Body in the Big Apple

“Where do people say he was?”

Richard signaled the waiter for more coffee. “If Fox was everywhere I’ve heard he’s been, he would have racked up enough frequent flyer coupons to last through the next millennium. California, the Pacific Northwest, the Dakotas, Minnesota, Maine, Florida—

oh, and Cuba, to name a few. Apparently, he was all set to spend his golden years with Fidel, but Nate got kicked out when he said, ‘Thank you for not smoking’

to the big guy.”

“And what about the murder weapon? According to the papers, he was shot at close range and the weapon hasn’t been found.”

Richard rubbed his chin. He was in slight, very slight need of a shave.

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“It would have been pretty stupid to leave the murder weapon behind as a calling card. If it was your average B and E, they’d have further use for it. If it wasn’t, but, rather, someone Fox knew and let into the apartment, then all the more reason to get rid of it, say in that big Dumpster known as the East River.”

“The papers haven’t said what kind of gun it was.

The police would know from the bullet. Have you heard anything?”

Morgan shook his head and then looked sharply at Faith. “Why so much interest in Fox? He wasn’t a well- known food connoisseur, to my knowledge.

Don’t tell me—your parents were in the Weather Underground and you’re actually a red-diaper baby.”

“Sorry, my father never even remembers to carry an umbrella and my diapers were as snowy white as the diaper service could make them. Mother has always believed some things are best done by others. Now come on— that business with Fox in Cuba, you were making that up.”

“I kid you not.”

Faith made a face and, terrierlike, held on to the subject. “Why do you think he wasn’t caught?”

“At first, probably because no one squealed on him, and it’s not so easy as you might think to find someone who doesn’t want to be found, even if you’re the feds.

Especially when he disappeared. Pre–cyber spying.

Then later, they had more important things to do. Better ways to spend taxpayers’ money. They probably un- loaded a bunch of dusty file folders on all those Weathermen, Yippies, pinkos, et cetera, on one poor slob and he’d make a few calls every once in a while.

Check the taps on their parents’, siblings’, old lovers’

phones. Reel somebody in by chance now and again.” 76

“Then Fox wasn’t taking much of a risk moving into the city.”

“Well, it did get him killed.”

“So you do think his murder is tied to his past?”

“Isn’t everything?”

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Four

Almost everybody was wearing black at Nathan Fox’s memorial service, which was exactly what Faith had expected. It was not from a deep sense of propriety, but because this was New York City and everybody, especially women, wore black most of the time. It wasn’t timidity; it was the acknowledgment of a universal truth. You always looked good in black—and in style.

Fox was going out in style. Going out on the Upper East Side at Frank E. Campbell’s, where anybody who was anybody had his or her service. Faith walked in under the marquee and quickly went into the building.

There was a basket of yarmulkes at the door to the chapel. They seemed at odds with the bland, goyish entry room, complete with an Early American grandfather clock. But Fox had been, if not Jewish, a Jew, and many of the men were covering their heads.

Faith slid into a seat far enough back for a good view of the audience—the mourners, she corrected herself —but close enough to hear the lines—the eulogies, that is. It had felt like a performance from the mo-78

ment she’d pulled up to the entrance, her cab nosing out one limo and pulling up behind another. The service was private, the paper had said, and no time or place was given, but Emma had called Campbell’s, posing as her father’s cousin—“He has some,” she’d told Faith—and received the information. She’d called Campbell’s because, Faith realized, it would never have occurred to Emma that there might be other possibilities. So here Faith was— waiting for the curtain to go up, or down—after getting the message from Emma the night before.

The night before. Faith had been tired, but pleasantly so. After finishing dinner at Santa Fe, Richard and she had gone to Delia’s, a newish downtown club on East Third Street. The owner was Irish, and Delia’s had a slightly Celtic air, enhanced by books on the

“auld country” scattered about. But its main charm was in its unabashed romanticism. The interior was the color of raspberry silk sashes on little girls’ party dresses. There were vases crammed with fresh roses. A vintage bar and minuscule dance floor completed the decor. Prints of elegant long-ago ladies hung on the walls.

They hadn’t danced, not this time, but talked for hours more. Then Richard had taken her back to her apartment building. At the front door, he’d asked,

“When can I see you again?” “When would you like to see me?” she’d answered, slightly muzzy from fatigue and a large cognac. Richard asked, “Tomorrow?” It woke her up instantly, a dash of cold water. This is going fast, she thought, half in fear, half in delight.

“That’s too soon. Besides, I have to work. The next day?” He kissed her, and it was a good one, not too dry, not too wet. Her purse slipped off her shoulder into the 79

crook of her arm. He slid it back into place. “I’ll call you.”

“ ‘To everything there is a season . . .’ ” Faith opened her half-closed eyes. The service had started.

It was plain by the third tribute that if she had hoped to get any clues as to Nathan Fox’s true nature, it would not be here. But she had not harbored any such hopes. Funerals and memorial services are only venues for truth in fiction, where scenes of bereavement might dramatically reveal hitherto-undisclosed feelings. In reality, most people keep their private opinions private and eulogized. True, she’d been to heart-wrenching services where the naked grief of those left behind laid bare their hearts, but it was never a surprise. The same for those stoic occasions where not a single tear was shed.

There were no tears at Fox’s service, but a great deal of talk. The dinosaurs—the remaining larger-than-life figures from the radical sixties—needed to weigh in and be counted. Radical lawyers, radical professors, radical clergy, radical writers, professional radicals.

The chapel was packed. People were standing.

Faith began to feel fidgety in the warm room. Outside, it was cloudy, with gray skies. A light snow had begun to fall earlier in the day. It was bitterly cold. Inside, the smell of wet wool, designer perfumes, the single floral arrangement of oversized stargazer lilies, and furniture polish commingled. The temperature crept up, increased by the crowd. Faith began to feel slightly nauseated.

She took off her coat and tried to concentrate on what the speaker was saying. There was no casket, no urn. The only sign of Fox’s mortal existence was a 80

large framed photograph next to the flowers. It was the same picture that had been in the Times. His smile looked less smug and mocking now, more self-deprecating, sadder. But that could just be the place getting to her. She leaned over to look directly toward the man who was sonorously droning on, and for the first time she spied Poppy, who had turned around, presumably looking for someone, or counting the house.

Poppy Morris was sitting in the middle of a row.

Protective coloration? Unlike most of those Faith could see, Poppy looked genuinely stricken. There were deep circles under her eyes that even carefully applied concealer didn’t mask. She turned her head back, face-