New York Dead

Chapter 31

Stone filed into the huge room with at least three hundred other aspirants to the bar of New York State, burdened like the rest with course materials, his bank account lighter by the substantial tuition. For eight hours, with a one-hour break for lunch, the instructor drilled the class, and Stone found the lectures to be well organized, to the point, with the fat trimmed away. The volume of material was daunting; when the day ended, he felt as if he’d been beaten up.

Back at home, he called Cary. “I’m near death,” he said, “but my incipient corpse is yours for the evening, if you want it.”

“I’d love to have it, but I’m stuck again,” she replied. “Friday night’s ratings were terrific, for a documentary, and we’re brainstorming after hours all week to come up with ideas for six more specials.”

“Shit.”

“I know, but you should be concentrating on passing the bar instead of lusting after me. You can lust after me on Saturday, though. Around here, not even Barron Harkness works on a Saturday.”

“You’re on. I wish I didn’t have to wait so long.”

“The law is a jealous mistress, remember?”

“Thank you, Madame Justice Hilliard.”

“Until Saturday.”

“You’d better get ready for this,” he said. “On Saturday, I’m going to tell you I love you.” He could hear the smile in her reply.

“It’s beginning to sound like a perfect weekend.”

Stone hung up, then checked the messages on his machine.

“It’s Dino, Stone. I didn’t know anything about that stuff that was going on. It was Leary’s doing, maybe at the suggestion of somebody upstairs. I just wanted you to know that. Take care of yourself.”

“Stone, this is Bill Eggers. I’m stuck in LA for at least another ten days – unforeseen circumstances, I believe the term is. It means all hell has broken loose on my case, and I’m going to be putting out fires until pretty near the end of next week, so we’ll have to postpone dinner. You impressed Woodman at dinner the other night, and he isn’t easily impressed. I’ll call you in a couple of weeks.”

“This is Abbott Wheeling, Stone. I enjoyed our conversation at dinner the other night. It occurred to me that, in light of subsequent events, you might be willing to talk about the Nijinsky case for publication. Should you feel that way, either now or at any time in the future, I’d be grateful if you’d call me at the Times. I can promise you that your views on the case will get the sort of serious public attention that only this newspaper can command. I won’t pester you about this, but please be assured of my continuing interest.”

Stone endured a moment’s temptation to call Wheeling and tell him everything, but the moment passed, and he returned to putting as much emotional distance as possible between himself and the Nijinsky case and the suicide of Hank Morgan.

He made himself some supper and resumed his varnishing of the bookshelves, trying to let his mind run over the day’s lecture. He was surprised at the familiarity of the material after so many years, and he was encouraged to think he might pass the bar exam after all.

On Saturday night Elaine gave Stone and Cary a table next to the piano. Stone liked piano music, and he was particularly enjoying the way Lauren was playing Rodgers and Hart. When they had finished dinner, Elaine joined them.

“Remember that guy, Doc? At the bar awhile back? The diagnostician?”

“Yeah. In fact, I saw a lot of him during the Nijinsky thing.”

“We had a weird thing in here with him last night. He was playing doctor with some little girl at the bar, and they left together, and, a minute later, she’s back in here, nearly hysterical. She said Doc had tried to muscle her into a van, and she was scared to death.”

“Did you call the precinct?”

“Nah, it didn’t seem as serious as that. I gave her a brandy and calmed her down; she didn’t want to take it any farther. I’m going to throw the bum out the next time he walks in here, though.”

“He wrote Sasha Nijinsky a thousand or so letters over the past couple of years.”

“No kidding?”

“It didn’t get in the papers, but we had a look at his place and where he works. He’s an embalmer for a funeral parlor, you know.”

“He’s not a doctor?”

“Nope. He did graduate from medical school, but he was never licensed. I thought the guy was harmless, but when he starts trying to drag girls into vans, well…”

“He’s never setting foot in here again,” Elaine said emphatically.

In bed, Cary seemed tired and distracted, and their lovemaking was brief and perfunctory, something that had never happened before. The extra work seemed to be getting her down, and, God knew, Stone was tired himself. Eight hours a day of class and another four of varnishing was wearing him down.

On Sunday morning, Cary ate her breakfast listlessly. “Are you as zonked as I am?” she asked.

“Yeah. It’s okay; we’re both under the gun at the moment.”

“Thanks for understanding. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all week, and now I’m a wreck.”

“It’s okay, really it is.”

“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go home and try to get some sleep this afternoon.”

He did his best to hide his disappointment. “Next Saturday?”

“Absolutely.”

The next Saturday was much the same.

Another letter came from the bank, this time a flat-out demand. Stone, his back against the wall now, called a real estate agent.

“I think it’s wonderful what you’re aiming at for the place,” she said, “but I guess you know what the New York residential property market is like right now. In good times, with the place finished and ready to move into, we might get three, three and a half million for this house. Right now, for an immediate sale, we might be lucky to get three hundred thousand.”

Stone was shocked. “Is the market that bad?”

“It is. Listen, you’re lucky; at least you’d get something out of a sale. I’ve got clients with perfectly beautiful town houses who are being forced to sell for far less than they paid, and they’re having to pay off the rest of the mortgage out of savings.”

Bright and early on a Monday morning, Stone presented himself to be examined for admission to the bar of New York State, along with about fifteen hundred others. Like everyone else, he labored over the questions. There were occasional gaps in his knowledge, but, on the whole, he thought he did well; certainly, he aced the questions on criminal law. Now there was only the waiting.

He got home feeling enormously relieved. He had finished his study for the bar and the varnishing of the library at the same time. Now, if Cary could just get a break in her work schedule, maybe they could…

The phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Bill Eggers.”

“Hi, Bill.”

“How’d you do today?”

“How’d you know?”

“I have spies everywhere.”

“Well, I did okay on criminal law, at least.”

“Good. How about dinner tomorrow night?”

“Fine.”

“The Four Seasons, at eight thirty?”

“Sounds good.”

“Don’t bring anybody. It’s just you and me.”

“If you promise not to put your hand on my knee.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not cute enough. By the way, I might have some news for you.”

“What sort of news?”

“Let’s wait and see.”