“It doesn’t?”
“Think about it, Matt.”
“She didn’t know about Donna.”
“No.”
“She didn’t even pick it up subliminally, because we haven’t spent any time together since then. We’ve barely even talked on the phone.”
“Right.”
“I’m just looking for a way for it to be my fault.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I went to the midnight meeting last night.”
“Probably didn’t hurt you.”
“Probably not. I think I’ll spend most of the weekend in meetings.”
“Not a bad idea.”
“SoHo meets tonight. I think I’ll go somewhere else.”
“Good thinking.”
“Jim? I’m not going to drink.”
“Neither am I,” he said. “Isn’t that great?”
I went to meetings throughout the weekend, but I was in my room Saturday afternoon just long enough to get a phone call.
It was Joe Durkin. “I don’t even know if this is worth passing on,” he said, “but you were brooding about that mugging in Gramercy, and I thought you’d like to know it was just what it looked like. A mugger who didn’t know his own strength.”
“They got the guy?”
“In the act,” he said. “Well, not in the act of hitting your guy. Saperstein?”
“Sattenstein.”
“Close enough. He wasn’t the first person mugged in that part of town, just the first who died from it, so they used a decoy from Street Crimes, put him in plain clothes, poured some booze on him, and had him walk around looking like he was half in the bag.”
“I don’t know why I never got assignments like that.”
“It must have been a treat,” he said, “to see the look on the skell’s face when the perfect victim showed him a badge and a gun. What I hear, they’re about to clear ten or a dozen cases. Guy’s confessing to everything they’ve got.”
“Including Sattenstein?”
“ ‘Oh, the poor man who was killed? No, that one I didn’t do.’ But he’ll cop to it too, by the time he gets to court. His lawyer’ll see to that. Get everything listed in the plea agreement so there’s nothing left to come back at you later on.”
Sometimes things were just what they appeared to be. Gregory Stillman hanged himself, Mark Sattenstein got killed by a mugger.
I got out of there and headed off to another meeting.
Sunday afternoon I went to a meeting in a synagogue on Seventy-sixth Street a few doors west of Broadway. I’d never been there before, and when I walked in my first impulse was to turn around and walk out again, because Donna was there. I stayed, and we were cordial to each other, and she thanked me again for helping her out the previous Saturday, and I said I’d been happy to help, and it was as if we’d never been to bed together.
I met Jim for our usual if-it’s-Sunday-this-must-be-Shanghai dinner, and we didn’t talk about Jan or Donna or the state of my sobriety. Instead he did almost all of the talking, telling stories from his own drinking days, and back before his first drink, back in his childhood. I got caught up in what he had to say, and it wasn’t until later that I realized he’d purposely avoided discussing what was going on in my life these days. I couldn’t decide whether he was giving me a break or just trying to spare himself, but whatever it was, I was grateful.
We went to St. Clare’s, and then I walked him home and went home myself. Jacob was behind the desk, looking confused. I asked him what was the matter.
“Your brother called,” he said.
“My brother?”
“Or maybe it was your cousin.”
“My cousin,” I said. I was an only child. I had a couple of cousins, but we’d long since lost touch with one another. I couldn’t think of one who was likely to call.
“It was a man,” he said. “Have to be, if it was your brother, wouldn’t it?”
“What exactly did he say?”
“Says he calling Mr. Scudder. I ask would he like to leave his name. Scudder, he says. Yessir, I know it’s Mr. Scudder you calling, but what would your name be? So he say it again, Scudder, and I’m feeling like them two guys.”
“Which two guys?”
“You know. Them two guys.”
