The Lost Years

42

On Wednesday morning at eight thirty Alvirah and Willy were sitting in their car parked across the street from the entrance to Lillian’s apartment opposite Lincoln Center. “There’s only one exit from the building,” Alvirah said, more to herself than to Willy, who was reading the Daily News. “I just hope the cops don’t chase us away. I’ll wait until nine, then I’ll march in and give my name to the doorman. When Lillian gets on the intercom, I’ll tell her that I have information that may save her from a stint in the pokey.”

That statement was enough to get Willy’s attention. He had been reading the sports pages and was consumed by the articles covering the closeness of the race for the division championship between the Yankees and the Boston Red Sox. “You didn’t tell me you had that kind of dirt on her,” he said.

“I don’t,” Alvirah admitted matter-of-factly. “But I’m going to make her think that I do.” She sighed. “I love the summer, but truth to tell I’m glad it’s a little cooler the last few days. You can just take so much of the ninety-five-degree weather. This outfit is light, but even with the air-conditioning it feels like a blanket.”

She was wearing a cotton pantsuit that, after the delicious and never-ending food on the cruise, was feeling a bit tight. She was also painfully aware that telltale white roots were springing up like weeds in her artfully colored red hair and that Dale of London, her colorist, was on vacation in Tortola. “I can’t believe I let it go this long, and now Dale won’t be back for another week,” she complained. “I’m starting to look like the old lady in the shoe.”

“You always look gorgeous, honey,” Willy assured her. “At least you and I have hair to worry about. Kathleen’s lawyer is a nice guy but he should get rid of those three strands he combs across his dome and cave in and just go bald. He’d look like Bruce Willis—”

Willy interrupted himself. “You’re too late, Alvirah. Lillian’s on her way out.”

“Oh, no,” Alvirah moaned as she watched the slim figure of Lillian Stewart, dressed in a lightweight running suit and sneakers, walk from the door to the sidewalk and turn right. Her shoulder bag was dangling on her left side and she was carrying something resembling a tote bag tucked under her right arm.

“Follow her, Willy,” Alvirah ordered.

“Alvirah, there’s a lot of traffic on Broadway. I don’t think I can trail her for long. I’ll keep half the buses and taxis in New York backed up behind us.”

“Look, Willy, she’s heading north. It looks as if she’s going at least another block on Broadway. Drive ahead and pull up at the corner. Everybody else around here double-parks. Why not you?”

Knowing it was useless to protest, Willy did as he was told. When Lillian reached the next block, she did not cross at the intersection but turned right.

“Oh, good,” Alvirah said, “it’s a one-way, going that way. Turn left, Willy.”

“Roger, over and out,” Willy deadpanned as he made a precariously sharp maneuver across two lanes of oncoming traffic.

At the next corner, Alvirah let out a triumphant gasp. “Look at that, Willy. She’s going into the bank. I’d bet anything she’s going to pay a visit to her safe-deposit box. Dollars to donuts, when she comes out, there’ll be something in that bag she’s carrying. Don’t forget she accepted Richard’s offer for two million dollars. Shame on both of them.”

Once again Willy double-parked, this time a few doors down from the entrance to the bank. Moments later, an unsmiling face rapped on the driver’s window. “Move along, sir, right now,” a traffic policeman ordered. “You can’t stay here.”

Willy knew he had no choice. “What do you want me to do, honey?” he asked. “There’s no place to park around here.”

Alvirah was already opening the passenger door. “Drive around the block. I’ll get out here. I’ll hide behind that fruit stand and follow her when she comes out. My guess is she’ll be heading back to the apartment or going somewhere to meet Richard. If I have to leave here before you get back, I’ll call you on the cell.”

She was gone and the traffic cop was again at the window, ordering Willy to move. “Okay, Officer, okay,” he said. “I’m pulling out.”