Melancholy Baby

53

After I returned to Boston, I took the Acela express train to New York, and Corsetti met me in Penn Station. He took my bag and swaggered ahead of me, plowing through the crowded station as if he and I were the only ones there. His car was parked up on the sidewalk by the entrance, with its blue light flashing. He popped the trunk, put my bag in, and closed the trunk. I noticed that he had a Kevlar vest in there and a pump shotgun.

“How’d you find her,” I said in the car.

“July’s in the system,” Corsetti said. “She got into it with a parking enforcement woman giving her a ticket. Whacked her with her purse. Got booked for assault on a law enforcement officer.”

“How’d the parking woman make out?” I said.

“She was built like me, grew up in Bed-Stuy. Was kicking July’s ass by the time the local precinct guys arrived.”

“Surprised she didn’t charge meter-maid brutality,” I said.

“She did, that’s why they let her go. We won’t bust your chops for the assault charge, you forget us on the excessive-force complaint.”

We were going down Seventh Avenue with the light still turning and the siren going.

“Is there an emergency?” I said.

“Naw,” Corsetti said, “I hate poking along in traffic.”

“I gather July lives downtown?” I said.

“She lives in the Bronx,” Corsetti said, “but there’s less traffic in this direction.”

I smiled.

“Cute,” I said. “Where in fact does she live, Eugene?”

“West Village,” Corsetti said. “Twelfth Street.”

“Wherever will you park?” I said.

Corsetti glanced at me and smiled. When we got to the address, Corsetti slid his car up beside a two-zone sign on a corner near St. Vincent’s Hospital. We got out. Corsetti swaggered, and I walked, west.

“I coulda reported to you on the phone,” Corsetti said.

“I wanted to be in on it,” I said.

“Y’all come,” Corsetti said.

We crossed Hudson Street against the traffic, with Corsetti stopping the cars by holding his badge up as we crossed.

“You ever get in trouble?” I said.

“For what?”

“You know,” I said. “Using the siren when there’s no need. Stopping traffic when there’s no reason to.”

“Oh,” Corsetti said, “yeah, I do.”

The address was a two-level brownstone-and-brick townhouse between Washington Street and the river. Corsetti rang the bell. In a moment, we heard a woman’s voice over the intercom.

“Who is it?”

“Detective Eugene Corsetti, New York City Police.”

He put the emphasis on the first syllable of Eugene.

“What do you want?”

“Need to speak with you, ma’am.”

There was a security camera above the door. Corsetti took his badge out and held it up. After a moment, the door buzzed and Corsetti pushed it open. We were in a small foyer with a closed door in front of us and a stairway against the right wall. There was a woman at the top of the stairs.

“Up this way,” she said. “We do things backwards here. The bedroom is downstairs, and the living room is up.”

We went up into a big, bright, many-windowed space that looked like it had been assaulted by a decorator. Into the early-nineteenth-century building someone had stuffed enough glass, stainless steel, white wood, abstract sculpture, and ivory wall-to-wall carpet, which looked dirty next to the white wood, to furnish the Trump Tower. In the jumble of styles, textures, tones, and shapes, there seemed no comfortable place to sit.

“Nice place you got here,” Corsetti said.

July herself was wearing shiny black capri leggings and a lavender DKNY sweatshirt that was much too big. She had a lot of curly blond hair, and very bright, glossy lips. On her left hand she wore a huge diamond with a matching wedding band. Her legs were skinny.

Corsetti nodded at me.

“Sunny Randall,” he said.

“How do you do,” July said.

“What did you wish to talk with me about?” July said.

“Could we sit down?” I said.

“Oh, sure, excuse me. Come sit in the kitchen. Would you like coffee? I have some all made. What is this about?”

We sat in her kitchen, which was right out of 1956.

“We haven’t redone the kitchen yet,” she said as she poured us coffee. “I’m sorry it looks so hideous.”

We sat on one-piece stainless-steel chairs with yellow plastic cushions.

“Very homey,” Corsetti said.

“So, what do you want to talk to me about?” July said.

The coffee was very good.

“You’re a trustee of Bright Flower Charitable Foundation,” Corsetti said.

“Excuse me,” July said.

Corsetti said it again.

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

“Every month, you authorize a wire transfer from a bank in Gillette, Wyoming, to an account in Walford, Massachusetts,” Corsetti said.

“Wyoming?”

“Gillette, Wyoming,” Corsetti said. “Wellington Bank.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “I never heard of the place in Wyoming, or the bank, or the place in Massachusetts. I don’t know anything about Bright whatsis. I don’t know what to say.”

Corsetti nodded. He took out a photocopy of a wire-transfer order and showed it to her.

“That your signature?” he said.

She studied it.

“No,” she said.

“Is Mr. Fishbein at home?” Corsetti said.

“I use my birth name,” July said. “My husband’s name is Delk.”

“Delk?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Harvey Delk?” I said.

“Yes, do you know him?”

“Is he home right now, Ms. Fishbein?” Corsetti said.

“No, he is at work. Do you know him?”

“When do you expect him?” Corsetti said.

“He’s quite an important person,” she said. “He’s the manager of a very famous star.”

“Lolly Drake,” I said.

“Yes. You do know Harvey.”

I smiled.

“We’ve met.”

“When he comes home, I’ll tell him. I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“Randall,” I said. “Sonya Randall.”

“How do you know him, Ms. Randall.”

“We met casually a few days ago,” I said.

“You know,” July said. “I’m not really comfortable talking with you like this. I think you should come back when my husband is home.”

“Which would be?”

“Oh, Lord, I don’t know,” she said. “He is so busy. He often works very late.”

Corsetti took out his card.

“Ask him to call me,” Corsetti said. “We can set up an appointment.”

She took the card and didn’t say anything.

“That signature look anything like yours?” Corsetti said.

“I’d really rather wait for my husband.”

“I got my wife’s down pretty good,” Corsetti said. “I been signing her name for years.”

July was quiet.

“Most people, been married awhile,” Corsetti said, “probably do the same thing.”

July didn’t answer.

“You think?” Corsetti said.

“I really don’t know,” she said. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore. I will wait for my husband.”

“Loyalty’s a good thing in a wife,” Corsetti said.

“Or a husband,” I said.

“People should care about each other,” Corsetti said. “No husband’s gonna sign his wife’s name to something was gonna get her into trouble... is he?”

“Of course not,” I said. “Harvey wouldn’t do that, would he, Ms. Fishbein?”

July didn’t say anything. So, after giving her ample chance to do so, we stood and showed ourselves out.