Vince and Pete are fine with that.
BEFORE I GO TO SLEEP, I CALL LAURIE.
At times like these, I like to tell her what I’m thinking, so she can tell me what I’m really thinking.
This time I reveal that I’m getting semi-obsessed with the Timmerman murders, even though I know very little about the circumstances and only barely knew one of the victims. “It must be because I was almost a victim myself,” I say.
“Or because you’re anxious to get back to work,” she says.
“Excuse me?”
“Andy, when you’re working on a case, you’re engaged intellectually in a way that’s unlike any other time. I think you need that more than you like to admit.”
“That’s crazy. I had a very satisfying intellectual discussion with Vince and Pete tonight at Charlie’s.”
“I can imagine,” she says. “What did you talk about?” “Faulkner and Hemingway.”
“What about them?
“Vince said neither of them can hit the curveball, and Pete said that Vince is an asshole.”
Laurie laughs, probably as appealing a sound as exists in the world. Then, “I’m serious, Andy. I’m not telling you to get involved in this case, other than to take care of Waggy, but I do think it might be a good idea for you to get back to work.”
By the time I wake up in the morning, I’ve decided that it’s possible Laurie knows what she’s talking about. I place a call to Steven Timmerman at the number that was in the records the court provided me. He answers the phone himself, which for some reason surprises me.
I tell him that I’m trying to determine the proper home for Waggy, and that while I know this is a tough time for him personally, he should let me know when he would be ready to meet with me.
“How about today?” he asks.
I’m fine with that, and I tell him so. He asks where I would like to meet, and I suggest his home. Since I might wind up putting Waggy there, I want to get a sense of what it’s like.
He tells me where he lives, and I’m not pleased when I learn that it’s in New York City. I love the city, but it’s my least favorite place in the world to drive.
Waggy a city dog? I don’t think so.
I find a parking place at 89th Street and West End Avenue. The Upper West Side is the part of Manhattan I like best; it has the excitement and pace of the city, but with the feel of a real neighborhood. Just by walking on the street you know that real life is being lived there.
Steven lives on the fourth floor of a brownstone between Riverside Drive and West End on 89th. There is nothing pretentious about it at all, though I’m sure that it’s expensive, real estate prices being what they are.
I’m not put off by the fact that there is no yard for Waggy to ultimately run around in. Many people have the mistaken notion that dogs shouldn’t live in apartments, because they therefore won’t get exercise. The truth is that dogs don’t go outside by themselves to do calisthenics; they have their needed physical activity when their owners take them out. New York has dog owners as good as anywhere in the country. You only need to take a walk through Central Park to realize that.
I ring the buzzer at the street level, and Steven’s voice comes through the intercom. “Come on up,” he says.
“Okay. Where’s the elevator?”
“There isn’t any. The stairs are on your left.”
“It’s a walk-up?” I say, trying to mask my incredulity.
He laughs; I guess I’m not real good at incredulity-masking. “Yes. I hope that’s okay.”
“It’s fine,” I lie.
Waggy a walk-up dog? I don’t think so.
The inside of Steven’s apartment is as unassuming as the exterior. My guess is that he didn’t put a dent into his father’s fortune by decorating this place.
He shakes my hand when I enter and notices that I’m still out of breath from the three flights of stairs. “Sorry about the stairs,” he says. “I’m used to it, but most people aren’t.”
“No problem,” I gasp. “You mind if I borrow your oxygen tent?”
He laughs and gives me a chance to catch my breath. While I’m doing so, I notice that there are a number of pictures of Steven and his father, but images of his late stepmother are nowhere to be found. One of the pictures, in which Steven appears to be no more than ten years old, includes the now destroyed house in Alpine.
He sees me staring at it and says, “I guess we got out just in time, huh?”
“That’s for sure,” is my less-than-clever retort. The incident has left me a little shaken, and seeing the house triggers that feeling again.
“I loved that house. I guess you always love the house you grew up in. You feel that way?”
I nod. “I do. That’s why I’m still living in it.”
“I envy you,” he says. Then: “You feel like a slice of pizza? There’s a place on Broadway that’s the best in the city.”
Now he wants me to go back down the stairs? “Why didn’t you suggest that before I climbed Mount Brownstone?”
“I figured you wanted to see my place, because hopefully Waggy will be living here soon. Now that you’ve seen it, we can talk over pizza,” he says. “Or we can stay here; whatever you like.”
I opt for the best pizza in the city. The stairs on the way down fortunately turn out to be far easier to navigate than the same stairs on the way up.
I think it’s a gravity thing.
NEW YORK HAS BY FAR THE BEST PIZZA in the world.
This is not a debatable issue among serious-minded pizza eaters, of which I am one. And not only is the pizza the best, but it is everywhere. There are apparently thousands of pizzeria owners who have mastered the art, and they’ve all chosen to gather on this tiny piece of real estate called New York City. If you live here and throw a dart out your window, you will hit a great piece of pizza.
What is bewildering to me is why it has come to this. I can’t imagine there is anything about the ingredients or expertise necessary to make New York pizza that would disintegrate if transported across city or state lines. Why doesn’t one of these pizza geniuses set up shop in Teaneck? Or Philadelphia? Or Omaha? They would throw parades for him; he would be presented with ceremonial keys to those city’s ovens and hailed as an unchallenged genius.
Instead they fight among themselves for a small “slice” of the pizza market, and the rest of the country is left to munch on pizza that comparatively tastes like cardboard soap.
Steven takes me to Sal and Tony’s Pizzeria, on Broadway and 101st Street. Either Sal, or Tony, or both, are truly artists, the pizza is beyond extraordinary. They serve the slices on those cheap, thin, paper plates that cannot even support the weight of the slice, but that’s okay. They clearly are investing their money in the proper place, in the pizza.
Steven starts telling me about Waggy, though he admits he doesn’t know very much. Waggy is the only son of Bertrand, a Westminster champion who was widely regarded as the finest show dog this country has ever produced. Bertrand died suddenly in his sleep about a year ago, an event that sent the dog show world into mourning.
“What about his mother?” I ask.
“Another dog in my father’s stable. I think she did some shows for a while, but Bertrand was the star of the family. Apparently they all hoped that Waggy would follow in his father’s footsteps.”
“They?” I ask. “Not you?”
He grins. “Personally, I don’t give a shit. I think a dog should be a dog, not a performer. Waggy should have
