Suddenly, Werner emerged from a door in the back of the shop and walked past the startled Philips, who quickly turned away to fondle some pornographic video cassettes. But Werner looked neither right nor left. It was as if he were wearing blinders. He was out of the shop in seconds.
Martin delayed as long as he thought he could without losing Werner. He didn’t want it too apparent that he was following the man, but as he exited, the woman in the balcony leaned over and watched him go out the door. She knew he was up to something.
Reaching the street, Philips caught sight of Werner getting into a taxi. Frightened that he might lose him after all his effort, Philips leaped from the curb and frantically waved for a cab. One stopped across the street and Philips dodged the traffic to jump in.
“Follow that Checker cab behind the bus,” said Philips excitedly.
The cabby just looked at him.
“Come on,” insisted Philips.
The man shrugged and put the car in gear. “You some sort of cop?”
Martin didn’t answer. He felt the less conversation the better. Werner got out at Fifty-second and Second Avenue; Martin got out about one hundred feet back from the corner and ran up to the end of the block, looking after him. Werner entered a shop three doors away.
Crossing the avenue Martin looked over at the store. It was called “Sexual Aids.” It was very different from the adult bookstore on Forty-second Street with a very conservative exterior. Glancing around, Philips noticed that it was situated among antique shops, fashionable restaurants, and expensive boutiques. Looking up he could tell the apartment buildings were all middle class. It was a good neighborhood.
Werner appeared at the door accompanied by another man who was laughing and had his arm over the diener’s shoulder. Werner smiled and shook hands with the man before setting out, walking up Second Avenue. Philips fell in behind him, keeping a safe distance.
If he had had any inkling that following Werner was going to entail all these stops, he wouldn’t have done it. As it was, he kept expecting the odyssey to terminate. But Werner had other ideas. He crossed over to Third Avenue, making his way up to Fifty-fifth Street, where he entered a small building huddled in the shadow of a glass and cement skyscraper. It was a saloon that looked as if it stood in a 1920’s photograph.
After debating with himself, Martin followed, afraid that he might lose Werner if he didn’t keep him in view. To Philips’ amazement the establishment was jammed with animated customers despite the hour, and he had to squeeze inside. It was a popular singles bar, again unfamiliar turf for Philips.
Scanning the crowd for Werner, Philips was shocked to see him immediately to his left. He was holding a mug of beer and smiling to a blond secretary. Philips pulled his hat a little lower on his head.
“What do you do?” asked the secretary, shouting to be heard over the din of voices.
“I’m a doctor,” said Werner. “A pathologist.”
“Really,” said the secretary, obviously impressed.
“It’s got its good and bad points,” said Werner. “I usually have to work late, but maybe you’d like to have a drink sometime.”
“I’d love it,” shouted the woman.
Martin pushed up to the bar wondering if the girl had any idea what she was getting herself into. He ordered a beer, and worked his way over to the back wall, where he found a spot from which he could observe Werner. Sipping his drink, Martin began to appreciate the absurdity of the situation. After all his years of education, he was in a singles bar in the middle of the night, following a bizarre individual who looked frighteningly normal. In fact, when Philips glanced around he was impressed with how easily Werner merged with the businessmen and lawyers.
After taking the secretary’s phone number, the diener polished off his beer, gathered his belongings, and caught another cab on Third Avenue. Martin had a short argument with his taxi driver about following, but it was solved by a five-dollar bill.