11I scanned the sidewalks in both directions. A leftover hippie type lingered near a vendor’s cart. Was he taking too long to eat those Belgian fries? Might he be a cop, under cover? My gaze went back to the BMW. Maybe the men inside were a pair of FBI agents.
I stayed in that doorway for another five minutes. The BMW left. The hippie stumbled past, eyes glazed from whatever he’d drunk before he stopped to dine on potatoes. The crowd shifted, eddied, changed faces. Only me, my tail, and the news van remained stationary.
No police types were here yet. But one of the press people would call the cops as soon as I was spotted. Filming my arrest had to be their goal. If I was careful, I could slip past the van and into the bar. But it was likely UNN had someone waiting inside. Their man would
