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wasn’t the end of it. Later on, I was heading over to Tack’s place and there he was again! This time he was up ahead, pretending to be waiting for the streetcar. I saw him look at me and then act as if he was trying to see something behind me.
    I picked up the pace a bit so I could get by and out of his sight, not because I was scared but because I didn’t like the idea of this guy up in my business. I shot him a penetrating look as I came up on him. That startled him and I almost stopped and said a few things to set him straight, but the streetcar was pulling up. He hesitated, but then he had no choice but to go ahead and get on it.
    I saw him, plain as day, leaning over and looking straight at me as the streetcar pulled away. I stared right back at him, careful to keep my face blank. There was no way I wanted him to think he was getting to me.
    Anyway, there’d be other opportunities to deal with him face-to-face. Whatever this guy’s game was, he wasn’t exactly the slickest player in town. It was possible that he’d been following me — watching me for longer than I knew. But since I’d caught him at it a couple of times in the past week alone, and now that I knew I was being watched, it would be almost impossible for him to do it without me seeing him.
    I was thinking about this as I got close to Tack’s building. Then I heard someone behind me say my name.
    â€œYo! Porter!”
    I spun around, startled. “Tack. I didn’t see you, man.”
    â€œMaybe ’cause you look like you’re in a trance, dude. Like the hypnotist got you.”
    I said nothing about The Watcher. I knew it was true, but I wasn’t sure I could convince Tack without more proof.
    â€œI was just thinking about something,” I said vaguely. Then, to change subjects, I suggested we go to his place.
    That brought a reaction I wasn’t quite expecting. He threw both hands up like he was surrendering and told me no way were we going there. Apparently, his mother was going to kill someone this time for sure , and he’d just ducked out before she could decide it should be him.
    â€œWhy?” I laughed, picturing his mother on one of her rampages. “What happened?”
    â€œOh, man … who knows?” he said. He looked away.
    â€œYeah, right.” I laughed. There was guilt written all over his face. “I’m betting you know. And I think whatever it is, you did it .”
    Tack glanced behind him nervously, like someone might be listening.
    â€œI don’t remember her sayin’ nothin’ about that last chunk of mudslide bein’ hers,” he muttered.
    â€œYou ate your mother’s piece of cake?” I took a step to the side. “Get away from me, man. I don’t want to get hit by the fallout.”
    This wasn’t Tack’s first transgression in the food department. Not long ago he’d gotten into a pie his mother had made for some ladies’ meeting at her church. She’d hidden it, or so she thought, in a plastic container up in the back of the cupboard over the fridge. It was no match for Tack, who’d sniffed it out and helped himself to a generous slice. I’d had the misfortune of being there when she came home and discovered it had been plundered.
    All things considered, I didn’t blame Tack for looking nervous now. His mother is a big woman (substantial, she says) and when she’s wound up — man, watch out! Seeing her stomp and wave her arms and listening to her rant is something I can’t quite describe. It’s comical and scary all at once, but I’ll tell you this much: you wouldn’t open your mouth to talk back when she’s in that kind of frenzy.
    Tack told me once that when his mother gets going she puts him in mind of a southern preacher frothing and pacing onstage, shouting about vexation and damnation, except her messages are more for the here and now. According to Tack,