time. His mind continued to wander.
They drove in silence for a long time. They must have been heading south because at one point they passed the Fire Museum. Harper hadn’t been there for the better part of thirty years, but still recalled it vividly. Perhaps he drifted away at some point, because it seemed that, as they drew to a halt, he opened his eyes. He couldn’t remember closing them.
‘You hang in there, John,’ Cathy said, and squeezed his hand with her pianist’s fingers, and John Harper sort of half smiled and closed his eyes in slow-motion like a sunbathing lizard on a New Mexico rock, and then the back door of the car was open and Cathy was leading him out and across the sidewalk, and Uncle Walt Freiberg was standing there smiling, but there was something in his eyes that said everything that needed to be said about the real reason for their long-overdue reunion.
The old guy – the one that was both a friend and a thirty-year-absent father, well he was laid up in St Vincent’s connected to everything they possessed and then some, and he was going to die.
‘Who was the man?’ Harper asked eventually, and the words slurred from his lips like the memory of an unpleasant taste.
‘Man?’ Freiberg asked. He frowned and shook his head. ‘What man Sonny?’
Don’t call me Sonny
, Harper thought.
I’m thirty-six years old. I was Sonny when I was a little kid
. Thought it, but didn’t say it. What he did say was, ‘The one in the hospital. The one that was there when we went up in the elevator.’
Freiberg snorted contemptuously. ‘Asshole cop!’ he snapped, and then he laughed again. ‘It was nothing John, absolutely nothing . . . now let’s get inside here, it’s cold.’
Harper followed Cathy. She walked beside Freiberg and they entered a narrow-fronted Cantonese restaurant. Harper glanced over Cathy’s shoulder. They were down near the east corner of Tribeca, on Sixth. Inside it was warm, welcoming almost, and Harper realized how hungry he was.
‘We sit, we talk, we eat,’ Freiberg said. He started to remove his overcoat. The maitre d’ approached them, smiling, hand out to greet Freiberg like a long-lost.
‘Mr Fleeberg,’ he cooed, and Uncle Walt was talking, laughing, walking with the guy to a small table at the back of the room, and before Harper knew it he was up tight and close beside Cathy, the pressure of her leg against his, the smell of her perfume, the awareness that there now seemed to be an altogether different reason for being in New York. She turned and put a glass of sake in his hand. Uncle Walt was laughing louder and telling some anecdote he’d heard about Elvis in Las Vegas and an impersonation contest.
Surreal, disconnected from anything even remotely close to reality, John Harper sat and listened, and every once in a while he talked, but in all honesty he felt he didn’t really have a great deal of anything to say. Felt like the world had closed in on him, a world he never chose to belong to, a world that just came rushing right at him without respite.
He thought of Miami, catastrophe by the sea; of the islands, of the shoals of blackfin tuna, of the waves of frigate birds, and thesmell – the once-in-a-lifetime smell of salt, seaweed, fish and mangrove swamps. He thought of pirates and Ponce de Leon, the Dry Tortugas, the footprints of turtles, the reefs, the clear water, the citrus, the coconut . . .
Such things as these, a hundred million miles from the dark streets of New York just before Christmas.
Later, how much later he didn’t know, Walt came from somewhere and sat down facing him.
‘I called Evelyn,’ he said, and he smiled. He smiled like when Harper was a kid and he came visiting with gifts. ‘I called her and said we’d be taking care of you tonight. You have money John?’
Harper merely looked back at Walt Freiberg with a blank expression.
Freiberg nodded, buried his hand inside his jacket, and was then pushing a wad of notes into
They drove in silence for a long time. They must have been heading south because at one point they passed the Fire Museum. Harper hadn’t been there for the better part of thirty years, but still recalled it vividly. Perhaps he drifted away at some point, because it seemed that, as they drew to a halt, he opened his eyes. He couldn’t remember closing them.
‘You hang in there, John,’ Cathy said, and squeezed his hand with her pianist’s fingers, and John Harper sort of half smiled and closed his eyes in slow-motion like a sunbathing lizard on a New Mexico rock, and then the back door of the car was open and Cathy was leading him out and across the sidewalk, and Uncle Walt Freiberg was standing there smiling, but there was something in his eyes that said everything that needed to be said about the real reason for their long-overdue reunion.
The old guy – the one that was both a friend and a thirty-year-absent father, well he was laid up in St Vincent’s connected to everything they possessed and then some, and he was going to die.
‘Who was the man?’ Harper asked eventually, and the words slurred from his lips like the memory of an unpleasant taste.
‘Man?’ Freiberg asked. He frowned and shook his head. ‘What man Sonny?’
Don’t call me Sonny
, Harper thought.
I’m thirty-six years old. I was Sonny when I was a little kid
. Thought it, but didn’t say it. What he did say was, ‘The one in the hospital. The one that was there when we went up in the elevator.’
Freiberg snorted contemptuously. ‘Asshole cop!’ he snapped, and then he laughed again. ‘It was nothing John, absolutely nothing . . . now let’s get inside here, it’s cold.’
Harper followed Cathy. She walked beside Freiberg and they entered a narrow-fronted Cantonese restaurant. Harper glanced over Cathy’s shoulder. They were down near the east corner of Tribeca, on Sixth. Inside it was warm, welcoming almost, and Harper realized how hungry he was.
‘We sit, we talk, we eat,’ Freiberg said. He started to remove his overcoat. The maitre d’ approached them, smiling, hand out to greet Freiberg like a long-lost.
‘Mr Fleeberg,’ he cooed, and Uncle Walt was talking, laughing, walking with the guy to a small table at the back of the room, and before Harper knew it he was up tight and close beside Cathy, the pressure of her leg against his, the smell of her perfume, the awareness that there now seemed to be an altogether different reason for being in New York. She turned and put a glass of sake in his hand. Uncle Walt was laughing louder and telling some anecdote he’d heard about Elvis in Las Vegas and an impersonation contest.
Surreal, disconnected from anything even remotely close to reality, John Harper sat and listened, and every once in a while he talked, but in all honesty he felt he didn’t really have a great deal of anything to say. Felt like the world had closed in on him, a world he never chose to belong to, a world that just came rushing right at him without respite.
He thought of Miami, catastrophe by the sea; of the islands, of the shoals of blackfin tuna, of the waves of frigate birds, and thesmell – the once-in-a-lifetime smell of salt, seaweed, fish and mangrove swamps. He thought of pirates and Ponce de Leon, the Dry Tortugas, the footprints of turtles, the reefs, the clear water, the citrus, the coconut . . .
Such things as these, a hundred million miles from the dark streets of New York just before Christmas.
Later, how much later he didn’t know, Walt came from somewhere and sat down facing him.
‘I called Evelyn,’ he said, and he smiled. He smiled like when Harper was a kid and he came visiting with gifts. ‘I called her and said we’d be taking care of you tonight. You have money John?’
Harper merely looked back at Walt Freiberg with a blank expression.
Freiberg nodded, buried his hand inside his jacket, and was then pushing a wad of notes into
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