The Sins of the Fathers

When I turned around, Hanniford was standing next to me with a check in his hand. I asked him what it was for. He said I hadn't mentioned more money and he didn't know what constituted a fair payment, but he was pleased with the job I had done for him and he wanted to give me a bonus.

I didn't know what was fair payment, either. But I remembered what I had told Lewis Pankow. When somebody hands you money, you take it. I took it.

I didn't get around to unfolding it until I was on the plane. It was for a thousand dollars. I'm still not sure why he gave it to me.

Chapter 14

In my hotel room I opened a paperback dictionary of saints and flipped through it. I found myself reading about St. Mary Goretti, who was born in Italy in 1890. When she was twelve a young man began making overtures to her.

Eventually he attempted to ravish her and threatened to kill her if she resisted. She did, and he did, stabbing her over and over again with his knife. She died within twenty-four hours.

After eight years of unrepentant imprisonment her murderer had a change of heart, I learned. At the end of twenty-seven years he was released, and on Christmas Day, 1937, he contrived to receive Communion side by side with Mary's widowed mother. He has since been cited as an example by those who advocate the abolition of capital punishment.

I always find something interesting in that book.

* * *

I went next door for dinner but didn't have much appetite. The waiter offered to put my leftover steak in a doggie bag. I told him not to bother.

So I went around the corner to Armstrong's and wound up at the corner table in back where it had all started just a few days ago. Cale Hanniford walked into my life on Tuesday, and now it was Saturday.

It seemed as though it had been a lot longer than that.

It had started on Tuesday as far as I was concerned, but it had in fact started a lot earlier than that, and I sipped bourbon and coffee and wondered how far you could trace it back. At some point or other it had probably become inevitable, but I didn't know just when that point was. There was a day when Richie Vanderpoel and Wendy Hanniford met each other, and that had to be a turning point of one sort or another, but maybe their separate ends had been charted far in advance of that date and their meeting only arranged that they would happen to one another.

Maybe it went a lot further back, to Robert Blohr dying in Korea and Margaret Vanderpoel opening her veins in her bathtub.

Maybe it was Eve's fault, messing around with apples. Dangerous thing, giving humanity the knowledge of good and evil. And the capacity to make the wrong choice more often than not.

* * *

"Buy a lady a drink?"

I looked up. It was Trina, dressed in civilian clothes and wearing a smile that faded as she studied my face. "Hey," she said. "Where were you?"

"Chasing private thoughts."

"Want to be alone?"

"That's the last thing I want. Did you say something about buying you a drink?"

"It was an idea I had, yes."

I flagged the waiter and ordered a stinger for her and another of the same for myself. She talked about a couple of strange customers she'd had the night before.

We coasted through a few rounds on small talk, and then she reached out a hand and touched the tip of my chin with her finger.

"Hey."

"Hey?"

"Hey, you're in a bad way. Troubles?"

"I had a rotten day. I flew upstate and had a conversation that wasn't much fun."

"The business you were telling me about the other night?"

"Was I talking about it with you? Yes, I guess I was."

"Feel like talking about it now?"

"Maybe a little later."

"Sure."

We sat for a while, not saying much. The place was quiet as it often is on Saturdays. At one point two kids came in and walked over to the bar. I didn't recognize them.

"Matt, is something wrong?"

I didn't answer her. The bartender sold them a couple of six-packs and they left. I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding.

"Matt?"

"Just a reflex. I thought the place was about to be held up. Put it down to nerves."

"Sure." Her hand covered mine. "Getting late," she said.

"Is it?"

"Kind of. Would you walk me home? It's just a couple of blocks."

SHE lived on the tenth floor of a new building on Fifty-sixth between Ninth and Tenth. The doorman roused himself enough to flash her a smile. "There's some booze," she told me, "and I can make better coffee than Jimmie can. Want to come up?"

"I'd like to."

Her apartment was a studio, one large room with an alcove that held a narrow bed. She showed me where to hang my coat and put on a stack of records.

She said she'd put on some coffee, and I told her to forget about the coffee. She made drinks for both of us. She curled up on a red plush sofa and I sat in a frayed gray armchair.

"Nice place," I said.

"It's getting there. I want pictures for the walls and some of the furniture will have to be replaced eventually, but in the meantime it suits me."

"How long have you been here?"

"Since October. I lived uptown, and I hated taking cabs to and from work."