if he goes wandering off? He thought how nice it would be if his father had a friend, and he caught himself daydreaming guiltily about the things he could do if he had more time to himself.
Sam was thinking: This having to be driven everywhere, accompanied—it was a nuisance . For all the many things that he forgot, he seldom forgot that he was in the way. A burden. His son worked too hard. Was lonely. Needed friends, a woman. Needed time to find those things. Maybe Sam could still discover something of his own, a place to go, a way to keep his dignity and his distance. It would be better for everybody.
They reached the Paradiso complex—three long squat buildings cradling a pool and a putting green and tennis courts and a gazebo—a perfect little swath of Florida across the road from the Atlantic Ocean. Aaron parked. Father and son walked up to an iron gate and punched in Bert d'Ambrosia's number on the intercom. A buzzer buzzed and the gate swung open.
Bert met them at the pool. He was wearing a mustard-colored linen shirt with big rough buttons made of bone, and he was holding his dog like the dog was a football. Everybody said a nice hello, but Aaron felt awkward, shy; felt, absurdly, like a parent at a prom. Eager to go, he said to his father, "So you'll call me later? The number's in your wallet."
Bert said, "Don't expect him soon. What if we find a couple broads or something?"
Sam said of his new friend, "A regular comedian."
Aaron patted his father's shoulder then turned his back on the two gray men and the moribund chihuahua. But crazily, as soon as he began to move away, he found his steps were weighted down with grief. It was a brilliant sunny morning. Nothing was wrong, everyone was fine. But as he walked back toward the iron gate he just felt torn apart. Loss. A strange word. It seemed to mean an absence, something missing; but loss was also a presence all its own, a fanged and snarling monster ready at any moment to break its chain and snatch someone away.
The condo gate swung open at Aaron's approach, started swinging closed again as soon as he had passed. It clicked shut with a terrible finality, like the school door on the first day of kindergarten. Aaron grabbed a deep breath to open up his throat. He thanked God he had no children of his own. He didn't know how anyone could stand the love and sorrow of doors clicking shut on both sides all at once.
"Peter," Suki said, "how do you get into the database?"
Peter Haas, the restaurant reviewer, looked up from his computer screen. He had lank sandy hair and owlish horn-rim glasses, and he'd been trying to decide whether a certain chocolate terrine was better described as ambrosial or celestial. He tried to look a little bit annoyed though he was relieved to be interrupted. "What do you want to look up?" he asked.
Suki bit her lip, the upper one. She said, "Just, you know, in general. How to use it."
"There's no category just-in-general." Peter said. "You've got to plug something in."
Suki said, "Okay. Pick something."
"You pick," Peter said.
"Okay," said Suki. "How about... how about, um ... Russian Mafia?"
"Russian Mafia?" said Peter, and he looked at her over the tops of his glasses. "Hm. Would we look that up under Mafia or Russian?"
"This is what I'm asking you," said Suki.
"Maybe just crime," said the restaurant reviewer. "Or organized crime."
"Look, how do you get started?" Suki asked. "I mean, just get into the system?"
"Might still be under Soviet Union," Peter said. "Breakup of. Or even Cold War, aftermath of."
"Maybe we should start with something simpler," Suki said.
"Could be cross-referenced," Peter said, "with individual crimes—extortion, murder."
Suki leaned lower over Peter Haas's chair. "All I really want to know—" she began. Then she straightened up and said, "Oh shit. I smell Donald."
The restaurant reviewer sniffed the air, which second by second was becoming fouled with the approach of a cheap cigar. The
Sam was thinking: This having to be driven everywhere, accompanied—it was a nuisance . For all the many things that he forgot, he seldom forgot that he was in the way. A burden. His son worked too hard. Was lonely. Needed friends, a woman. Needed time to find those things. Maybe Sam could still discover something of his own, a place to go, a way to keep his dignity and his distance. It would be better for everybody.
They reached the Paradiso complex—three long squat buildings cradling a pool and a putting green and tennis courts and a gazebo—a perfect little swath of Florida across the road from the Atlantic Ocean. Aaron parked. Father and son walked up to an iron gate and punched in Bert d'Ambrosia's number on the intercom. A buzzer buzzed and the gate swung open.
Bert met them at the pool. He was wearing a mustard-colored linen shirt with big rough buttons made of bone, and he was holding his dog like the dog was a football. Everybody said a nice hello, but Aaron felt awkward, shy; felt, absurdly, like a parent at a prom. Eager to go, he said to his father, "So you'll call me later? The number's in your wallet."
Bert said, "Don't expect him soon. What if we find a couple broads or something?"
Sam said of his new friend, "A regular comedian."
Aaron patted his father's shoulder then turned his back on the two gray men and the moribund chihuahua. But crazily, as soon as he began to move away, he found his steps were weighted down with grief. It was a brilliant sunny morning. Nothing was wrong, everyone was fine. But as he walked back toward the iron gate he just felt torn apart. Loss. A strange word. It seemed to mean an absence, something missing; but loss was also a presence all its own, a fanged and snarling monster ready at any moment to break its chain and snatch someone away.
The condo gate swung open at Aaron's approach, started swinging closed again as soon as he had passed. It clicked shut with a terrible finality, like the school door on the first day of kindergarten. Aaron grabbed a deep breath to open up his throat. He thanked God he had no children of his own. He didn't know how anyone could stand the love and sorrow of doors clicking shut on both sides all at once.
"Peter," Suki said, "how do you get into the database?"
Peter Haas, the restaurant reviewer, looked up from his computer screen. He had lank sandy hair and owlish horn-rim glasses, and he'd been trying to decide whether a certain chocolate terrine was better described as ambrosial or celestial. He tried to look a little bit annoyed though he was relieved to be interrupted. "What do you want to look up?" he asked.
Suki bit her lip, the upper one. She said, "Just, you know, in general. How to use it."
"There's no category just-in-general." Peter said. "You've got to plug something in."
Suki said, "Okay. Pick something."
"You pick," Peter said.
"Okay," said Suki. "How about... how about, um ... Russian Mafia?"
"Russian Mafia?" said Peter, and he looked at her over the tops of his glasses. "Hm. Would we look that up under Mafia or Russian?"
"This is what I'm asking you," said Suki.
"Maybe just crime," said the restaurant reviewer. "Or organized crime."
"Look, how do you get started?" Suki asked. "I mean, just get into the system?"
"Might still be under Soviet Union," Peter said. "Breakup of. Or even Cold War, aftermath of."
"Maybe we should start with something simpler," Suki said.
"Could be cross-referenced," Peter said, "with individual crimes—extortion, murder."
Suki leaned lower over Peter Haas's chair. "All I really want to know—" she began. Then she straightened up and said, "Oh shit. I smell Donald."
The restaurant reviewer sniffed the air, which second by second was becoming fouled with the approach of a cheap cigar. The
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