At the end of the table were two pictures I hadn’t seen in a long while. The smaller one was in color, though the color had faded over time. It was taken on a beach and showed a tanned fair-haired young man and a dark- haired boy pulling a dinghy out of the surf. The man was stocky and the boy was skinny and pale, and white foam swirled around their knees. The man was laughing, and muscles stood out in his arms and legs as he hauled on a dripping line; the boy gave the camera a surly stare as he tugged- halfheartedly, I recalled- at his own rope. Ned was barely twenty-four then, fresh from B-school and just starting work at Klein amp; Sons. I was no older than Billy Danes. I put the photo down and picked up the one next to it.
It was black-and-white and brittle-looking under the glass. It was of a man and woman, and they were very young. They were outdoors, walking hand-in-hand down stone steps that I knew were not far from here. The woman was small and compactly built and wore a light-colored skirt and a white sleeveless blouse. Her thick fair hair was bound behind her with a scarf. The man was tall and trim, and he wore dark trousers and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He had black hair, combed straight back, and his widow’s peak was pronounced. The woman’s face was full and pretty and there was nothing cold or reproachful in it. The man’s face was pale and angular and not at all remote. In fact, they were both smiling and their eyes were lit with… I’ve never been sure what. Happiness? Anticipation? The thrill of having kicked over all the traces? Whatever it was, they made it look glamorous and sexy and somehow conspiratorial, like they’d just swiped the Hope Diamond and were making their getaway in broad daylight. Actually, they were heading for a friend’s car, a ride to the airport, and a plane to Rome. And the job they had just pulled wasn’t a jewel heist but a City Hall wedding that neither of their families would learn about for several days to come. Her name was Elaine, his was Philip. My parents.
I heard Ned say good-bye and hang up the phone.
“It’s a great picture, isn’t it?” he said. “Janine found it a couple of weeks ago, tucked away in a drawer somewhere. You remember it?”
“I remember.”
“I didn’t. They look happy there, don’t they?” I nodded and put the picture down. Ned came around the desk, gripped my shoulder, and looked me over. He had to look up a few inches to do it. “You finished with Tyne already?” he said. “That was quick.”
“He was very forthcoming,” I said.
Ned smiled and ran a hand through his hair. “That’s great. Well, have a drink and give me your read.” He went to the wall of shelves and pushed on something and a wet bar was revealed. He fixed a cranberry and club soda for me and poured a ginger ale for himself. He carried the glasses over and looked at me expectantly.
“Mostly I think that all his other interviews were scheduled before lunch,” I said. Ned looked puzzled, and I told him my story. His expression went from disbelief, to alarm, to disgust and settled finally in astonished amusement. He shook his head.
“You think he’s still in there?” he asked.
“I’m sure Mrs. K has had him carted away by now.”
“To sleep it off with the fishes, no doubt.” Ned laughed, and looked ten years younger when he did. “You sure you won’t reconsider, Johnny? It’s really a pretty good job, you know.” I held up my hands and shook my head.
“Mrs. K would never approve,” I said. Ned smiled and nodded and rose to refill his glass. He started to say something, but his phone chimed and Mrs. K’s disembodied voice filled the room.
“Your three o’clock is early, Mr. March. They’re in the lobby.”
Ned grimaced. “Shit,” he said softly. The lines deepened around his small mouth and he looked ten years older again. “Sorry to waste your time with this Tyne guy. I’ll make sure the other two are vetted better than he was.” I nodded. “We appreciate your help with this, Johnny- it’s great working with you on it.” I nodded again. “See you Saturday, right?”
“Saturday,” I said, and left.
The conference room doors were open and I looked inside. It was empty and, but for the faint bouquet of an air freshener, you’d never know that Tyne had been there. I passed Mrs. K’s desk on my way out. She made another clicking noise and eyed me warily.
Peter Spiegelman
JM02 – Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home
8
I took a window seat at the Manifesto Diner, looking out on Eleventh Avenue and the trucks that rumbled by, northbound and south. Directly across the street was a block of low brick tenements with an adult video store, a locksmith, and a plumbing supply shop at sidewalk level. Diagonally across, to the south, was a corner of DeWitt Clinton Park. I saw some flowerless rosebushes and a pair of shirtless handball players bounding around on a concrete court. I’d ditched my jacket and tie, but I was still overdressed for the Manifesto and for the neighborhood.
Eleventh Avenue between 53rd and 54th streets is the north end of Clinton- or Hell’s Kitchen, as it used to be known. The neighborhood has a sordid and much romanticized past, full of grog houses, luckless sailors, and ravening street gangs. Its present is more prosaic. These days, Clinton is in the later stages of a remorseless gentrification, its old tenement buildings and factories giving way to residential high-rises and dramatic eateries, its population of working-class immigrants and aspiring actors squeezed ever tighter or squeezed out altogether. But despite the assault, the area’s gritty industrial roots are stubborn and still plain to see.
I didn’t know how far back the Manifesto’s history went, but it was not a newcomer. It was long and narrow, clad in metal on the outside and in chipped green Formica inside. There was a long counter with worn green vinyl stools, a row of green vinyl booths along the front window, and another set of booths in a nook at one end of the counter. The ceiling fans were still, and the place smelled of grease, ammonia, and burnt coffee.
There were two Asian women in quiet conversation at the counter, and an old guy speaking Spanish into the pay phone, and the only other people in the place at three-twenty were the counterman and the cook. A black town car was circling the block. I’d counted four trips around when it stopped out front at three-thirty.
A skinny young man in khaki pants and a dark blue button-down shirt got out of the back and stepped into the diner. He was balding and he wore his remaining hair very short- shorter even than his narrow goatee. There was an annoyed, impatient look on his face as he scanned the room. His eyes stopped at me. He walked over.
“You March?” he asked softly. I recognized the voice- Brent. I nodded. “How about moving to the back?” he said. I slid out of the booth and picked up my coffee cup. I looked at the counterman and gestured toward the back. He shrugged.
“Just a sec,” Brent said. He went out to the car. A big bald white guy in a black suit got out of the front passenger seat. Brent opened the rear door and Linda Sovitch stepped out. She took a last drag on a cigarette and tossed it in the gutter, and the three of them crossed the pavement and came inside. The big guy looked around and then stared at me. He had a face like a ham and skin the color of a turnip and he was wearing black wraparound shades. I ignored him. He and Brent sat at the counter. Sovitch came to my booth and took off her sunglasses.
She was smaller than I expected, about five-foot-two, and her features were somehow more intense out in the real world, but otherwise Linda Sovitch looked much as she did on television. She was wearing the same cream-colored jacket and the same sea-green blouse she’d worn on TV that morning; the same strand of pearls rested on her delicate clavicles. Her pale hair still fell in an artful curve, down to the base of her neck. Her lips looked, if anything, fuller, and her eyes even bluer. Besides the jacket and blouse, she wore torn faded jeans and black clogs, and a musky, flowery perfume- Shalimar, maybe. Her hands were small, with sharp pink nails, and she wore a big yellow diamond on one finger, above a platinum wedding band. I knew she was in her middle thirties, but she looked younger.
She slipped into the seat opposite me and checked her watch. “You wanted to talk about Greg?” she asked. Her voice was high but without accent, and there was nothing girlish about it. She looked me squarely in the eye.
“When’s the last time you spoke with Mr. Danes?” Might as well cut to the chase. She tilted her head a little and thought about things.
