agreed there. That’s the first thing that crossed my mind when you called this morning. Seems fairly obvious David’s recruiting again. He’s using this opportunity—and you—to make himself indispensable to Colin.”
“But you’re not.”
“Jesus, Amanda. What’s it going to take to convince you I don’t want him back? I’ll always have an interest in his welfare but, as I told Laurel, I do not want to be responsible for it.”
“Okay, okay,” she says without looking convinced. She’s not convinced he should chauffeur her to the airport, either.
He overrides that argument by pretending he didn’t register the objection, then pretends he doesn’t already know her Brooklyn address when he tells her to write it down. “Expect me at seven-thirty,” he says. “Look for a dark blue sedan.”
Releasing Amanda into the throngs entering the Worldport terminal at Kennedy must be like watching your kid get on the bus for her first day of school. But a kid would have received the extra reassurance of a hug and a kiss. As Amanda disappears from view, Nate regrets not giving her more than a brusque handshake—make that ridiculous handshake—when they said goodbye at curbside. And he could have said more than just goodbye; he could have let her know she’s a lot more than a factotum, no matter who she finds herself working for.
These omissions nag him all the way back to the city and halfway up the west side. He’s north of 42 nd Street before they’re replaced with nagging reminders of theories and suspicions deemed crackpot only a few days ago, and now resurgent because of Rayce Vaughn’s improbable suicide. If that can be believed, then anything’s possible.
NINE
Midday, April 15, 1987
The move from the sleazy North Bergen high-rise motel to the better place on Route 22 takes up most of the morning. When the job’s done, Hoop ponders dropping in on Audrey. The new lodgings are in the same neighborhood as the storage place, but he resists the urge. He’s not ready to share the recent news with her, and he won’t be till his understanding’s better and he’s gained more distance from the fearful drunken toot he went on in the backwash of smashed hope and queered opportunity.
He’s not ready to give much thought to the money wasted by walking out on the paid-ahead arrangements at the North Bergen motel, but that maybe puts him one step closer to admitting he’s got money to burn and a quick means of getting more if it ever comes to that.
Although he can afford a sit-down lunch in a regular restaurant, he’s brought a Blimpie lunchmeat sandwich and a big jug of Coke back to his room at the Speedwell Motor Lodge for the noonday meal. He sets it out on the desk, along with the composition book and pens retrieved from the gym bag before it was locked and stowed away. He opens the notebook to the last entry—written yesterday while he was still under the weather and full of black thoughts—and starts a new page. Wednesday, April 15, 1987, he sets down in block print and then in standard writing begins noting what all was learned from television and a wide sampling of newspapers collected during the past twenty-four hours.
Because he’s heard it so many times by now, he can recount almost word for word the music television report of the superstar drug death over there in London, England. And since he’s seen the name printed in both supermarket-type papers and the more believable kind that fold crosswise, he knows he’s getting it right when he spells out R-a-y-c-e V-a-u-g-h-n with underlining. Underlining, because once he started paying better attention than he did the night of the drinking, the name stood out for being the same as the one related to Colin Elliot’s arrest for scuffling with the jackassed-fool of a photographer. Hoop takes a bite of sandwich and a long swig of Coke while thinking over what else should be recorded as significant and winds up underlining a full page of
“But you’re not.”
“Jesus, Amanda. What’s it going to take to convince you I don’t want him back? I’ll always have an interest in his welfare but, as I told Laurel, I do not want to be responsible for it.”
“Okay, okay,” she says without looking convinced. She’s not convinced he should chauffeur her to the airport, either.
He overrides that argument by pretending he didn’t register the objection, then pretends he doesn’t already know her Brooklyn address when he tells her to write it down. “Expect me at seven-thirty,” he says. “Look for a dark blue sedan.”
Releasing Amanda into the throngs entering the Worldport terminal at Kennedy must be like watching your kid get on the bus for her first day of school. But a kid would have received the extra reassurance of a hug and a kiss. As Amanda disappears from view, Nate regrets not giving her more than a brusque handshake—make that ridiculous handshake—when they said goodbye at curbside. And he could have said more than just goodbye; he could have let her know she’s a lot more than a factotum, no matter who she finds herself working for.
These omissions nag him all the way back to the city and halfway up the west side. He’s north of 42 nd Street before they’re replaced with nagging reminders of theories and suspicions deemed crackpot only a few days ago, and now resurgent because of Rayce Vaughn’s improbable suicide. If that can be believed, then anything’s possible.
NINE
Midday, April 15, 1987
The move from the sleazy North Bergen high-rise motel to the better place on Route 22 takes up most of the morning. When the job’s done, Hoop ponders dropping in on Audrey. The new lodgings are in the same neighborhood as the storage place, but he resists the urge. He’s not ready to share the recent news with her, and he won’t be till his understanding’s better and he’s gained more distance from the fearful drunken toot he went on in the backwash of smashed hope and queered opportunity.
He’s not ready to give much thought to the money wasted by walking out on the paid-ahead arrangements at the North Bergen motel, but that maybe puts him one step closer to admitting he’s got money to burn and a quick means of getting more if it ever comes to that.
Although he can afford a sit-down lunch in a regular restaurant, he’s brought a Blimpie lunchmeat sandwich and a big jug of Coke back to his room at the Speedwell Motor Lodge for the noonday meal. He sets it out on the desk, along with the composition book and pens retrieved from the gym bag before it was locked and stowed away. He opens the notebook to the last entry—written yesterday while he was still under the weather and full of black thoughts—and starts a new page. Wednesday, April 15, 1987, he sets down in block print and then in standard writing begins noting what all was learned from television and a wide sampling of newspapers collected during the past twenty-four hours.
Because he’s heard it so many times by now, he can recount almost word for word the music television report of the superstar drug death over there in London, England. And since he’s seen the name printed in both supermarket-type papers and the more believable kind that fold crosswise, he knows he’s getting it right when he spells out R-a-y-c-e V-a-u-g-h-n with underlining. Underlining, because once he started paying better attention than he did the night of the drinking, the name stood out for being the same as the one related to Colin Elliot’s arrest for scuffling with the jackassed-fool of a photographer. Hoop takes a bite of sandwich and a long swig of Coke while thinking over what else should be recorded as significant and winds up underlining a full page of
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