railroad accident in 1888, also without living siblings and also before the birth of his son, Jon athan T Corbin the first. If that's not coincidence enough, the first Jonathan T was also a Christmas baby, born December twenty-fifth, 1888.” Lesko looked for the stiffening he'd seen at the last mention of Christmas babies and he saw it. Lesko knew that he was on to something and that whatever it was was already in his notebook. But in pieces. He stared hard at the page he was on.
“ You know what's interesting?” he said. “These Cor bins are big on holding on to family names. For example, the late Captain Whitney Corbin’s first name was his grand mother's maiden name. But nobody seemed to care about naming anyone after old Hiram Forsythe.”
“ Mr. Lesko”—Dancer reached across the table and touched his fingertips to the notebook—“I'm sure this is all very fascinating. My immediate interest, however, is in the living.”
“ If it's living Corbins you're interested in, Mr. Dancer, you're following a one-horse race. The only Corbin on rec ord to make it past sixty was old Hiram's widow, who lived to be ..,” Raymond Lesko wet a finger and began peeling to an earlier page. Again Dancer reached his hand to the notebook.
“ While I think of it, Mr. Lesko, I'll want those original notes.”
The ex-cop's brow lifted. He folded his hands over the cowhide notebook, leaving one finger to mark its place, and showed his perfect teeth. ”I don't think so, Mr. Dancer.”
” I want them, Mr. Lesko. I believe I've paid for them.”
“ You paid for information, which is what I'm feeding into that little tape recorder in your briefcase. The notebook is my property.”
” I don't choose to get into a discussion with you, Mr. Lesko.” The little man held out his palm. “I'll take it now.”
“ Behave yourself, Mr. Dancer.” Raymond Lesko's eyes turned hard.
Corbin had told her everything. All that he could. All that he knew. Gwen had helped him from the tub and wrapped him in a white terry robe and laid him down on the shag rug in front of the fire she'd built in her living room. There she sat astride his back, her fingers gently kneading the muscles of his shoulders as he talked, encouraging him, listening, trying hard to understand. She'd put on a loose nightdress that now rode up high on her thighs and she'd brushed out her hair. The room's only light came from the remains of three birch logs. The fire's warmth, her body's warmth, made the snow seem far away.
He could not speak at first. He would try a few words but then a catch would form in his throat and he would hold his breath until it left him. Gwen was patient. She reached for his third double Scotch of the evening, brought it to his lips, and waited.
Hardest of all for Corbin was knowing where to begin. He told her first of the woman he'd stalked through the snow, of the things he'd seen and heard that night, of the elevated railway station in which she'd tried to find refuge, the same elevated railroad that had begun to materialize again as he and Gwen ran for the BMT subway that after noon. He told her of the first time it snowed, the first time the city began to change. It was three months earlier. No vember. He'd stayed late in the city, a sales department meeting followed by drinks at the Warwick Bar. The next morning, that time at least, he was able to tell himself it was the work of an overtired imagination and one Scotch too many. His brain had merely replayed a street scene from some forgotten movie. Gaslight. The Magnificent Am bersons. But then it snowed again. And again.
“ Tell me about Connecticut,” she whispered. “It began there, didn't it?”
It did. And it didn't. It began, he thought, with the other woman. Margaret. It was true that the name had only just come to him, and that she'd only just begun to take shape and form, but it seemed that she had been there all his life. She was there when he was a boy. He would have a
“ You know what's interesting?” he said. “These Cor bins are big on holding on to family names. For example, the late Captain Whitney Corbin’s first name was his grand mother's maiden name. But nobody seemed to care about naming anyone after old Hiram Forsythe.”
“ Mr. Lesko”—Dancer reached across the table and touched his fingertips to the notebook—“I'm sure this is all very fascinating. My immediate interest, however, is in the living.”
“ If it's living Corbins you're interested in, Mr. Dancer, you're following a one-horse race. The only Corbin on rec ord to make it past sixty was old Hiram's widow, who lived to be ..,” Raymond Lesko wet a finger and began peeling to an earlier page. Again Dancer reached his hand to the notebook.
“ While I think of it, Mr. Lesko, I'll want those original notes.”
The ex-cop's brow lifted. He folded his hands over the cowhide notebook, leaving one finger to mark its place, and showed his perfect teeth. ”I don't think so, Mr. Dancer.”
” I want them, Mr. Lesko. I believe I've paid for them.”
“ You paid for information, which is what I'm feeding into that little tape recorder in your briefcase. The notebook is my property.”
” I don't choose to get into a discussion with you, Mr. Lesko.” The little man held out his palm. “I'll take it now.”
“ Behave yourself, Mr. Dancer.” Raymond Lesko's eyes turned hard.
Corbin had told her everything. All that he could. All that he knew. Gwen had helped him from the tub and wrapped him in a white terry robe and laid him down on the shag rug in front of the fire she'd built in her living room. There she sat astride his back, her fingers gently kneading the muscles of his shoulders as he talked, encouraging him, listening, trying hard to understand. She'd put on a loose nightdress that now rode up high on her thighs and she'd brushed out her hair. The room's only light came from the remains of three birch logs. The fire's warmth, her body's warmth, made the snow seem far away.
He could not speak at first. He would try a few words but then a catch would form in his throat and he would hold his breath until it left him. Gwen was patient. She reached for his third double Scotch of the evening, brought it to his lips, and waited.
Hardest of all for Corbin was knowing where to begin. He told her first of the woman he'd stalked through the snow, of the things he'd seen and heard that night, of the elevated railway station in which she'd tried to find refuge, the same elevated railroad that had begun to materialize again as he and Gwen ran for the BMT subway that after noon. He told her of the first time it snowed, the first time the city began to change. It was three months earlier. No vember. He'd stayed late in the city, a sales department meeting followed by drinks at the Warwick Bar. The next morning, that time at least, he was able to tell himself it was the work of an overtired imagination and one Scotch too many. His brain had merely replayed a street scene from some forgotten movie. Gaslight. The Magnificent Am bersons. But then it snowed again. And again.
“ Tell me about Connecticut,” she whispered. “It began there, didn't it?”
It did. And it didn't. It began, he thought, with the other woman. Margaret. It was true that the name had only just come to him, and that she'd only just begun to take shape and form, but it seemed that she had been there all his life. She was there when he was a boy. He would have a
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