Chuck stands at the edge of the alley. He’s waiting for me to walk to him, which is the natural order of things in Silicon Valley. Everyone walks to the venture capitalists, hoping for the validation, insight, or a check that will change their lives.

I walk over.

“I’d have put out an azalea on my balcony as a signal but the few plants I’ve ever owned have died of benign neglect,” I say. No smile. He’s totally missed my All the President’s Men reference.

“So, Nat, you have some enemies. I’m not against having enemies. In fact, I find it very centering.”

“Are we enemies?”

“No. Allies. Absolutely. Colleagues.”

“But you’ve got some enemies?”

“Yes, but evidently you do too,” he says.

He makes a show of pulling his hand from his right pocket and withdrawing a yellow Post-it. On it is scrawled a phone number. He holds it out and asks me if I recognize it.

It’s in the 415 area code, local. But the rest of the number doesn’t look familiar. I shake my head.

“It’s a central switchboard for the San Francisco Police Department,” he says.

“Okay.”

“The call to your phone yesterday at six twelve p.m. came from there.”

“From the cops?”

“Bingo.”

I shake off a moment of wonder to stay focused. The park shooter was a cop?

“You can see why I decided to show up in person to tell you.”

“Respectfully, not really. I don’t.”

“Because if you’ve ticked off the cops, then they’re monitoring your phones.”

“Tell me again how you found out about this?”

Chuck’s eyes briefly divert from mine. “A reporter never reveals his sources. Why should I?”

I sigh.

“You’re skeptical,” he says. “A journalist should be. I’m highly connected through military channels. You’ll have to trust that.”

“I appreciate your work on my behalf, and I guess I’m surprised by it.”

“Oh, c’mon Idle!”

“What?”

“You’re working on a great story, right? Something involving the cops? This could be a big coup for Medblog.”

I nearly laugh. I’ve sold Chuck a steroid version of journalism, or at least stoked his own sensational view of the trade, and now he’s running with it. I feel my skepticism about him meld into something else; he’s displaying an endearing enthusiasm—is this the zeal of a soldier turned entrepreneur up for a challenge and a fight? And why not? He doesn’t know that Grandma Lane and I almost got shot; he thinks we’re playing a harmless game of cops and journalists.

Or maybe I’m being played by him. But why?

I think about the rash of Porta Potti fires. Has the absurd evolved into the serious? My stories have not just embarrassed the cops but also, obviously, could cost a few pranksters their jobs and the department critical funding. The State Attorney General, a Democrat planning to run for governor next year who wants to prove her law-and-order mettle to the conservative voting base, has launched a full-throated investigation. Hoping to make points with voters looking for creative ways to cut government spending, she says cops who set fires under the color of uniform should cost their departments discretionary state funds. The chief’s job is in play.

“I can’t imagine anyone in the police department would want me dead over a Porta Potti.”

“Dead?” Chuck responds with mild alarm. “What’s going on?”

“I’m wondering the same thing.”

He looks at the Post-it. “Let me do a little more investigating and make sure I got this right,” he says. He puts the yellow paper in his jacket pocket. He pulls out a clamshell phone. He hands it to me. “Take this.”

It’s a basic low-end phone, two years old at least, with a white scratch along the front casing. “I’ve got a phone.”

“This one is pre-paid. It can’t be traced, and our conversations will be private. The number is on the back. If you need to reach me, call on this line.”

“You’re kidding me,” I say.

“It’s my backup. I’ve got a regular phone.”

He extracts a second phone, a fancier device with a touch screen. As he does so, it buzzes with an incoming call. He looks at the caller ID and sends the call to voice mail.

“Keep your phone,” I say, handing the old clamshell back to him. He puts his hands up, not accepting it. We look like two mimes having a contest.

He responds emphatically. “Cops are like drones working for a big corporation. They lack real capitalist financial incentive. So when they get bored with their jobs or feel undervalued, they check out, or wield power in counter-productive ways. I hate cops, and I love journalism that speaks truth to the uniform.”

“Aren’t soldiers just cops with bigger guns and air cover?”

He smiles. “Touché. But soldiers get sent into messy situations, try to fix them, then get sent home. Our incentive is survival. Being a soldier is like working for a start-up, having real motivation,” he says, pauses, then continues. “Let’s break open a great story.”

“Let me think about it, Chuck,” I say. “But I should go.”

As I turn to leave, he grabs my arm. “You’re always in a hurry.”

I look at his hand, and he quickly retracts it.

“Sorry. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help you.”

“Not grab my arm.”

He clears his throat. “Fair enough. I’m prideful too.”

I’m irritated but want to sound deferential.

“Can I call you later, or put a pot out on my balcony to arrange another meeting?”

Before he can answer, I hear the roar of a car. I look up. Coming down the ordinarily serene street from our left is a Humvee with tinted windows, sun glancing off its black hood.

“Global warming explained,” I say.

I look back at Chuck, and see his eyes go wide and pupils constrict to a point. Extreme and sudden fear.