Luca Moretti's Arc

Chapter 6 of 9

Luca did not go to the garage. He drove to the block where his man took his lunch. He parked across from a battered phone booth wedged between two storefronts. He had watched his man duck inside it twice last month and stay too long for a call to a wife he did not have. He waited. At noon, his man came. He stepped past a newspaper stand, lingered, paged through a paper he did not buy. Then he slipped into the booth. Luca watched the scratched glass fog. Three minutes. The man came out, walked to a blue mailbox on the corner, and lifted the red flag. Then he left. Luca crossed the street. He opened the booth and looked. Taped under the shelf was a folded slip. A name at the top. Vincent DeMarco. Below it, a time and a number. Proof, finally, with a face on it. Luca took the slip. He left the flag up. Let the commissioner expect his report. Let him drive past and see the signal and feel safe for one more hour. Luca walked back to his car with the name folded in his pocket. The rule was kept. He had proof now. And DeMarco did not know the line had already gone dead.