Body in the Big Apple

perhaps even his family. Those two cousins at his service—Irwin and Marsha. Maybe they’d taken his sand pail away on an outing to the Jersey shore. Faith had a feeling it was that kind of book. The kind of book a lonely, embittered, disappointed older man writes to get back, to point blame—anywhere but at himself—

for his life. Did it mention Emma? Would he do that to his own daughter?

Faith had become convinced that Fox’s Marxism consisted mainly of “To me according to my needs.” 174

He wouldn’t have cared what kind of havoc he’d be wreaking after his death—would have positively enjoyed the prospect. If he thought about Emma at all, and possibly he did care for her, he’d have convinced himself that he was doing her a good turn—extricating her from her marriage to a major capitalist pig. Bringing Stanstead down— and who knew how many others in the pages of his book?—was what Nate Fox would have considered a magnificent legacy.

She wondered about his other literary efforts. There had been best-sellers, but in recent years his efforts had barely raised a ripple—a mention in the “Books in Brief ” column of the Times Book Review at best. It was quite a comedown. Fox had genuinely seemed not to care about money—look at how he’d lived—but he’d cared about fame. And fifteen minutes didn’t begin to be enough. He’d had it and wanted it again—

even if he wouldn’t be around to enjoy it. Envisioning the effect his book would have was enough—mental masturbation.

But what about his agent? Surely he cared about fortune—and fame as a result. The big advance, the multiple printings, the translations, the movie. Faith didn’t have a moment to spare to see Quinn, but it was time. Past time. A blockbuster posthumous book—

that was money in the bank. Joining some sizable de-posits from blackmailing Fox’s daughter? But would he be capable of helping his client—a client with steadily dropping sales figures—on his way to push the publication date up? “Agent from hell” was usually an appellation from the publisher’s perspective.

This might be a new variation. Faith resolved to call Arthur Quinn after lunch and set up an appointment as soon as possible.

175

Emma had mentioned finding out about Todd Hartley from a bookstore in the Village. Faith took down the Yellow Pages. It was a name you didn’t forget. Sure enough, Better Read Than Dead was still alive and kicking. She looked at her watch. She had an hour before she had to meet Emma, and tonight’s dinner was under control. She’d be back in time to finish up the rest of their jobs after the luncheon.

“Do you mind if I duck out again?” she asked Josie.

“It’s so hard to get good help these days,” she quipped, then added, “look, Faith, I know your friend’s in trouble, serious trouble, and you can’t tell me about it, but whatever you need to do, just do it. I can look after things here.”

Faith threw her arms around her assistant.

“When you open that restaurant of yours, I’m going to be there every night with everyone I can think of.”

“Once, twice a week will be fine. Now, you go take care of business.”

Better Read Than Dead was the type of bookstore Faith loved. It was small, yet the owner had managed to wedge in several comfortable easy chairs and a couch. There were books everywhere and many had little tags on them—“Recommended by Natasha,” or

“Recommended by George”—which gave a familial feel to the place, as did the large ginger cat curled up in the window. There was no cappuccino, and used books outnumbered new ones. There were no computer terminals. The cash register was original. The woman behind it was, too. She was by Botero—or Rubens. Large, lush in appearance, with a deep gold paisley scarf wound around the neck of her volumi-nous dark caftan, she wore several strings of amber 176

beads that had become tangled with the glasses resting on her large bosom. Her hair was gray and short. She was very beautiful.

“Looking for anything in particular or just brows-ing?” she asked. She had a slightly husky voice. Too many cigarettes? She was lighting up now. The voice reminded Faith of something. She couldn’t remember now, though.

“Have you got anything by Nathan Fox?” The woman smiled quizzically.

“I’m doing my thesis on the sixties,” Faith lied.

“Oh, that explains it.”

Faith bristled. Was it so obvious that the stack next to her bed consisted of Gourmet, Vogue, The New Yorker, an Alice Hoffman novel, and a book of Ellen Gilchrist’s short stories?

“I had quite a run on Fox the week after he was killed, but I have plenty of books left. Got a good deal on remainders. Take your pick. Five bucks apiece. I got ten the other week, but the demand is down, so I’ll give you the regular price.”

Faith felt compelled to buy one of each title. Nagging at her was the thought that the key to this whole ugly mess lay in Fox’s personality, but she wondered if she’d glean much wading through his rhetoric.

“Did you know Nathan Fox?”

“We all knew Nathan Fox. But this was his favorite bookstore—until he became famous and started going uptown.” Natasha related this matter-of-factly. If she was bitter, she wasn’t revealing it to Faith. “He used to hold court over there.” She pointed to the largest easy chair. “I can see him now. You’ve probably seen news videos. He could hold a room—or a stadium or a park—for hours. But I don’t know why you’d want to 177

waste your time on him. He never contributed anything meaningful either to contemporary neo-Marxist political theory or to the movement. Nathan Fox cared about Nathan Fox—not anyone in Vietnam, Cambodia, or all the people killing themselves in dead-end jobs in this country.”

Faith wasn’t surprised. She had another question, and she asked it obliquely.

“He looks very attractive in the old pictures. He was supposed to have a way with women, in particular.” Natasha laughed. It was deep, throaty, and conta-gious. “He was a cocksman, if that’s what you’re getting at. In the beginning, he’d screw anything in skirts, except we were seriously into pants, khaki pants, in those days.” She looked at Faith. “And to answer your next question, no, he wasn’t my lover, although he would have liked to have been. I started this store with a dear friend. We lived together from the day we met until the day he died last year. Nathan Fox was nothing compared to what I had. Drove him crazy. Then he went uptown—

and we didn’t see him so much anymore.” So much for solidarity, Faith thought.

“I should put the books in the window,” Natasha said. “Somebody’s bound to write Nate’s biography now. Even before all this, somebody was around last summer asking about him.”

“A man or a woman?” Faith asked quickly.

“A man,” Natasha answered.

Faith picked up the bag of books. An interesting parcel to check at the Sherry-Netherland, her next destination.

“Did you ever meet somebody named Lorraine in those days?” Faith wasn’t sure why she asked this. It just popped out.

178

“I don’t want to talk about Lorraine. It’s too sad.

Now you’d better go and do whatever it is you do,” Natasha said pointedly.

Faith left the store, and looking back, she saw that the woman had flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED.

The red-walled private dining room at the Sherry-Netherland Hotel was filled with poinsettias and pine boughs—and women. The women were greeting one another with squeals of delight. Dress ran heavily toward