Another Part of the City

9

Sunday morning, December 21. was bright, and clear, and extraordinarily mild. Nobody in New York could believe that Christmas was only four days away. Everyone began talking about the Hothouse Effect. Everyone started saying the polar ice cap was melting. Everyone began reconsidering plans made to spend the holidays in the Caribbean. New York was suddenly a nicer place to live in than it was to visit.

Except for cops.

There was only one thing worse than having to work on a Sunday, and that was having to work when the Sunday was a glorious one. Outside the old Fifth Precinct building on Elizabeth Street, men were strolling in shirtsleeves and women were wearing cotton dresses. In the squadroom upstairs, Gianelli stood at one of the grilled windows — open wide to admit air that was almost intoxicatingly balmy — and looked down into the street.

“When I was with the band,” he said to Hoffman, “I didn’t have to work on Sundays.”

“Unless there was a parade,” Hoffman said.

Reardon was sitting at his desk, the telephone receiver to his ear.

“Well, could you check the manifest for me?” he said, and listened. “What do you mean, there’s no manifest? Every airline has a manifest.”

“Parades ain’t work,” Gianelli said. “Parades are fun.”

“Would you hold it down?” Reardon said, and then, into the phone, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“People on the sidewalk cheering, and throwing confetti...”

“And throwing up,” Hoffman said.

“Uh-huh,” Reardon said into the phone.

“That wasn’t work,” Gianelli said. “This is work. This shitty squadroom is work. On a Sunday, no less.”

“Okay, thanks,” Reardon said, and put the receiver back on its cradle. “They don’t keep a manifest for the shuttle,” he said. “People just walk on and off, pay for their tickets right on the plane.”

“What’s so important about this Arab, anyway?” Gianelli said.

“Maybe nothing,” Reardon said. “Except he got shot. And I can’t find anyone who knows who the fuck he was.”

“So he shared a cab with D’Annunzio. So what?”

“You figure it was the nine o’clock shuttle, huh?” Hoffman said. “Must’ve been,” Reardon said. “They left the restaurant at eight-thirty, takes ten minutes to the airport, the last plane’s at nine.”

“And both of them got out of the cab at National, huh?”

“National Airlines?” Gianelli asked.

“No, National Airport.”

“So what airline?”

“Eastern.”

“They both got off at Eastern?”

“That’s what the cabbie told me.”

“And we know the Arab came to New York, ’cause this is where he got shot.”

“And he left his briefcase on the plane,” Reardon said.

“Which D’Annunzio picked up, and now nobody knows where it is.”

“Terrific,” Hoffman said.

“Feel like taking a ride out to La Guardia?” Reardon asked.

La Guardia Airport was thronged with traffic that Sunday morning. Sunday was a good day to see people off.

“You get a Puerto Rican going back to the island,” Hoffman said, “he takes the whole family to the airport for the big farewell scene. Grandma, Grandpa, all the aunts and uncles, the cousins, the screaming babies, they’re all outside the gate kissing this cane-cutter carrying a cardboard suitcase. You’d think the dumb fuck was goin’ off to fight the fuckin’ Russians.”

“Don’t let Ruiz hear you say that,” Reardon said.

“Fuck Ruiz, too. He prob’ly has his whole family seein’ him off at the subway station every morning.”

They parked the car in the short-term parking lot, and began walking toward the terminal.

“Place is a fuckin’ madhouse today,” Hoffman said. “I’ll bet you got people here today just came to see the planes takin’ off and landin’, you know that? Something free to do on a nice Sunday. This city, you tell a guy it’s free to jump under a subway car, he’ll do it. ’Cause it’s free. Look at all these fuckin’ people, willya?”

The taxi dispatcher outside Eastern Airlines was busy signalling to cabs and loading passengers.

“You picked a day, all right,” he told them when Reardon identified himself.

“What do you know about this Arab who came in on Eastern’s nine o’clock shuttle from Washington last Sunday night?” Reardon asked.

“Come on, you gotta be kidding,” the dispatcher said, and turned to a man and a woman standing at the curb. “Where you going, mister?” he asked.

“The Parker Meridien,” the man said.

“Manhattan?”

“Yes,” the man said.

The dispatcher signalled to the next cab in line.

“The guy got shot, it was in all the newspapers the next day, don’t you read the newspapers?” the dispatcher said. “Manhattan,” he said to the cabbie. “Parker Meridien. Load the bags fast, okay?” He turned to Reardon again. “Or you’re supposed to be a cop, don’t you talk to other cops? Who were here when the guy got shot?”

“Well, it’s a big city,” Reardon said.

“Were you working last Sunday night?” Hoffman asked.

“I was working,” the dispatcher said. “Where to, lady?”

“Brooklyn,” the woman next in line said.

The dispatcher signalled to another cab. “I usually work from four to midnight,” he said. “I took the day shift today because the other dispatcher’s home sick. I don’t know who the hell’s gonna work the night shift, because it ain’t gonna be me, I can tell you that. Brooklyn,” he said to the cabbie. “These your bags, lady?”

“Yes.”

“Two bags,” he said, “load ’em fast.”

“Were you working when the nine o’clock shuttle came in?” Reardon asked.

“Worked straight through to midnight,” the dispatcher said. “Who’s next here? There’s supposed to be a line here.”

“So what happened with the Arab?” Hoffman asked.

“Make a line here, okay?” the dispatcher said to the crowd. “I can’t help you unless you make a line. There’s no sense shoving, ’cause there ain’t no cabs right this minute, anyway. First come, first serve. Where you goin’, mister?”

“Manhattan.”

“Okay, you’re next up. soon as we get a cab here.”

“Did you see this man we’re talking about?” Hoffman said.

“Are you kidding?” the dispatcher said. “Everybody saw him. He was cornin’ out of the terminal when they opened fire on him.”

“Who?”

“Two guys in business suits, who. Who knows who? Have they been caught yet? Does anybody even know who was shot? Who. he asks me.”

“Got shot where? Right out here on the taxi line?”

“He come out of the terminal like a ship under sail, you know?” the dispatcher said. “Sheets flying in the wind. He comes over to me, is coming over to me. when bam, bam. bam, a dozen shots ring out, he’s dead before he hits the sidewalk.”

“Then what?” Reardon said.

“Then we got people scrambling in all directions, and cops all over the place, and an ambulance pulling in, and off he goes.”

“To where?” Hoffman asked.

“To Elmhurst General, is where. Here we go, mister, you said Manhattan, didn’t you?”

The three-column headline on the front page of Sunday’s New York Times read:

Beneath that, the subhead read:

The newspaper was on the desk in Phelps’s study. He kept looking at the headline as he dialed Rothstein’s number. He let the phone ring six times, seven, eight, where the hell was...?

“Hello?”

“Lowell, it’s Joe.”

“Yes, Joe.”

“What took you so long to...?”

“I was in the shower. What’s the matter?”

“Have you seen the Times?”

“No. What is it?”

“Kidd had a stroke.”

“What?”

“A stroke, a stroke, what are we going to do?”

“I’ll call Phoenix right away,” Rothstein said.

“Get back to me, will you?”

“Yes, Joe, as soon as I know what’s...”

“Lowell...”

“Joe, I’ll take care of it, okay?”

The emergency room at Elmhurst General Hospital was uncommonly crowded for a Sunday morning. One of the two interns on duty was a hawk-faced Indian with a sallow complexion and an extremely harried look. Hoffman wondered why all the goddamn interns in this city came from Calcutta. Dr. Brajabihari Hemkar — as his little nametag read — told them that Saturday night was usually their busiest time, something the detectives already knew. In this city, Saturday night was when the werewolves came out to howl and drink blood. But this was Sunday morning, 10:05 A.M. by the wall clock, and in addition to the usual number of kids who’d overturned a scalding pot of water or stuck a fork into a toaster, there were two stabbing victims and a gunshot victim, all three of whom added immeasurably to the sense of confusion in the waiting room and the harried look on Dr. Hemkar’s face.

“What is it you wanted to know?” he asked, and glanced nervously toward the entrance door where a uniformed police officer had just come in with a man who was bleeding down the left side of his head.

Neither Reardon nor Hoffman was wearing anything that would indicate they were police detectives, no shield or ID card pinned to the collar, nothing that would have told the uniformed cop they were on the job. But he recognized them at once for fellow officers, and immediately said, “His wife hit him with a baseball bat.”

“Very nice,” Hoffman said, nodding.

The man kept bleeding. His eye was swollen half-closed. Dr. Hemkar asked a nurse to get Dr. Shaffer, and then took the detectives aside and said, “I hope we can make this fast, really. As you can see...”

“Just a few quick questions.” Reardon said. “We’re trying to track down a man who was brought here from La Guardia last Sunday night. He would’ve been wearing traditional Arab...”

“Yes, what about him?” Hemkar said, and then turned to a young man who came from a room near the admissions desk. Through the open door, Reardon could see a woman lying on a table, the front of her blouse covered with blood.

“Can you take this one, Jake?” Hemkar said.

“World War III today,” the other intern said. “Come with me, please, sir.”

“His wife hit him with a baseball bat,” the uniformed cop said again.

“Thank you, officer. This way, please, sir.”

“You need me anymore?” the uniformed cop asked Hemkar.

“No, thank you, that’ll be fine,” Hemkar said, and sighed heavily, and turned to the detectives again.

“Do you remember the man?” Hoffman asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“As we understand this,” Reardon said, “it was a D.O.A., is that right?”

“Correct,” Hemkar said.

“Who was he?” Hoffman asked.

“Who knows?” Hemkar said. “There was no identification on the body.”

“No wallet?”

“No passport?”

“Nothing,” Hemkar said. “I had a nurse call the Hundred and fourteenth Precinct the moment I realized he was dead. Two detectives were here within the hour.”

“Then what?” Reardon asked.

“They called Queens General, and the morgue wagon picked up the cadaver sometime later that night. Around eleven, eleven-thirty, I think it was.”

“For autopsy?”

“As required in any trauma death.” Hemkar said, and nodded.

The Chief of Staff at Queens General Hospital was a portly little man with a white goatee and rimless eyeglasses. He sat toying with a letter opener as the detectives told him what they had learned at Elmhurst General. A triangular-shaped nameplate on his desk read DR. ERNEST PATTERSON. A mustard stain was centered like a tie tack on his blue tie.

“What we’re interested in knowing,” Reardon said, “is whether or not any bullets were recovered during autopsy.”

“We never did an autopsy,” Patterson said.

“According to Dr. Hemkar, your wagon made the pickup at...”

“Indeed,” Patterson said. “But it was forced off the road somewhere between Elmhurst and here.”

“Forced off the...?”

“Yes, sir, at gun point,” Patterson said.

“Gun point?” Hoffman said.

“Yes, sir. The body was removed from the wagon at gun point. What I’m saying, sir, is that the body never got here. It was transferred to the automobile that forced the wagon off the road.”

“What kind of automobile?” Reardon asked at once.

“I believe our driver described it as a brown Mercedes-Benz,” Patterson said.

It was ten minutes to eleven when Rothstein finally got through to Phoenix. Charles, the Kidd butler, answered the phone. Rothstein recognized the man’s voice immediately, pseudo-British, somewhat high and nasal.

“Charles,” he said, “this is Lowell Rothstein. 1 just read about...”

“Yes, Mr. Rothstein?” Charles said. “How are you, sir?”

“Fine, thank you. How’s the Captain, that’s the question. May I speak to Miss Kidd, please?”

“Miss Kidd is not taking any calls,” Charles said, and hung up.

Two doctors hovered over him, one of them taking his pulse.

Olivia sat beside the bed, holding her father’s other hand. He looked gray and gaunt. Spittle bubbled onto his lips as he spoke.

“Historically true,” he said, and nodded. “Oil through the roof, then silver and gold...”

She watched the doctor. His strong fingers on her father’s thin wrist.

“Well?” she said.

“He’s weakening, Miss Kidd. His pulse rate...”

“Then give him something!” Olivia said.

“There’s nothing more I can give him. You have to understand...”

“If you let him die...” Olivia said warningly.

“Miss Kidd, please. We’ve done everything possible. The best we can hope for now...”

“I don’t want to hear it!”

Her father chuckled.

“Kidd fire and iron,” he said. “Nothing’ll stop you, Livvie...”

He tried to sit up, fell back against the pillows again.

“Livvie?” he said.

“I’m here, Daddy.”

“Don’t go ’way,” he said.

“I won’t,” she said.

“Noise, Livvie,” he said, “so much noise in my head, I... Livvie?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Her father shuddered. She gripped his hand tightly.

“Got to do it for me, Livvie,” he said, “too much noise. Christmas Eve, nail it all down, Livvie.” He opened his eyes wide. “Livvie? Where are you?”

“Here, Daddy.”

“Wind tunnel,” he said. “Noise... voices.” He shook his head. “Silver used to be on a par with gold,” he said, and laughed. “Says so in the Bible, go read it. Could be again, who knows? Still, small potatoes, the oil’s the thing. Finish it for me. Livvie. Finish it all on Christmas... big... Christmas... big...”

His voice trailed.

“Daddy?” she said.

His eyes were still wide open.

“Daddy!” she said, alarmed.

One of the doctors shook his head.

“Oh, my God!” she said, and threw herself onto her father’s chest, holding him close and tight.

Reardon didn’t have to meet Kathy and Liz till one o’clock, when Kathy had promised he could have his daughter for lunch. On the phone, she had actually said, “You can have Liz for lunch,” which sounded cannibalistic but he hadn’t dared laugh, not at the language separation and divorce forced upon people. He was glad he had a little time. He still hadn’t shown the D’Annunzios the picture he’d got from Weissman up at the Two-Four.

Mark D’Annunzio was out, his mother didn’t know where.

She’d been crying, Reardon could see that.

She offered him a cup of coffee.

He sat at the table with her and asked her how it was going.

She told him she didn’t want to open the restaurant tomorrow. She said Christmas was on Thursday, they’d be closed then, anyway, and if they did open tomorrow they’d close early on Wednesday, wouldn’t they? Christmas Eve? So what was the sense of opening tomorrow? It was too soon, opening tomorrow. It wasn’t showing the proper respect.

Reardon told her that when his mother died, his father went to work the very next day.

He did not tell her that he’d hated his father from that day to the day he got killed by a bus on Columbus Avenue, coming out of a saloon, drunk, crossing the street against a light. Hated him all that time, and then suddenly stopped hating him. Figured him for a poor old drunk instead. Maybe a poor old drunk he loved.

“Well,” Mrs. D’Annunzio said, and sighed.

He guessed she was thinking Well, the Irish.

He showed her the picture. The picture that looked like a studio shot. Peter Dodge smiling into the camera. Not the picture with his hands tied behind his back with a wire hanger and blood all over the white tile floor. “Has this man ever been in the restaurant?” he asked.

Mrs. D’Annunzio squinted at the picture. She took her eyeglasses from the pocket of the black sweater she was wearing over a black dress, put them on, and held the picture closer to her face.

“You kidding me?” she asked.

“Do you know him?”

“Sure,” she said. “He’s the lawyer made the contract.”

“What contract?” Reardon said at once.

“For the restaurant. To buy the restaurant.”

“Peter Dodge is your lawyer?”

“Well, Ralph’s. Ralph was the one talked to him. I only met him once or twice.”

“When did you see him last?” Reardon asked.

“Not too long ago,” Mrs. D’Annunzio said. “A few days, maybe.”

“When?”

“Let me see,” she said. She was silent, thinking. “Could it be?”

“Could what be, Mrs. D’Annunzio?”

“I think he came in Monday. For lunch Monday.”

“The day your husband was killed?”

“Yes. I saw my husband talking to him, in fact. Yes. It was Monday. I’m sure.”

Their eyes met.

“Does it mean something?” she asked.

“Maybe,” he said.

They were waiting outside the Rice Bowl restaurant as agreed, mother and daughter looking very blonde and blue-eyed in the sunshine, one prettier than the other, Liz carrying a handbag like a proper lady, six years old, her face breaking into a wide grin when she saw him. Reardon walked over. He felt a little guilty about having a real lunch, even if it was only with his daughter. Usually the detectives grabbed a bite on the run. He also felt a little guilty about taking her to the Rice Bowl, where he hoped to catch Benny Wong, ask if he’d heard anything in the Chinese community. He took his daughter’s hand, held it in his own. She looked up at him shyly, like a teenager on her first date.

“You’re early,” he said to Kathy.

“You said one o’clock.”

“It’s only ten to.”

“Well... I thought... I have to drive her back to Jersey, you know, I’m working the midnight tonight. So I figured if you were a little early...”

“Sure,” Reardon said, “no problem.” He hesitated. “Why don’t you join us?” he asked.

“Thanks, no. I... uh... there are some things I wanted to look at. While Tm down here. I never get to Chinatown anymore.”

“Come on in, have a cup of tea, anyway.”

“Yeah, come on. Mommy,” Elizabeth said.

“Bry, I don’t want to make this a family get-together, okay?” Kathy said.

“A lousy cup of tea?”

“I’ll see you in an hour,” she said, and turned and walked off.

“Mommy’s getting to be a pain in the ass,” Elizabeth said.

She ordered spare ribs, egg rolls, and wonton soup. She told him that Mommy had made her promise she would eat vegetables, and she asked him to promise that he wouldn’t tell her she was eating all this good stuff instead. Benny Wong came over to the table while they were breaking open their fortune cookies.

“Got anything for me?” Reardon asked.

“Like I told you,” Wong said, “it wasn’t a Chinese thing. This your daughter?”

“Yeah,” Reardon said.

“What’s your name, honey?” Wong asked.

“Liz. What’s yours?”

Wong laughed. “Come by the counter before you leave,” he said, “I’ll give you a box of lichee nuts. You like lichee nuts?”

“I don’t know what that is,” Elizabeth said.

“That’s delicious is what it is,” Wong said. “Lichee nuts. Stop by the counter, you hear?”

As soon as he left the table, she handed Reardon the slip of paper that had been inside her fortune cookie.

“What does it say, Dad?” she asked.

“It says... you will have good news.”

“Good,” she said. “Maybe you’ll come see me for Christmas.”

“Maybe,” he said.

“Do you think so?”

“Well... I... honey. I... I really don’t think so. I think Mommy plans to spend Christmas in New Jersey. With Grandma and Grandpa.”

“So why don’t you come there, too?”

“Well, I don’t think Mommy would want me to, Liz.”

“Don’t you want to?”

“I want to, darling. With all my heart.”

“I think this is dumb,” Elizabeth said.

“Yes,” he said, “it’s dumb.”

The Six O’Clock News was on television when Reardon got to Stuyvesant Town. He had quit work at four, had called the apartment on the off chance that Kathy was home from Jersey by then, had gotten no answer, and had gone to a bar on Canal Street to have a few drinks and to chat up the barmaid, a girl with an enormous bosom and a very wide mouth. Hoffman had told Pope Mazzi the Third that the girl — whose name was Jeanine — gave blowjobs in the men’s room. Told Mazzi that was why she had such a big mouth. With such thick lips. Mazzi said it was because the girl was an octoroon, which he said was pan nigger. He couldn’t remember how many pans. Jeanine had red hair and sort of greenish eyes — hazel, Reardon guessed you would call them — and she didn’t look like any black girl Reardon knew, but maybe Mazzi was right. Or maybe Hoffman was right, maybe you could get a big mouth with thick lips from giving blowjobs in the men’s room. He was tempted to ask her if she gave blowjobs in the men’s room. He was tempted to ask her if she was a macaroon, like Mazzi said she was. He called the apartment again at five-thirty, and when Kathy answered, he hung up. Didn’t want to ask if he could come over, risk refusal, just wanted to pop in on her.

She opened the door after he’d rung the bell twice.

She was wearing a blue robe. Barefoot. Hair pulled back in a pony tail. She stood in the doorframe, blocking it. He could see the television set going in the living room. The Six O’Clock News.

“What is it?” she said.

“I want to talk to you,” he said.

“Have you been drinking?” she asked.

“I had a drink,” he said.

“You smell like a brewery.”

“Two drinks, okay?” he said. “Did you take Liz back to Jersey?”

“I took her back.”

“Do you think that’s smart, shuttling her back and forth like...?”

“I’m working tonight. Damn it, Bry, I don’t have to give you a detailed report on what I do with my own daughter.”

“May I come in, please?” he said.

“Why?”

“I’d like to come in, please.”

“Have you ever had the feeling...”

“Kathy...”

“... that you’re on a merry-go-round that just won’t stop?”

“I want to talk about Elizabeth.”

“Bry...”

“Please,” he said.

“All right,” she said, sighing. “Come in. For a minute.”

In the living room, the television newscaster was saying, “... new negotiations now under way. This would mean an increase in grain export to the Soviet Union, provided the terms of the nuclear reduction agreement are implemented as outlined.”

“Did she say anything to you this afternoon?” Reardon asked.

“She said a lot of things.”

“In Phoenix, Arizona,” the newscaster said, “the billionaire financier, Andrew Kidd, died this morning after suffering a massive stroke yesterday. He is survived by three children. Olivia Kidd — seen here at Puerto Vallarta last winter...”

Reardon glanced at the screen. A tall blonde woman wearing a bikini was standing on a balcony overlooking what he supposed was the Pacific Ocean.

“She’s six years old,” Kathy said.

“Robert Sargent Kidd, who is in New York this week...”

“She doesn’t understand...”

“Can you please turn that off?” Reardon said.

Kathy snapped off the television set. There was a long silence.

“Look,” Reardon said, “forget about me, okay? Forget how I feel about this...”

“I wish you’d let me,” Kathy said.

“Just think of her. okay? Just think of what this’s doing to her.”

“She’ll get over it. This isn’t the first time in history...”

“It’s the first time it’s happened to her, Kath. She loves us both. We’re asking her to...”

“Nobody’s asking her to stop loving us.” She went to the television set again, and dug into the handbag resting on top of it. “She’s not getting the divorce, we are,” she said, and pulled out a package of cigarettes.

“I thought you quit smoking,” he said.

“I thought so, too,” she said, lighting a cigarette, and then dropped her lighter back into the bag. She blew out a stream of smoke. “Bry,” she said, “let’s be sensible, okay? I know why you’re here, I know what you’re going to ask. For the hundredth time. But can’t you understand? It’d be worse for Liz if we stayed together. Don’t you realize that?”

“We could make it work.” he said.

“Not after what happened,” she said softly.

“That was two years ago.”

“It was yesterday!” she said sharply.

“Kathy...”

“You’re not the one who still has nightmares about it!” she said. “Look, I don’t want to talk about it, it’s bad enough I have to live with it.”

“But you don’t have to live...”

“No? How do I scrub off the filth, Bry?”

“Look, you’re right, let’s not...”

“How do I get the stink out of my nostrils? How do I forget the humiliation and the...?”

“Kathy, let’s not talk about it, okay? You know how you gel when...”

“Your friends the cops!” she said angrily, and stubbed out the cigarette. “Oh, gee. Mrs. Reardon, we’re so sorry about what happened. But did you do anything to provoke it? Were you walking in a suggestive manner, did you swing your hips, did you shake your...?”

“Kathy, honey, please, there’s no sense...”

“No sense at all, right! He runs off with a few scratches on his face — did you resist him. Mrs. Reardon, did you try to prevent what was happening — and I’m left with his fucking baby inside me!”

Silence.

Boom.

The boom of silence.

The same words again. His baby inside me. And the silence following the words.

She reached into her handbag again. She pulled out the package of cigarettes again.

“So what does a nice Irish-Catholic girl do?” she said. “Strict upbringing, bless me. Father, for I have sinned, what does she do? She has an abortion, Bry, and then she spends the rest of her life living in terror.”

She shook another cigarette free. Her hands were trembling.

“Look at this,” she said, “look what you’re doing to me. Will you please get out of here?”

He came up behind her as she searched in the bag for her lighter.

“Kathy,” he said, “what’s done is done.”

He gently touched her shoulder.

“The important thing...”

She whirled on him. her eyes blazing. A gun was in her right hand.

“Where’d you get that?” he said.

“Where do you get guns in this city?” she said. “You’re the cop. Bry, you tell me.”

“Put it down,” he said.

“No.” The gun was shaking in her fist. “I carry it in my bag all day long, and I sleep with it under my pillow at night. If any man ever comes near me again...”

“I’m not any man,” he said softly. “I’m me.”

“You’re any man,” she said. “Don’t touch me again, Bry, or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

They stood not four feet apart, staring at each other. It could be four thousand miles, he thought.

“So that’s where it’s at,” he said.

He hadn’t thought that’s where it was at. Not until now.

“That’s exactly where it’s at,” she said.

The gun was steady now. It was pointed at his head.

She’ll shoot me, he thought. Jesus, she’ll shoot me.

They kept looking at each other.

He thought. I’m a stranger to her.

“Okay,” he said at last, and started for the door.

“Don’t come back, Bry,” she said.

“I won’t,” he said.

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

He reached for the door knob. He opened the door.

“Kathy,” he said, “good luck, honey.”

He stepped into the hallway.

So softly that she could not possibly have heard him, he said, “Goodbye, honey.”