to help.” Who else would do that? Try to help? Matt thought, suddenly very near, uncomfortably near, to a truth about himself, his life, that he had been avoiding for a long time. He looked into Jade’s eyes for a second, thanking her with his own, softened now by this truth, and then down at her beautifully sculpted hands, ivory-yellow, the nails a deep brilliant crimson, resting on the briefcase on her lap.
“I owe you for your time,” he said, looking up. “Send me a bill.”
“No, Matt. I really appreciate that you thought of me. It was only a few hours.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“I’ll buy you dinner.”
“No, I’ll buy you dinner.”
“We’ll go Dutch.”
“Sure, call me.”
While they were talking, a flock of pigeons, a hundred or so strong, had gathered on the asphalt walkway nearby. After Jade left, Matt sat and watched an old black guy feed them peanuts from a five-gallon spackle container on the bench next to him. In the man’s lap was a faded paperback copy of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations , with the same yellow cover as the one Matt had on a shelf in his apartment. Matt sat, mesmerized, watching. As he had been mesmerized by Jade’s hands.
Basil al-Hassan, swiftly crossing the Atlantic in his private jet, had come to the rescue. Everett Stryker, the super lawyer with a firm of three hundred attorneys at his beck and call, had been hired, and was issuing orders; his retainer probably 500K. He had only been half joking when he told Jade that Michael would soon be back in his mother’s arms. They were too close, those two. And they had defeated him. When Michael was a boy, Matt, recently separated from Debra, had lived close to Union Square, on 17 th Street. He had a dog, a mutt with a mangled eye, named Popeye, that he and Michael took to the dog run in the park, which Matt could see from where he sat. Popeye got old and sick, and Matt had to put him down. Michael was sixteen at the time and barely noticed. Michael.
Matt rose to leave, and as he did he saw the black man raise his right hand, index finger extended, pointing at him. It was a slow but surprisingly commanding gesture: stop, it said, hold on a second.
“Yes?” Matt said, staring into a pair of tired, yellowed eyes.
“Have you read Marcus Aurelius?” the man asked.
Matt noticed for the first time that the man’s wrinkled brown hands, his pant legs, and his battered work shoes were covered with white paint or, more precisely, white paste—spackle. He had been working and was finished for the day, or taking a lunch break.
“Yes, I have,” Matt answered.
“You should read him again. You don’t want your anger to turn to despair, or self-pity.” The old man nodded, dismissing Matt, and reached into his bucket, coming out with a handful of peanuts. These he flung at the pigeons, watching passively as they scrambled for them, many of them devouring them shells and all.
Chapter 6
Locust Valley,
Wednesday, February 25, 2009,
1:00AM
Bob Davila and Nick Loh sat in their unmarked car looking at the shadowy outline of the mansion located at 211 Piping Rock Road in Locust Valley. From their vantage point, a knoll on the grounds of the Piping Rock Country Club golf course across the street, they had an unobstructed view of the large house’s winding driveway leading on a graceful curved incline to its front entrance on the left and a detached five-car garage on the right. The fountain in the middle of the rolling, snow-covered front lawn, with three dolphins suspended in mid-jump above it, was not spewing water. It was the dead of a late February night, and 20 degrees Fahrenheit.
On the console between them were two large empty thermoses that, three hours ago, were filled with hot coffee. Taped to the dashboard were three-by-five color photographs of two young Arab men, one bald with heavy-lidded eyes, the other with a thick head of wiry hair and a hooked nose. Suspect 1 was written across the bottom of
“I owe you for your time,” he said, looking up. “Send me a bill.”
“No, Matt. I really appreciate that you thought of me. It was only a few hours.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“I’ll buy you dinner.”
“No, I’ll buy you dinner.”
“We’ll go Dutch.”
“Sure, call me.”
While they were talking, a flock of pigeons, a hundred or so strong, had gathered on the asphalt walkway nearby. After Jade left, Matt sat and watched an old black guy feed them peanuts from a five-gallon spackle container on the bench next to him. In the man’s lap was a faded paperback copy of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations , with the same yellow cover as the one Matt had on a shelf in his apartment. Matt sat, mesmerized, watching. As he had been mesmerized by Jade’s hands.
Basil al-Hassan, swiftly crossing the Atlantic in his private jet, had come to the rescue. Everett Stryker, the super lawyer with a firm of three hundred attorneys at his beck and call, had been hired, and was issuing orders; his retainer probably 500K. He had only been half joking when he told Jade that Michael would soon be back in his mother’s arms. They were too close, those two. And they had defeated him. When Michael was a boy, Matt, recently separated from Debra, had lived close to Union Square, on 17 th Street. He had a dog, a mutt with a mangled eye, named Popeye, that he and Michael took to the dog run in the park, which Matt could see from where he sat. Popeye got old and sick, and Matt had to put him down. Michael was sixteen at the time and barely noticed. Michael.
Matt rose to leave, and as he did he saw the black man raise his right hand, index finger extended, pointing at him. It was a slow but surprisingly commanding gesture: stop, it said, hold on a second.
“Yes?” Matt said, staring into a pair of tired, yellowed eyes.
“Have you read Marcus Aurelius?” the man asked.
Matt noticed for the first time that the man’s wrinkled brown hands, his pant legs, and his battered work shoes were covered with white paint or, more precisely, white paste—spackle. He had been working and was finished for the day, or taking a lunch break.
“Yes, I have,” Matt answered.
“You should read him again. You don’t want your anger to turn to despair, or self-pity.” The old man nodded, dismissing Matt, and reached into his bucket, coming out with a handful of peanuts. These he flung at the pigeons, watching passively as they scrambled for them, many of them devouring them shells and all.
Chapter 6
Locust Valley,
Wednesday, February 25, 2009,
1:00AM
Bob Davila and Nick Loh sat in their unmarked car looking at the shadowy outline of the mansion located at 211 Piping Rock Road in Locust Valley. From their vantage point, a knoll on the grounds of the Piping Rock Country Club golf course across the street, they had an unobstructed view of the large house’s winding driveway leading on a graceful curved incline to its front entrance on the left and a detached five-car garage on the right. The fountain in the middle of the rolling, snow-covered front lawn, with three dolphins suspended in mid-jump above it, was not spewing water. It was the dead of a late February night, and 20 degrees Fahrenheit.
On the console between them were two large empty thermoses that, three hours ago, were filled with hot coffee. Taped to the dashboard were three-by-five color photographs of two young Arab men, one bald with heavy-lidded eyes, the other with a thick head of wiry hair and a hooked nose. Suspect 1 was written across the bottom of
Similar Books
