We Are Here Page 4

  “Have you seen Frankie?”

  “ ’Fraid not,” I said. “But I’ll keep an eye out.”

  The old woman smiled, sending a car crash of deep lines across her face. “Would you, dear? I’m sure I saw him earlier. Just by here. I know it was him.”

  Within hours of starting work at the Adriatico I’d been told about Lydia. A long time ago she’d been an actress/singer/dancer in shows on (or within a cab ride of) Broadway, by all accounts talented and beautiful. Then one night thirty years ago someone close to her—her brother, lover, or just a friend, accounts varied—was murdered outside a bar on First Avenue.

  That’s what the police told her, anyway, though she refused to believe it—refused adamantly, no quarter given. She remained convinced that this guy, whatever he’d been to her, was still alive; that she saw her Frankie sometimes; that she called out to him, but he never heard or never stopped. She had a brusque way with outreach volunteers who tried to boss her around, because she knew she was not crazy. She still turned heads on the streets, though nowadays that was because of her multilayered outfit of castoffs. She slept in Tompkins Square Park, holding her corner and snarling at runaways. Her hair was white, and decades of cigarettes had filled her throat with glass. When she hollered a show tune, which happened occasionally, it did not sound good.

  “Need to get back to work, Lyds,” I said, slipping a few bucks into her hand. She would not accept money proffered in plain sight. “Take care tonight.”

  “I will. You’re a good boy.”

  I wasn’t sure about that. But most of the time, I try.

  After service ended, I went downstairs and propped up the bar until one thirty, lending a hand as required. Afterward, as often on lively nights, we went on to prop up a corner of someone else’s bar in the company of cooks, waiters, and allied miscreants from other local dives. By the time we were walking home, things felt good between us again.

  “She didn’t say anything, did she?” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Catherine. You guessed there was a problem. You talked her into speaking to me. She never asked.”

  “You’re smarter than you look,” Kristina said. “I mean, you’d have to be.”

  “And you’ve got an eye for bad things.”

  “Does this mean you’re taking her more seriously?”

  “There’s something up in her life. That I believe. It’s also obvious you care about her, which means that I should too. So when you see her tomorrow at the book club, tell her that your boyfriend can be a dickhead but if she wants him to help, he’ll try.”

  “My boyfriend?”

  “That would be me.”

  “I see. ’Course, if we moved to the Village, you might rate being upgraded to ‘partner.’ I should add that comes with additional benefits.”

  “Which are?”

  “Oh no. My mother may have been a lunatic bitch, but she at least taught me not to toss away the farm.”

  “You don’t give up easy, do you?”

  “I don’t give up at all. You should know that about me by now.”

  I put my arm around her shoulders and she looped hers around my waist and we walked the rest of the way listening to the sound of distant others shouting and laughing, a solar system of two spinning quietly home through the universe.

  I was standing peaceably in the kitchen pouring glasses of water to take to bed when I heard Kristina padding quickly back out of the bedroom.

  “I missed a call.”

  “And?”

  She jabbed a couple of buttons. “Listen.”

  Catherine Warren’s voice came out of the speaker, tinny and hesitant.

  “Kristina, it’s me,” she said. “I’m so sorry to call, but I don’t know who else to talk to.”

  There was a pause, and when she spoke again her voice was cracked. “Someone’s been in my house.”

  Chapter 5

  The man got to Bryant Park at eleven o’clock, the time the informal morning gathering started. There weren’t many friends present—more made the effort to attend the gathering on Friday, and Union Square had become more fashionable recently—and nobody he wanted to talk to. He kept on the move. It wasn’t long before people started to drift back out to the streets. He knew she would appear eventually, traditionally arriving from the Sixth Avenue side. He sat halfway up the steps that looked down over the central grassy area and waited.

  He had no idea what her reaction was going to be. In general she preached acceptance, making the best of their situation. Might she feel differently about this?

  He didn’t know.

  Three days he’d waited. Three days and three long nights of trying to live normally while a thought drummed in his head like a migraine. As a Fingerman he couldn’t just up and leave. He had obligations. Some were arranged on a schedule—his services could be booked—but it was also his time on call. He was required to make himself available in known locations (including this very park) for set periods, ready for requests relayed to him by local Cornermen or friends presenting in person. He did not consider abandoning his post. The rotation had been in place for many years, legacy of Lonely Clive and others. His skills put him in a privileged position, and responsibility came with it. If they couldn’t man up and do the right thing by each other, then they could hardly criticize others for failing to do so. Thus the Gathered had said, and on this—if not everything else—he agreed. And after all, if he hadn’t happened to be holding his post in Bryant Park at the right moment on the right day, this chance to reconnect would never have been born. (Though hadn’t he also felt a peculiar pull to the park that afternoon? And hadn’t he lingered for more than an hour after his slot had finished? Yes, he had.)

  Either way, though the language of the fates is often garbled and obscure, when they speak it pays to listen. He didn’t buy the “everything happens for a reason” mantra so beloved of the girl he was waiting for, but when life drops a boon in your lap, you pay the fee.

  So he’d waited, stoically, growing more and more tense, finding sometimes that his fists were bunching without him realizing it, knowing however that the important thing was that he was now in possession of information that could change his life.

  “Hey,” said a voice.

  He turned to see the girl, up on the top step. “You came in the other way?”

  “I like to remain mysterious.”

  In silhouette she looked even more ethereal than usual. The sun hung behind her as a halo of gold against long, dark hair. As usual, she was wearing dark red under a black coat. If you glimpsed her flicking through old LPs in a thrift store you’d assume she was merely a tall and unusually fine-featured Goth. “What’s up?”

  “How do you know something’s up?”

  She smiled. “I know everything, remember?”

  He told her everything as they walked around the park together. It had always been that way with them, since they first met in a stinking, moldy room above a boarded-up porno theater soon after he’d come to the city. When he’d finished—it didn’t take long—her face was unreadable.

  “How wonderful,” she said. “Lucky you.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “What you’re going to do.”

  “I should … do whatever’s in my heart?”

  She laughed. “No, but bless you for making the effort to speak in my language. I just mean you should do it. You’re going to, regardless, and as it happens I think it’s the right choice.”

  “Really?” He studied her face. All he found was what he always saw. Pale, open features that were symmetric and strong and yet delicate, and bloodred lips. “Why?”

  She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “You could have done something without talking to me. You didn’t. What’s important to you is important to me. You’ve waited a long time for something like this. We all have. So do it.”

  “Thank you, Lizzie.”

  “De nada.” She looked as though she was about to say
something else, but stopped.

  He turned to see a figure approaching across the grass. Stocky, balding, pugnacious even from a distance. Coming up behind were three other people he recognized—two guys, one woman. Very tall, very thin. “Christ.”

  “Looks like someone’s heading your way.”

  “It won’t take long to say no to whatever it is he wants. Will you wait?”

  “Can’t. Got things to do and wonders to perform,” Lizzie said, taking his hand and squeezing it briefly between her long, pale fingers. “Will you have a phone number?”

  He reeled it off to her.

  “Be careful, Maj,” she said, before drifting away across the grass. “And don’t hurt anyone.”

  As usual, Golzen was wearing a suit styled in the mode of the 1930s—double-breasted, with wide chalk-colored stripes and extravagant lapels. Maj had no idea why he did this. He didn’t care.

  “I’m in a hurry,” he said when the man reached him. The other three stayed well back, thirty feet away, in a huddle in the middle of the grass.

  Golzen smiled, a thin, straight line that looked as if it had been drawn on his face and then just as quickly erased. “I’m sure. Interesting business?”

  “Not to you.”

  “I have a proposal.”

  “Same as usual?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Guess my answer will be the same, too.”

  “And I’ll ask again, why?”

  “Because he’s a thief.”

  “We’re all thieves.”

  “He’s different.”

  “Just more organized, which means better returns—for us. I don’t see the difference between him and the lamer you’re associating with. Except for the lameness, obviously.”

  “Jeffers doesn’t take anything.”

  “Everybody takes something, Maj. Some do it more subtly, that’s all. Sometimes just by looking.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ll work it out. My point is that with Reinhart the terms are clear and the rewards material.”

  “You’re wrong about him. You’ll realize that sooner or later.”

  Golzen seemed to swell, turning up prophet mode. “No, you’ll realize a change is coming. Perfect is calling, and it is nearly time to heed its voice.”

  “You know I don’t believe in that bullshit.”

  “That’s immaterial. Perfect believes in you. The question is whether you want to be on the winning side.”

  “Since when were there sides?”

  “Are you kidding? Everything has at least two sides. Even a single individual. You know that.”

  “May be true for you. It doesn’t have to be that way among the friends.”

  “Jesus.” Golzen stared at him with open contempt. “You spend far too much time with that hippy chick.”

  “Like I said, I’m in a hurry. This all you got?”

  “Just don’t be gone too long. I’d hate for you to miss the excitement.”

  Maj stared at him. Golzen smiled. “There may be one more chance to change your mind,” he said. “We’re saving a place. We’ll need friends like you, with skills, character, strength of mind. Assuming you can finally see where your best interests lie.” He walked away.

  Maj watched him go. How could Golzen know he was planning on leaving town? Only by talking to the sole person Maj had discussed the matter with: a Journeyman he’d gone to for advice. Even so, it could only be guesswork, as Maj had been careful to appear to be conducting his inquiry out of hypothetical interest, and the Journeyman would never have talked.

  So it was pure luck, that was all. It showed how widely Golzen’s influence spread, however, and how determined he was. Maj had already suspected these things. For the time being, it didn’t matter.

  But consider it logged.

  He stopped by the churchyard and tried to talk to Lonely Clive. Though he was able to get a few words out of him, he had to take his former mentor’s blessing on trust, or decide to take it implicitly. He left unclear as to which it had been, but it didn’t matter.

  He was going to do it anyway.

  Chapter 6

  At a little after eight on Monday evening I was in SoHo. I’d been in the area for two hours already and I was cold and bored. I’d watched Catherine and Kristina arrive at Swift’s ten minutes apart, and then I’d walked the neighboring blocks in a grid pattern. After I tired of this, I took a covert pass through the store and then wandered back out and eventually into the grounds of Old St. Patrick’s Church. An eight-foot-high brick wall surrounds most of a small block, augmented on one side by the tall, white side of another building. Inside the wall stands an unassuming sand-colored church, well-tended grass, and a clean graveyard arranged in orderly lines. It is a calm place and a good spot to stand for a while even if you do not believe in God. But also … very cold.

  I emerged in time to observe as the reading group wrapped up and to see the two women buying coffees from the bookstore café before bringing them out to the concrete bench outside. This being, as I knew, their custom. They didn’t hurry over their drinks.

  I stood across the way, in the shadow of the wall around the church, and waited some more.

  It had already been established that someone had not entered Catherine Warren’s house the evening before—nobody who wasn’t supposed to have, anyway.

  Kristina tried calling right back, but it went to voice mail. Catherine’s message had been left at eight thirty and it was after three a.m. by the time we found it. Kristina was awake and on her feet before me the next morning, for once. Catherine called early, to be fair, and was apologetic and amusing at her own expense. She’d called after noticing things had been moved in the office nook of their house. This had subsequently been explained. Her husband—who’d stopped by en route to a business dinner—had been told to drop everything and attend a meeting at the London office the next day, taking the oh-my-god-that’s-early flight out of JFK. (This is something you don’t have to put up with if you work in a pizza restaurant.) He’d been searching for his passport—neatly filed by Catherine somewhere else entirely—and hadn’t tidied after himself. Some people wouldn’t even have noticed, but Catherine evidently ran a tight ship, and so she did.

  Panic over.

  After the call, Kristina seemed embarrassed on her friend’s behalf. Perversely, though I had to refrain from wondering aloud whether Catherine couldn’t have made a second call to Kristina’s phone to let her know everything was okay, the incident made me take her more seriously. My ex-wife, Carol, had been prone to anxiety even before the truly bad things happened to us, notably the death of our older son, Scott. I know from experience that anxiety is a very powerful force, as close to malign possession as makes no difference. It may not sound like much—so someone gets worked up over little things? Big deal. They should try coping with real problems, right?

  Wrong. Real problems are easy. They have real solutions. Anxiety turns the world into an intangible and insoluble crisis and transforms every doubt into a rat intent on devouring its own tail. It is like being caught in a trap in the dark forest when you can hear big, hungry animals closing in on every side.

  The confident, sleek woman I’d met outside the coffeehouse on Greenwich Avenue hadn’t presented like someone so close to the edge, but that could mean she was hiding some problem a little too well, or else that there was something going on—something sufficient to have her putting two and two together to make twenty-five. I wouldn’t have cared much either way except that the woman I loved evidently wanted to regard this person as a friend—and friends were something Kristina was generally willing to do without. I’m far from gregarious, but she can make me look positively needy. Catherine’s presence at the reading group had kept her attending. If the other woman flipped out, it would stop.

  That’s why I was there, getting cold. Having made a bad job of being someone’s man in the past, I was open to the idea of working harder at it this time arou
nd.

  Eventually they finished their coffees and went separate ways. Kristina did not glance in the direction of the church because she didn’t know I was there. I hadn’t wanted her to convey inadvertent signals to Catherine. I was probably doing nothing more than wasting my evening off work (the Adriatico is closed on Mondays, to everyone’s relief), but in that case I wanted to make doubly sure I got something out of it. If I followed Catherine home and saw nothing, I would have demonstrated that—on a night when her movements were predictable, and therefore an alleged stalker’s ideal opportunity—there had been no one on her tail. I could choose whether or not to convey this to Kristina when I got home.

  I stayed back as I followed Catherine up into the Village. I had a good idea of what route she’d take and so gave her plenty of space. She walked confidently, with the brisk stride of someone who knew the area and had lived in the city a long time. She lingered in front of a couple of stores but never came to a halt. From Bleecker she skirted Washington Square Park and took the predictable left onto Greenwich Avenue. From here she’d likely head up past the Westside Market. With her husband across the ocean, it was possible she’d give this a miss. I doubted it, though. If she’d fallen into the practice of going to the deli for his shrimp salad, chances were she’d do it tonight and find a reason while she was there. Humans are creatures of habit.

  I kept an eye on other pedestrians. The young, the old, professionals and the half-dead homeless, the weird-looking and the painfully vanilla. New York is a place where you’d have to hail from the planet Zog and sport three heads to really stand out, though if you kept those heads down and didn’t smoke in a public place you’d still have a chance of passing without notice. Of course, if Catherine did have a stalker he’d be going to some trouble not to attract attention. But by the time we were crossing 14th I was confident this was a bust.

  Fine by me. I’d left a note for Kris saying I’d gone for a walk and would be home by nine bearing food. I’d shadow Catherine to her door in Chelsea—ten minutes from where we were now—then double back via Chong’s.