'Not much. I like a glass of wine, you know.'
'Use drugs?' Martha asked.
Pamela Archer frowned. 'A long time ago.'
'You might as well mention any recent use, since the drug tests will-'
'I'm completely clean,' Pamela Archer interrupted.
Martha noted this. 'What did you use-in the past?'
'Pot, speed, some psychedelics. Acid a few times.'
Charlie leaned forward. 'Ever inject?'
'No, absolutely not.'
'You're sure?' Martha asked.
'Have you ever injected?' said Pamela Archer.
'No!' said Martha.
'Sure?'
Martha sat back in surprise. 'Of course!'
'That's how sure I am.'
Martha turned toward Charlie.
'I think she's sure.'
Martha returned to her clipboard. 'All right, have you ever suffered from hepatitis, gonorrhea, syphilis, herpes, or any other sexually transmitted diseases?'
'I had chlamydia once.'
'Ever been pregnant?'
'No,' she breathed.
'First menstruation?'
'Twelve, I think.'
'First intercourse?'
'Fifteen.'
'Number of partners?'
'I'm not sure.'
Martha didn't like this answer. 'Approximately?'
'Perhaps ten or twelve.'
'Any partners intravenous drug users?'
'No.'
'Convicted felons?'
'No.'
Charlie flipped through his file, not listening closely. Of the six women he'd interviewed with Martha, he'd liked only two, and Pamela Archer was not one of them. I need a basic affinity, Charlie thought, some buzz, some connection. He and the mother might have to talk from time to time, and if he wished to ask about the child's health and development, then better that he and the mother got along. If you can try to give your child one thing, what should it be? Family? Security? Intelligence? He could make an argument for any of the three. Moreover, what appeared to be optimal for one child was not for another. Living situations change, families fall apart. Maybe these were the wrong questions. Maybe the most important question was who would be the best mother. But the best mother under what conditions? Ellie had been an excellent mother, but was this due to the fact that she'd never much desired a career? Maybe if she had been born twenty years later she'd have pursued a career and been less devoted to the kids. Then again, some people said women who have careers are better mothers by example, showing their children their worldly effectiveness. You can get turned around and around on these questions, Charlie thought. Maybe the better thing was to go with a gut feeling, which was how he had always made the most important decisions in his life. Which of the women did he just plain like? Which one did he think he understood best?
'That's the end of my part of the conversation,' Martha said. 'I'm going to let you and Charlie have a few minutes.' She left the room.
He pulled his chair a little closer.
'Hi.' Pamela Archer smiled, eyes bright.
She's looking at me like I'm a goldmine, he thought. 'Miss Archer, I know this interaction is a bit strange.'
'Presumably for you, too.'
He nodded.
Her eyes were worried. 'How many responses to the ad did you get?'
'More than a hundred. We're still getting them.'
She blinked anxiously, color blotting her neck and cheeks. 'How many so-called finalists are there?'
'Nine.'
'How many have you spoken with?'
'Six, including you.'
She played with her hands in her lap. 'It's a pretty crazy way to make a baby.'
'Yes.'
'You already have children?'
He nodded.
'Why another, if you don't mind me asking?'
Charlie eased back. 'The other women have asked the same question. I guess the reason is that my family is sort of dying out. My son died years ago and my daughter has fertility problems.'
She looked into his face with sadness. 'But you would never see the child.'
'I know.'
'That would be, maybe, painful?'
'Maybe. But knowing a healthy child was-'
The door opened. Martha poked her head inside. 'Charlie, you have an urgent call.'
Oh, Ellie, he said to himself as he walked down the hall toward Martha's private office, please not Ellie.
'Mr. Ravich, this is Tom Anderson in Shanghai,' came a squeaky voice when Charlie picked up the phone. 'Your secretary gave me this number. I don't think we've met, sir. I'm the assistant construction engineer on your factory. I've got bad news.'
'Where's Pete Conroy?' barked Charlie, angry that he'd been scared.
'Down south trying to line up our concrete supply for the next month. He's asked me to call you because I'm on-site.'
He stared west through Martha's window, thirty stories up, high enough to see the planes swinging around into LaGuardia. 'Tell me the problem.'
'We've had a construction stoppage, sir. Let me explain that. We had a laborer killed in a scaffolding accident yesterday. A terrible thing, but in fact it was his own fault. We have scaffolding accidents every day in Shanghai. The Chinese don't have the same sort of standards-'
'It's all bamboo poles and ropes.'
'Right. So the municipal authority has shut us down. I came in this morning and saw the site posted. Had a hell of an argument with them, but you can only push so far. We couldn't get our steel in today, I had to get the trucks parked at one of our other sites, but this creates a risk. Good Japanese steel disappears in this place if you don't get it in within a few days. I've made what inquiries I can with the interpreter, and I plan to take the local codes inspector out for a drink tonight to find out what I can, but he's in the pocket of the big guys.'
I could land that, he thought, watching a 747 bank over Brooklyn. Like parking a bus. 'How legitimate is the shutdown? They have a case?'
'All the scaffolding is subcontracted to one of the same three companies, which in turn are owned, or controlled, I should say, by the municipal authorities.' Anderson was getting his words out quickly, like a kid losing air. 'I mean, there are several hundred major construction sites and thousands of smaller ones. I think it's one of two things. Either there's a war going on between the scaffolding companies, and one of them got one of their municipal people to order our shutdown-'
