New York Dead

Chapter 39

The rest of the weekend was awful. Stone felt ill and stayed in bed, getting up only to make soup and bring in the newspapers. He couldn’t concentrate on the papers, and, for the first time in months, the house did not intrude into his thoughts. He thought of nothing but Cary.

He tried to think of something else, but nothing worked. Sunday sports on television were a blur; the news meant nothing; he couldn’t keep his mind on the book review or the Sunday magazine. The crossword puzzle worked for a few minutes, but every time he stopped to think, Cary popped into his head – Cary and the awful photograph in his overcoat pocket.

She had lied to him from the beginning; the married man in her life had always been Harkness; Stone had been just a diversion. As Sunday wore on, Stone began to find a way to deal with his thoughts of her; he hardened himself, belittled the weeks they had had together, made her unimportant. By Monday morning a scab was beginning to form on the wound. He would force it to heal.

On Monday morning a gossip columnist in the News had the story:

The Barron Harknesses are calling it a day, after more than twenty years together and two children. We hear the ice age crept up on the marriage long ago, and the split is just a final acknowledgment of reality.

Insiders say that Barron is being uncommonly generous, that Charlotte Harkness is getting both the house in Easthampton and the ten-room Fifth Avenue digs, where Barron has long been chairman of the cooperative’s board.

We hear, too, that as part of their agreement, a certain other apartment owner has to leave the building immediately, surely a new wrinkle in divorce settlements.

Since Barron has never been seen squiring ladies around town, speculation on his paramour centers on the Continental Network – insiders figure it must be somebody at the office. Watch this space.

Stone threw the newspaper at the wall, then concentrated on forming the scab again. The phone rang.

“Hi, it’s Bill. I just wanted to let you know that the outcome of Friday night’s little opus has been most satisfactory for my client.”

“I read the item in the news,” Stone said. “I’m happier than you know that it worked out so well for her.” He did his best to mean this.

“Woodman is delighted, too. He was very, very nervous about your being involved in something like this, and it’s unlikely he’ll want to do it again soon, but he asked me to express his gratitude.”

“Tell him I was glad to be of help.”

“I’ve got nothing on my plate at the moment that I might need you for, so take it easy for a while. Why don’t you take a vacation? The islands or someplace?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got a lot more work to do on the house; I’ll use any free time for that. I have to get an office together, too.”

“Right, whatever you say. I’ll let you know when I have something else for you.”

Stone hung up and glanced out the window. A moving van had pulled up outside, and furniture was being loaded into it. Feldstein was moving out of the downstairs professional suite. That suited Stone fine; he’d need the space now.

For the rest of the week, Stone turned his attention to the study. When the books had all been unpacked, dusted, and arranged on the shelves, he waxed the floor, then unrolled the beautiful Aubusson carpet that had come back from cleaning. He got the old desk, now refinished, back in its place, then hung two of his mother’s paintings, along with some of his great-aunt’s pictures. By Saturday, the room gleamed, but it looked as though someone had always lived in it.

Stone spent a month on the professional suite, ripping out the partitions Feldstein had installed for his treatment rooms, hiring a plumber to replace the old pipes, ducting the new central heating into the space, and stripping and refinishing the original oak paneling. He finished up with a reception room and two offices, plus a storeroom for a copying machine and supplies. He had a discreet brass plate made for the front door that read THE BARRINGTON PRACTICE. He would install it when news of his passing the bar exam came.

He began thinking about a secretary, but, before he could place an ad, Bill Eggers came up with someone who wanted to return to Woodman amp; Weld after raising children. She was a plump, motherly woman named Helen Wooten, very bright and capable, and she suited his needs perfectly. Not having much else for her to do yet, he put her in charge of his personal finances and the construction costs on the house. She began saving him money immediately.

Bill Eggers arranged a three-hundred-thousand-dollar mortgage on the house that let him pay off his old bank loan and gave him the funds to complete work and furnish the house and office.

Three months passed. Cary never called.

Every couple of weeks he had dinner with Dino, usually at Elaine’s. Elaine liked Dino; he made her laugh.

“Stone,” Dino said one evening, “you’re not going to believe this.”

“What?”

“I’m thinking of getting married.”

“You’re right, I don’t believe it.”

“A girl from the neighborhood. We know each other since grammar school.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Mary Ann Bianchi, a good Italian girl.”

Stone turned to Elaine. “He’s hallucinating.”

“I think you’re right,” Elaine said. “It must be the Sambuca; he’s had too much.”

“I kid you not,” Dino said. “Will you stand up for me, be my best man?”

“I know what this is,” Stone said to Elaine, “it’s an elaborate practical joke. I’ll turn up for the wedding, and the whole 19th Precinct will be there, laughing like hell, because I believed this ridiculous story.”

“Stone, I swear to God, I’m doing it. We already got the church booked. I bought her a ring, for Christ’s sake.”

“You stole it from the evidence room.”

Dino looked wounded. “I paid cash money. I know a guy in the Diamond District.”

“This means you can’t bring any more girls in here, Dino,” Elaine said.

“Don’t worry, Mary Ann would kill me in my sleep. She’s Sicilian.”

“You’re in a lot of trouble,” Stone said, “but sure, I’ll stand up for you.”

“It’s a week from Sunday,” Dino said.

“That’s moving pretty quick,” Elaine said.

Dino shrugged. “So, it’ll be a seven-month kid, so what? Happens all the time in my neighborhood.”

Elaine waved at a waiter. “Bring a bottle of champagne, the good stuff. Dino’s got a lot to celebrate, here.”

They celebrated.

Elaine looked at Stone closely. “You’re looking almost human these days,” she said. “A few weeks ago you looked like death.”

“Hard work on the house,” Stone said. “I’m getting used to it.”

“He’s getting over the broad,” Dino said.

“Ahhhh,” Elaine said.

“You’re right,” Stone agreed, “I am.” And he was, except for an occasional spear through the heart, when he thought about her. He had stopped thinking at all about Sasha Nijinsky and Hank Morgan.

On the Friday morning before Dino’s wedding, Stone received a letter. He recognized the handwriting immediately.

Dear Stone,

Please pardon the familiarity, but, although we’ve never met, our lives have been so intertwined that I feel you are a friend.

I’m sorry that my problems at least indirectly resulted in your leaving the police force, but I understand that you are now doing well. I saw your name in the Times, on the list of those who had passed the bar exam.

I think, perhaps, the time is coming when we should meet. Maybe you would come to dinner sometime soon? It would be so nice to meet you, at last.

I’ll be in touch.

Best,

S.