The Body In The Big Apple (17 page)

“He'd have to bring me a parking place, too,” Richard said ruefully.

They walked on, past Tiffany's, the windows bright but empty, the contents resting securely in the vault. A stage set waiting for the principals to arrive. Next was Trump Tower. It looked like a giant Godiva chocolate box. They stopped to gaze past the revolving door into the pink marble atrium. Faith had never seen so many poinsettias—and such enormous ones. But, like those at Saint Patrick's, they went with the place. Excessive, overblown, exorbitantly expensive, it was still a great spot to hang out, gliding up the escalators past the five-story waterfall walls. You could almost convince yourself the brass everywhere was fourteen-carat gold.

Then Steuben. Its curved crystal-clear glass window appeared not to exist at all—fooled you into thinking you could reach in and pluck one of the vases from the display or grab the Excaliber paperweight, complete with sword awaiting Arthur.

“I love New York,” Faith said. The city's ineffable magic had momentarily erased all the hideous pictures from her thoughts.

“Did you ever consider public relations? I'll bet someone in the mayor's office would be interested in a catchy phrase like that,” Richard teased.

She punched him lightly on the arm she was holding. “You know what I mean.”

They walked all the way to the New York Public Library at Forty-second Street, passing the tree at Rockefeller Center.

“Do you skate?” Richard asked.

“I skate,” Faith replied.

“Then we'll go skating when I get back.” He was, Faith noted, making the tacit assumption that they would keep on seeing each other. They were climbing the library steps. Faith patted one of the stone lions guarding the portals. They had such great Bert Lahr faces. Each had a festive wreath around its neck. Richard was smiling at her. He had a great smile—and the rest of him wasn't bad, either. They had talked about everything and anything, except themselves, and she had no idea if he was getting over a relationship, seeing a lot of other people—although he seemed to be free most nights—or had even been seriously involved before. He was thirty. It wasn't much older than she was if you simply counted the years, yet it
seemed
much older. Thirty. Don't trust anyone over it. That TV show—
thirtysomething
—she'd watched an episode and found it too self-conscious and boring. Too many whiners. But what would she be doing in six years? What would Emma be doing? Going to Washington lunches she didn't want to attend while hubby wheeled and dealed in Congress? Faith devoutly hoped so.

“A penny for your thoughts. Make that a quarter—inflation,” Richard put his arms around her. He smelled good—soap, Brooks Brothers spice cologne. It was what her first boyfriend had worn and she was still a sucker for it—and all the heady firsts it conjured up.

“Oh, I was trying to remember which lion's name is Patience and which Fortitude.” This had crossed her mind when they'd arrived at the library.

“Can't help you. It's one of those things I've forgot
ten, if I ever knew—like the words to certain Christmas carols. But I have both—patience and fortitude, that is.”

“Where did you get the rest of the Wenceslas verses? Here at the library?”

“I bought a book. It's in my apartment. Want to stop by and sing?”

As a variation on etchings, it was certainly original, and Faith realized she wanted to sing. Wanted to sing very much.

 

“Baked butternut squash soup with toasted pignolis, butterflied game hens with asparagus risotto, Bibb lettuce and radicchio with pomegranate seeds in a raspberry vinaigrette, cheese plateau, and individual chocolate mousse cakes.” Faith had arrived at work early the next morning. The soup was done and she was starting the cakes. The recitation of the menu for tonight's dinner was for Josie's benefit. She'd just come in and they were alone.

“Two questions. Anything else with the hens? Like a chutney? And, more important, where'd you get that glow? 'Cause if it comes in lotion, I want a truckload.” Josie laughed. “Never mind. Don't tell, but if it
were
a cosmetic—like those tubes of instant tan—someone would be a billionaire.”

Faith tried to look stern and professional. “Chutney's a good idea. We can offer two—one for the fire-breathers.”

As the morning wore on, she let her thoughts wander. Last night had left her more confused about her feelings for Richard than ever. He wasn't seeing anyone else. Had never been married, but he'd had a five-year relationship that had broken up last summer. It
wasn't a tell-all session, to Faith's relief. She'd run as fast as she could from men who insisted on detailing their every conquest—and every heartbreak. For her part, she simply told him she had several good male friends—guys she'd gone to school with, some she'd met since—but she'd never been seriously involved with anyone for too long. As Josie was wont to put it, “I don't hear chimes.”

As the morning passed, thoughts of Richard receded and the cast of characters occupying her life, the cast she couldn't mention, resumed their prominent roles. She'd see Lorraine tomorrow morning and ask if she could borrow the manuscript. The earth-shattering tell-all book. It had to be what Lorraine was talking about. It had to be in one of those precious stacks of memorabilia under her window seat. Obviously, there were things in it that freaked out Lorraine. Who and what had been mentioned? There was something sickening about Fuchs sitting at his shaky card table, hammering away at his old Underwood, filling sheet after sheet with his own particular venom. Faith thought of the recent craze for
Mommie Dearest
books. Fox would skewer those hostesses, Poppy for sure, as well as his comrades in the struggle. Politicians, of course, perhaps even his family. Those two cousins at his service—Irwin and Marsha. Maybe they'd taken his sand pail away on an outing to the Jersey shore. Faith had a feeling it was that kind of book. The kind of book a lonely, embittered, disappointed older man writes to get back, to point blame—anywhere but at himself—for his life. Did it mention Emma? Would he do that to his own daughter?

Faith had become convinced that Fox's Marxism consisted mainly of “To
me
according to
my
needs.”
He wouldn't have cared what kind of havoc he'd be wreaking after his death—would have positively enjoyed the prospect. If he thought about Emma at all, and possibly he did care for her, he'd have convinced himself that he was doing her a good turn—extricating her from her marriage to a major capitalist pig. Bringing Stanstead down—and who knew how many others in the pages of his book?—was what Nate Fox would have considered a magnificent legacy.

She wondered about his other literary efforts. There had been best-sellers, but in recent years his efforts had barely raised a ripple—a mention in the “Books in Brief” column of the
Times Book Review
at best. It was quite a comedown. Fox had genuinely seemed not to care about money—look at how he'd lived—but he'd cared about fame. And fifteen minutes didn't begin to be enough. He'd had it and wanted it again—even if he wouldn't be around to enjoy it. Envisioning the effect his book would have was enough—mental masturbation.

But what about his agent? Surely he cared about fortune—and fame as a result. The big advance, the multiple printings, the translations, the movie. Faith didn't have a moment to spare to see Quinn, but it was time. Past time. A blockbuster posthumous book—that was money in the bank. Joining some sizable deposits from blackmailing Fox's daughter? But would he be capable of helping his client—a client with steadily dropping sales figures—on his way to push the publication date up? “Agent from hell” was usually an appellation from the publisher's perspective. This might be a new variation. Faith resolved to call Arthur Quinn after lunch and set up an appointment as soon as possible.

Emma had mentioned finding out about Todd Hartley from a bookstore in the Village. Faith took down the Yellow Pages. It was a name you didn't forget. Sure enough, Better Read Than Dead was still alive and kicking. She looked at her watch. She had an hour before she had to meet Emma, and tonight's dinner was under control. She'd be back in time to finish up the rest of their jobs after the luncheon.

“Do you mind if I duck out again?” she asked Josie.

“It's so hard to get good help these days,” she quipped, then added, “look, Faith, I know your friend's in trouble, serious trouble, and you can't tell me about it, but whatever you need to do, just do it. I can look after things here.”

Faith threw her arms around her assistant.

“When you open that restaurant of yours, I'm going to be there every night with everyone I can think of.”

“Once, twice a week will be fine. Now, you go take care of business.”

 

Better Read Than Dead was the type of bookstore Faith loved. It was small, yet the owner had managed to wedge in several comfortable easy chairs and a couch. There were books everywhere and many had little tags on them—“Recommended by Natasha,” or “Recommended by George”—which gave a familial feel to the place, as did the large ginger cat curled up in the window. There was no cappuccino, and used books outnumbered new ones. There were no computer terminals. The cash register was original. The woman behind it was, too. She was by Botero—or Rubens. Large, lush in appearance, with a deep gold paisley scarf wound around the neck of her voluminous dark caftan, she wore several strings of amber
beads that had become tangled with the glasses resting on her large bosom. Her hair was gray and short. She was very beautiful.

“Looking for anything in particular or just browsing?” she asked. She had a slightly husky voice. Too many cigarettes? She was lighting up now. The voice reminded Faith of something. She couldn't remember now, though.

“Have you got anything by Nathan Fox?”

The woman smiled quizzically.

“I'm doing my thesis on the sixties,” Faith lied.

“Oh, that explains it.”

Faith bristled. Was it so obvious that the stack next to her bed consisted of
Gourmet, Vogue, The New Yorker,
an Alice Hoffman novel, and a book of Ellen Gilchrist's short stories?

“I had quite a run on Fox the week after he was killed, but I have plenty of books left. Got a good deal on remainders. Take your pick. Five bucks apiece. I got ten the other week, but the demand is down, so I'll give you the regular price.”

Faith felt compelled to buy one of each title. Nagging at her was the thought that the key to this whole ugly mess lay in Fox's personality, but she wondered if she'd glean much wading through his rhetoric.

“Did you know Nathan Fox?”

“We all knew Nathan Fox. But this
was
his favorite bookstore—until he became famous and started going uptown.” Natasha related this matter-of-factly. If she was bitter, she wasn't revealing it to Faith. “He used to hold court over there.” She pointed to the largest easy chair. “I can see him now. You've probably seen news videos. He could hold a room—or a stadium or a park—for hours. But I don't know why you'd want to
waste your time on him. He never contributed anything meaningful either to contemporary neo-Marxist political theory or to the movement. Nathan Fox cared about Nathan Fox—not anyone in Vietnam, Cambodia, or all the people killing themselves in dead-end jobs in this country.”

Faith wasn't surprised. She had another question, and she asked it obliquely.

“He looks very attractive in the old pictures. He was supposed to have a way with women, in particular.”

Natasha laughed. It was deep, throaty, and contagious. “He was a cocksman, if that's what you're getting at. In the beginning, he'd screw anything in skirts, except we were seriously into pants, khaki pants, in those days.” She looked at Faith. “And to answer your next question, no, he wasn't my lover, although he would have liked to have been. I started this store with a dear friend. We lived together from the day we met until the day he died last year. Nathan Fox was nothing compared to what I had. Drove him crazy. Then he went uptown—and we didn't see him so much anymore.”

So much for solidarity, Faith thought.

“I should put the books in the window,” Natasha said. “Somebody's bound to write Nate's biography now. Even before all this, somebody was around last summer asking about him.”

“A man or a woman?” Faith asked quickly.

“A man,” Natasha answered.

Faith picked up the bag of books. An interesting parcel to check at the Sherry-Netherland, her next destination.

“Did you ever meet somebody named Lorraine in those days?” Faith wasn't sure why she asked this. It just popped out.

“I don't want to talk about Lorraine. It's too sad. Now you'd better go and do whatever it is you do,” Natasha said pointedly.

Faith left the store, and looking back, she saw that the woman had flipped the sign on the door to
CLOSED
.

 

The red-walled private dining room at the Sherry-Netherland Hotel was filled with poinsettias and pine boughs—and women. The women were greeting one another with squeals of delight. Dress ran heavily toward Adolfo suits in red or green, with Faith having opted for a Betsey Johnson quilted peplum jacket and skirt in soft gray. At the last minute, she'd grabbed a felt hat with roses from Charivari. It was festive.

Emma was waving from her table, and Faith hurried over.

Doubles was a private club and an invitation to one of their holiday lunches was a coup. Fun and familial—without the complications that family events often brought. And Emma had been right: With the buzz of conversation and a spirited performance, complete with sleigh bells, by the West Side Madrigalists, they could safely talk about anything without fear of detection—especially since the seat next to Faith was empty.