Barneys at that end of the block.
There was something about the multistoried emporium that annoyed me profusely, not least that it was the homeland of hundred-dollar
socks and thirty-dollar bath soap. My mother always joked that she remembered old radio advertisements for it back when the
original Barney had offered two pairs of pants with every cheap suit jacket.
It now drew in the sort of hideously snippy Eurotrash Poser-
riche
I’d spent the majority of my urban life avoiding: stringy little people like that bitch at the bakery.
On the bright side, the place was a magnet for taxis.
Dean hailed one, and we tumbled gratefully into a backseat reeking of artificial pine and stale cigars.
“So tell me about the cemetery,” said Dean when we’d rolled down the windows.
He lifted his arm so I could lean in against him, then wrapped his hand around my shoulder.
“They figure the kid was about three years old. Beaten to death,” I said.
“How could they tell?”
“Well, the rib cage was all smashed in.”
His hand tightened around my shoulder when I told him about the other fractures.
“A three-year-old,” said Dean, shaking his head slowly. “And you and Cate went down to the cop station?”
“We couldn’t tell them much, and it sounds like it’s going to be pretty near impossible to figure out who it was.”
I explained about the dental records and the 40,000 unidentified dead people and everything.
I stared at the yellow NO SMOKING—DRIVER ALLERGIC sticker on the scratched Plexiglas barrier between us and the front seat, just zoning out while I thought about all that.
“This is going to stick with you,” he said, “isn’t it?”
“You know me too well.”
“You don’t have to get involved with it. More than you are already.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Bunny…”
I looked up at him.
He wrapped his hand gently around the back of my head, then kissed me.
“They play hardball here,” he said. “And the cops know what they’re doing, okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
“So let them take the risks. I want you safe. Promise?”
“Promise.”
He kissed me again even though we both knew I was lying.
The cab pulled up to the curb in front of a grubby-looking building on Mott Street. Dean handed the driver ten bucks, asking
for three back while I did my best to shake off the day’s morbid events and switch into cocktail-party-chatter mode.
This was not a transition I’d ever made easily without the dedicated consumption of numerous actual cocktails. Especially
with the moneyed Euro crowd.
I looked at my watch again: eight-fifteen. Perfect.
“Please, God,” I said, steeling myself as I stepped out of the cab and clutched Dean’s arm, “let this place have a fucking
bar.”
* * *
We descended half a floor from street level, down a curving set of steps with cheesy fake wrought-iron curlicues supporting
its flimsy banisters. Coupled with the dining room’s flocked scarlet wallpaper, I figured some ill-advised past owner had
meant to invoke Ye Olde Bourbon Street circa
The Partridge Family
.
The place had a promising Indochinese tang of anchovy and lime, but I wondered whether Astrid had suggested meeting here because
the food was decent, or because it matched some quaint conception she’d formed concerning my piteously impoverished circumstances.
Darling, you’ll adore Madeline; she’s so very… bohemian.
Maybe I should have arrived wearing a beret while coughing blood gamely into some threadbare-but-impeccably-starched handkerchief
edged in convent lace.
Then Astrid herself waved from across the room and gave me her old wicked grin and I was instantly only deeply glad to see
my dear friend, no longer fearful that the grotty choice of restaurant had meant she wanted to avoid being seen with
us
.
And, as always, every pair of eyes in the suddenly quiet restaurant was drawn to her.
I could tell you that Astrid’s thick, straight curtain of
There was something about the multistoried emporium that annoyed me profusely, not least that it was the homeland of hundred-dollar
socks and thirty-dollar bath soap. My mother always joked that she remembered old radio advertisements for it back when the
original Barney had offered two pairs of pants with every cheap suit jacket.
It now drew in the sort of hideously snippy Eurotrash Poser-
riche
I’d spent the majority of my urban life avoiding: stringy little people like that bitch at the bakery.
On the bright side, the place was a magnet for taxis.
Dean hailed one, and we tumbled gratefully into a backseat reeking of artificial pine and stale cigars.
“So tell me about the cemetery,” said Dean when we’d rolled down the windows.
He lifted his arm so I could lean in against him, then wrapped his hand around my shoulder.
“They figure the kid was about three years old. Beaten to death,” I said.
“How could they tell?”
“Well, the rib cage was all smashed in.”
His hand tightened around my shoulder when I told him about the other fractures.
“A three-year-old,” said Dean, shaking his head slowly. “And you and Cate went down to the cop station?”
“We couldn’t tell them much, and it sounds like it’s going to be pretty near impossible to figure out who it was.”
I explained about the dental records and the 40,000 unidentified dead people and everything.
I stared at the yellow NO SMOKING—DRIVER ALLERGIC sticker on the scratched Plexiglas barrier between us and the front seat, just zoning out while I thought about all that.
“This is going to stick with you,” he said, “isn’t it?”
“You know me too well.”
“You don’t have to get involved with it. More than you are already.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Bunny…”
I looked up at him.
He wrapped his hand gently around the back of my head, then kissed me.
“They play hardball here,” he said. “And the cops know what they’re doing, okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
“So let them take the risks. I want you safe. Promise?”
“Promise.”
He kissed me again even though we both knew I was lying.
The cab pulled up to the curb in front of a grubby-looking building on Mott Street. Dean handed the driver ten bucks, asking
for three back while I did my best to shake off the day’s morbid events and switch into cocktail-party-chatter mode.
This was not a transition I’d ever made easily without the dedicated consumption of numerous actual cocktails. Especially
with the moneyed Euro crowd.
I looked at my watch again: eight-fifteen. Perfect.
“Please, God,” I said, steeling myself as I stepped out of the cab and clutched Dean’s arm, “let this place have a fucking
bar.”
* * *
We descended half a floor from street level, down a curving set of steps with cheesy fake wrought-iron curlicues supporting
its flimsy banisters. Coupled with the dining room’s flocked scarlet wallpaper, I figured some ill-advised past owner had
meant to invoke Ye Olde Bourbon Street circa
The Partridge Family
.
The place had a promising Indochinese tang of anchovy and lime, but I wondered whether Astrid had suggested meeting here because
the food was decent, or because it matched some quaint conception she’d formed concerning my piteously impoverished circumstances.
Darling, you’ll adore Madeline; she’s so very… bohemian.
Maybe I should have arrived wearing a beret while coughing blood gamely into some threadbare-but-impeccably-starched handkerchief
edged in convent lace.
Then Astrid herself waved from across the room and gave me her old wicked grin and I was instantly only deeply glad to see
my dear friend, no longer fearful that the grotty choice of restaurant had meant she wanted to avoid being seen with
us
.
And, as always, every pair of eyes in the suddenly quiet restaurant was drawn to her.
I could tell you that Astrid’s thick, straight curtain of
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