight, especially at night.

"Kewl," she said. "Meet me there about seven?"

"Deal." I said.

We said our goodbyes and hung up. I walked back to the hotel. I found that I had an extra bounce in my step. I didn't know where things were going. If we would end up becoming friends or not, but it was nice to make some kind of connection.

I put those thoughts out of my head. Thinking about the future would just make me want to get out of the room again. Tonight would be enough of a risk. I picked up a book at random from the bag. It was High Fidelity by Nick Hornby and an enjoyable read. I found it to be brutally honest about the way men think about their relationships. I fantasized about sending a copy to every woman I ever dated.

I could also easily identify with the main character's obsessive nature, and his need to classify everything. His tastes in music didn't always mesh with mine. Personally, I don't have it in my heart to hate Peter Frampton. Still, I could identify with him, and that's the magic of a book. To walk with the characters, no matter how similar or different they were from you.

I was still digesting the book, so I didn't want to start another one. So I switched to researching cameras. Photography was the closest thing I ever did to an artistic endeavor. I'm not sure if I would classify most photographers as artists. Some of them are, and they are all out of my league. For me, the process is about documentation, and the end result sometimes qualifies as art.

I've never been comfortable with open ended questions like "what is art?" That's a conversation you can start and never finish. I took pleasure in showing people a different way of looking at the world. It was about finding the things that most people miss, or showing them from a different angle. It didn't matter if it was art or not, I just liked using a camera to capture the world that way.

Sooner or later I'd need to find a job. The money I'd made would hold me for a while, but it wouldn't last forever. Nor was I under any obligation to return to the profession before that. I'd enjoyed it, and I'd been good at it. It might make a good fallback, if I hadn't burned too many bridges when I left, but now I had the freedom to pick a new path. I had the option to go back to school and train in photography if I wanted. It was an interesting feeling, not knowing what I wanted to be when I grew up.

It occurred to me that maybe I wasn't just going to get one big second-chance that covered everything. Maybe there were lots of them and that vary in size and scope. I had the opportunity to reinvent myself. I could pick up where I left off and try to repair what other damage I had done; or I could move forward and invent a new Quinn. It's a tantalizing option, but it's just another way of running away. I hadn't been able to ditch myself in the last three years, so I had no reason to believe that would work either. So I'd take the middle path, keep what worked and change what didn't.

I checked the time on my phone and I it was time to get ready to head over to the RadSkull. I picked though my newly acquired wardrobe. I was reminded of Oingo Boingo's, Who Do You Want To Be Today? For the last three years I'd only chosen black if I had to go out at night. On a whim, I picked all black -- pants, shirt, jacket, furnishings, everything. I pulled a black tie from the hanger that was their roost. It took a couple of attempts to tie it correctly, but apparently I hadn't forgotten completely. I'm not confident in the way I look, and hadn't I used the widest pallet, but I wasn't unpleased.

My hair was short -- it was more practical that way. A stylist wouldn't have many options of what to do with it. I would need to let it grow out a bit. Some things need to change from the inside, some things from the outside. If I worked at it long enough and they might just meet in the middle.

I didn't have to consult a map to get to the RadSkull this time. It was fixed in my mind now. It was early enough that it wasn't a problem to park at the corner. That way I couldn't be boxed in. I had no desire to be visible on the streets for long, and no one knew what kind of car I drove. I'd be glad when all this was over, when I could look ahead without worrying about what was over my shoulder.

My phone read just after seven as I slipped it into my pocket. Phone in the left pocket, keys in the right, the two things I always wanted to be able to find quickly. There was a different man at the door than the time before. I paid the cover and went in. I didn't see Betty, but I did recognize the man behind the bar.

"Heya," Bobby, the bartender said.

"Hey," I said. "Is Betty here yet?"

"Haven't seen her yet," he said. "Want something while you wait?"

"Coke," I said. My stomach was too empty to drink and keep a clear head.

"Sure thing," he said.

He poured the glass and put it in front of me. I pushed a couple of bills over to him.

"Your money ain't good here," he said with a smile.

"Can I at least tip well?" I asked.

I had no fundamental objection to free drinks, but I didn't think I had done anything to deserve one.

"Ain't no sin," Bobby winked as I left a single on the bar.

I parked myself at the bar where I would be out of the way of the door, but had decent lines of sight. I was alive, and so was Becks, but I couldn't say much more than that. I asked myself the question "What did I do wrong?" and got too many answers back, but the biggest was that tried to do it alone.

I'm good at what I do, but not that good. No one person can do it all and watch their back at the same time. I'd been blind and foolhardy to go down to LA alone. Betty had called that one correctly. Even if I didn't have a team handy, I could have hired pros when I got down there. Come to that, I could have paid a homeless man to watch the alley.

I'd spent years earning the reputation of being cool, and efficient, and practical. I ruined it all in less than a week. The first time I get involved in something that mattered to me, and every last bit of sense I had went out of the window.

I saw Betty come through a back door. She wore pegged jeans, penny loafers, and a pink fuzzy sweater. It was a disarming look if you knew who she was. It allowed her to move through the crowed with ease. She could direct her crew to break things up before they started, and no one would know who was in charge -- unless they were watching very hard. I'm sure that when it came down to it she could hold her own. I wondered how often it got that way. She saw me watching her from the bar and waved me over.

"Very...black." She said, looking at my outfit.

She shook my hand. It felt awkward. We were a little closer than a simple "hello," but didn't know each other well enough for hugging. It's all a complicated social dance that I'm not particularly good at it. I chose to let my partner lead for this one.

"I'm channeling Johnny Cash," I said, joining her at the table.

"How's that working out?" She asked.

"Just trying to walk the line." I joked.

"Your hair ain't long enough." She said. "When it grows out, then ya should comb it back when you dress like that. Ya could almost pass 'round here."

"Thanks, I think," I said. She made a face. "So do you always talk like that?"

"It goes with the costume," she said.

"Gotcha," I said as I scanned the room.

Every so often one of the bouncers would drift by. They kept their distance, but they were clearly watching us. It was like an older brother being protective of a sister. It was cute.

"Look," she said. "I'll know if he gets near this place, an' he ain't getting in."

"Good to know," I said.

"Hey!" She touched my face. "I mean it. My boys are good. It's safe here. So relax an pay attention."

"I'm sorry." I shook my head. "A lot has happened, and I've got a lot I need to think about."

"Then tell me." She said. "Tell me a story, I wanna know what happened. You'll feel better if you do."

"I'll tell you what I can tell you, " I said. "But it's the kind of story you have to tell over food. Let me take you out to eat."

"You like Lebanese?" She asked.

"Indeed I do," I told her.

"Good," she said. "Cuz that was where we were going anyhow."

"Really?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said, "you can get from here to there without being seen and I know the people there."

"Then lead the way," I said.

She took me out the back door. We cut through an alley and entered through the kitchen of the restaurant. Clearly we were on her home turf. Without consulting anyone she sat at the first table we came to. The chairs had been arranged so we'd both have our back to the wall.

We began with hummus, and I launched into my tale. I started from the point I arrived in Portland. I can tell a good story when the mood strikes me, and I was getting far too fond of seeing that smile. It took a while, but she never seemed bored. I glossed over the parts I couldn't tell her and she didn't press me. Occasionally she'd ask me to clarify something, but mostly she just listened. She laughed when I compared meeting Tommy to a Mapplethorpe picture.

"Kinda always thought he might be gay," she explained.

"With a crush on Vance?" I asked.

"The man's got a quality." She shrugged.

I continued with the tale. She made me tell the part about getting out of the trunk a second time. This time with props, to make sure she got it straight. The car was a piece of pita, and I was an olive. When I told her about getting hit by the car, she tore off a piece of her napkin and wrapped it around the olive. She admired her handwork and then nodded for me to continue.

When I told her about the map in Vance's office, Betty interrupted again.

"You got no idea what he was into?" She asked.

"Not really," I said, "and sticking around to find out didn't seem like a good idea."

"I get that," she agreed.

"I may have a piece of the puzzle though," I said.

"What?" she asked.

"I'm pretty certain that the car parts in the storeroom were fakes," I said.

"Huh," she said. "I can't see that being big enough to set that man off."

"He's an amateur," I told her. The trade of counterfeit car parts is a billion dollar industry. If he were just a buyer, I can't see him taking it that far, but if he were reselling them..."

"Yeah, that could be some real money," Betty said after a bit. "A lot more than the puissant dealing they did."

I went on with the story. Betty laughed out loud when I told her about leaving Vance's car out to be stolen. When we were finished, we argued over the check. It was hard fought, but I won and we slipped back out though the kitchen.

When we got into the alley, she stopped and said, "I sure hope Vance got your message, but I kinda think he didn't. You may've just pissed him off more. All you did was hurt his stuff. From what I know, you need to be a lot more blunt with him."

"What?" I asked. "You think I should had a sledgehammer fight with him in the streets?"

It was a reference to Streets of Fire. Becks would have recognized it, but I didn't think Betty caught it.

"Heh," she chuckled, "that would work. You could bust a cap in him and I wouldn't shed no tears."

It was an interesting break in the slang she normally used. It made its point though. If I didn't physically hurt Vance, she thought he'd keep coming. I was used to dealing with pragmatists, but for Vance it was personal. I hoped she was wrong that the endgame in LA had been enough.

"Quinn," Betty said softly.

She leaned against the wall of the alley and looked me in the eyes. Her arms were wrapped around her midriff.

"Would you like my coat?" I asked.

"I ain't cold," she said. "I know you think you did it all wrong down there. You think it's all your fault, but it ain't. Sure, maybe you should've had backup," she paused, "maybe if you asked..."

It was an odd comment. I barely knew her. I liked her. I wanted to get to know her better, but I don't think I'd ever have thought to ask her for that. I wouldn't have expected she would accept.

"What's done is done, you know?" She said finally. "You outta know something. You weren't wrong about him. Your...friend thought she could deal, but odds are she couldn't. I gotta show ya something."