talking and you have so much in common.” As she
spoke, her hands made delicate movements in the air. Her fingers
were long and fine. The nails were manicured and covered with clear
polish.
“We became good friends. As a matter of fact,
she was probably like the best friend I’ve ever…”
Suddenly, out of the blue, she started to
cry. Her body shuddered with the sobs. She put her face in her
hands and bawled like a schoolgirl.
Just then the waitress came by. The woman
grunted again, but this time in sympathy. “There, there,” she said.
She put the food on the table and shot a dirty look at me. It was a
look that would have made Attila the Hun crap in his britches. She
patted Rachel on the shoulder and asked, “Is everything all right,
sweetie?”
Rachel managed a small nod and a sniffle.
That seemed to satisfy the witch and she shuffled away again. It
took a couple of minutes for Rachel to pull herself together. She
dabbed at her eyes with a tissue using short, quick strokes.
When she got back to normal, she attacked her
burger with a ferocity that had to come from some primordial swamp.
She didn’t even bother to put ketchup on the meat.
We both finished eating and stared at each
other. Something cold and distant quickened behind her eyes. I
touched her hand. I wanted to feel her skin. She didn’t move her
hand but she bit her lip. There was a long silence. She didn’t
lower her gaze this time.
“I want you to lead me through Alicia’s
life,” I said finally. “Tell me everything you know about her. What
she did. Who she saw.”
I stared into those deep dark eyes. “Will you
do that for me?”
She finally cast her eyes down. “Yes,” she
said softly.
CHAPTER X
Outside the coffee shop, we turned north and
walked up Fifth. At that time of night, there wasn’t anybody on the
street. When we reached Fourteenth Street, she reached out and held
my hand as we walked. That little gesture surprised the hell out of
me. Christ, no one had held my hand since the sixth grade. Her hand
felt as small as a child’s.
It was the kind of night that was perfect for
walking. Cool and clear. It almost made the city look good. At a
certain hour, and in a certain kind of light, New York was like a
hooker who can trick you into thinking she’s passably fuckable.
As we walked, Rachel told me about Alicia.
About her conversion to feminism, her joining some kind of Earth
Mother cult, her visits to a psychiatrist who held a bizarre
fascination for her. When she talked about the shrink, her tone
took on a strange animation.
There was hardly anybody around on Fifth in
the Twenties and Thirties. We passed darkened showrooms and grimy
office buildings, some with bums passed out in the doorways. An
occasional taxi would slow down as it passed to ask if we wanted a
ride, but I waved them on.
There were a few more people on the streets
when we hit the Forties. And there were always the Senegalese
hawking Rolexes for ten dollars and Hermes scarves. Mostly, I let
her do the talking, but I stuck in a question now and then. She was
good at sorting out the details and highlighting what she thought
were the important parts. When I asked her where Alicia got the
coke, she gave me a blank stare. I told her if I could nail the
supplier, I’d have a few more answers. That didn’t seem to impress
her a hell of a lot.
Fifth Avenue had more people when we reached
the Fifties. Some of the stores were open. Mostly electronic
rip-off joints that reamed the tourists.
As she spoke, I got a sense that she wanted
to help but that she wasn’t opening up completely. And I couldn’t
tell if what she was holding back was worth anything.
The streets became deserted again in the
Sixties. We crossed Madison and walked north a couple of blocks
past small overpriced boutiques and then turned left on Park.
She told me about Chisolm and Stallings, or
at least how Alicia had described them. Then she said that Alicia
had told her she would
spoke, her hands made delicate movements in the air. Her fingers
were long and fine. The nails were manicured and covered with clear
polish.
“We became good friends. As a matter of fact,
she was probably like the best friend I’ve ever…”
Suddenly, out of the blue, she started to
cry. Her body shuddered with the sobs. She put her face in her
hands and bawled like a schoolgirl.
Just then the waitress came by. The woman
grunted again, but this time in sympathy. “There, there,” she said.
She put the food on the table and shot a dirty look at me. It was a
look that would have made Attila the Hun crap in his britches. She
patted Rachel on the shoulder and asked, “Is everything all right,
sweetie?”
Rachel managed a small nod and a sniffle.
That seemed to satisfy the witch and she shuffled away again. It
took a couple of minutes for Rachel to pull herself together. She
dabbed at her eyes with a tissue using short, quick strokes.
When she got back to normal, she attacked her
burger with a ferocity that had to come from some primordial swamp.
She didn’t even bother to put ketchup on the meat.
We both finished eating and stared at each
other. Something cold and distant quickened behind her eyes. I
touched her hand. I wanted to feel her skin. She didn’t move her
hand but she bit her lip. There was a long silence. She didn’t
lower her gaze this time.
“I want you to lead me through Alicia’s
life,” I said finally. “Tell me everything you know about her. What
she did. Who she saw.”
I stared into those deep dark eyes. “Will you
do that for me?”
She finally cast her eyes down. “Yes,” she
said softly.
CHAPTER X
Outside the coffee shop, we turned north and
walked up Fifth. At that time of night, there wasn’t anybody on the
street. When we reached Fourteenth Street, she reached out and held
my hand as we walked. That little gesture surprised the hell out of
me. Christ, no one had held my hand since the sixth grade. Her hand
felt as small as a child’s.
It was the kind of night that was perfect for
walking. Cool and clear. It almost made the city look good. At a
certain hour, and in a certain kind of light, New York was like a
hooker who can trick you into thinking she’s passably fuckable.
As we walked, Rachel told me about Alicia.
About her conversion to feminism, her joining some kind of Earth
Mother cult, her visits to a psychiatrist who held a bizarre
fascination for her. When she talked about the shrink, her tone
took on a strange animation.
There was hardly anybody around on Fifth in
the Twenties and Thirties. We passed darkened showrooms and grimy
office buildings, some with bums passed out in the doorways. An
occasional taxi would slow down as it passed to ask if we wanted a
ride, but I waved them on.
There were a few more people on the streets
when we hit the Forties. And there were always the Senegalese
hawking Rolexes for ten dollars and Hermes scarves. Mostly, I let
her do the talking, but I stuck in a question now and then. She was
good at sorting out the details and highlighting what she thought
were the important parts. When I asked her where Alicia got the
coke, she gave me a blank stare. I told her if I could nail the
supplier, I’d have a few more answers. That didn’t seem to impress
her a hell of a lot.
Fifth Avenue had more people when we reached
the Fifties. Some of the stores were open. Mostly electronic
rip-off joints that reamed the tourists.
As she spoke, I got a sense that she wanted
to help but that she wasn’t opening up completely. And I couldn’t
tell if what she was holding back was worth anything.
The streets became deserted again in the
Sixties. We crossed Madison and walked north a couple of blocks
past small overpriced boutiques and then turned left on Park.
She told me about Chisolm and Stallings, or
at least how Alicia had described them. Then she said that Alicia
had told her she would
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