The Widow Ruskin looked up at him and smiled. He was aware of the sparkle in her eyes and the curious curl of her lips. She was able to put a coquettish edge even on a widow's thanks.

Without changing his tone of voice, Fallow said, "I couldn't help but notice Mr. McCoy speaking to you."

The widow was smiling with her lips parted slightly. First the smile shrank away. Then the lips closed.

"In fact, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation," said Fallow. Then, with a bright and amiable look on his face and a full-blown English Country Weekend accent, as if he were asking about the guest list at a dinner party: "I gather you were in the car with Mr. McCoy when he had his unfortunate accident in the Bronx."

The widow's eyes turned into a pair of cinders.

"I was hoping that perhaps you might tell me exactly what happened that night."

Maria Ruskin stared at him a moment longer and then said, between tight lips: "Look, Mr.-Mr.-"

"Fallow."

"-p.e.c.k.e.rhead. This is my husband's funeral, and I don't want you here. You understand? So get out-and disintegrate."

She turned and walked off toward Radosz and a group of blue suits and black dresses.

As he left the Harold A. Burns funeral home, Fallow was giddy with the knowledge of what he had. The story existed not only in his mind but in his skin and his solar plexus. It surged like a current in every axon and dendrite of his body. As soon as he got near the word processor, the story would pour out of his fingers-pre-formed. He wouldn't have to say, allege, imply, speculate that the beautiful and now fabulously wealthy merry young Widow Ruskin was the Mystery Brunette. McCoy had said it for him. "Right there with me-my only witness!" The Widow Ruskin had remained tight-lipped-but she hadn't denied it. Nor had she denied it when the journalist, the great Fallow, when I- I-when I- I-when I- I-that was it. He would write it in the first person. Another first-person exclusive, like DEATH NEW YORK STYLE DEATH NEW YORK STYLE. I, Fallow- I, Fallow-dear G.o.d, he hungered, l.u.s.ted l.u.s.ted, for the word processor! The story vibrated in his mind, his heart, his very groin.

But he made himself stop by the register in the vestibule and copy down the names of all the celebrated souls who had been on hand to pay their respects to the lovely widow of Mecca's Kosher Ferry Captain without dreaming of the drama unfolding beneath their prurient noses. They would know soon enough. I, Fallow! I, Fallow!

Out on the sidewalk, just beyond the vestibule, were cl.u.s.ters of these very same luminous personages, most of them having the sort of exuberant grinning conversations people in New York somehow can't help having at events that dramatize their exalted status. Funerals were no exception. The huge young cantor, Myron Branoskowitz, was talking with-or talking to-a severe-looking older man whose name Fallow had just copied from the register: Jonathan Buchman, the chief executive officer of Columbia Records. The cantor spoke with great animation. His hands made little flights in the air. Buchman's expression was rigid, paralyzed by the sonorous logorrhea that spewed so ceaselessly into his face.

"No problem!" said the cantor. It was almost a shout. "No problem at all! I've already made the ca.s.settes! I've done every one of the Caruso standards! I can have them over to your office tomorrow! You got a card?"

The last thing Fallow saw, before he left, was Buchman fishing a card out of a trim little lizard-skin card wallet, while Cantor Branoskowitz added, in the same declamatory tenor: "Mario Lanza, too! I've done Mario Lanza! I want you to have them, too!"

"Well-"

"No problem!"

29. The Rendezvous

The next morning Kramer and Bernie Fitzgibbon and the two detectives, Martin and Goldberg, were in Abe Weiss's office. It was like a board meeting. Weiss sat at the head of the big walnut conference table. Fitzgibbon and Goldberg sat to his left; Kramer and Martin, to his right. The subject was how to proceed with a grand-jury hearing on the Sherman McCoy case. Weiss did not like what he was now hearing from Martin. Neither did Kramer. From time to time Kramer took a look at Bernie Fitzgibbon. All he could make out was a mask of black Irish impa.s.sivity, but it emitted short waves that said, "I told you so."

"Wait a minute," said Weiss. He was talking to Martin. "Tell me again how you picked up these two characters."

"It was in a crack sweep," said Martin.

"A crack sweep?" said Weiss. "What the h.e.l.l's a crack sweep?"

"A crack sweep's a-that's what we do now. Some blocks up there, there's so many crack dealers on the block it's like a flea market. A lot of the buildings are abandoned, and the others, the people that live there, they're afraid to come out the front door, because there's nothing on the street but people selling crack, people buying crack, and people smoking crack. So we make these sweeps. We move in and we pick up everything that's loose."

"Does it work?"

"Sure. You do it a couple of times and they'll move to another block. It's got to the point where as soon as the first cruiser comes around the corner, they start running from the buildings. It's like these construction sites when they set off the dynamite and the rats start running down the street. Somebody oughta take along a movie camera one time. Here's all these people running down the f.u.c.king street."

"Okay," said Weiss. "So these two guys you picked up, they know Roland Auburn?"

"Yeah. They all know Roland."

"Okay. So what you're telling us-this is something Roland told them personally or this is something they heard?"

"No, this is the word that's going around."

"In Bronx crack circles," said Weiss.

"Yeah, I guess," said Martin.

"Okay, go ahead."

"Well, the word is that Roland happens to see this kid, Henry Lamb, walking up to the Texas Fried Chicken place, and he tags along. Roland enjoys giving this kid a hard time. Lamb's what they call a 'good-doing boy,' a mama's boy, a boy who don't 'come out.' He don't come out of the house and get into the street life. He goes to school, he goes to church, he wants to go to college, he don't get into trouble-he don't even belong in the projects. His mother's trying to save up money for a down payment on a house in Springfield Gardens, or they wouldn't even be living there."

"These two guys didn't tell you that."

"No, that's what we already found out about the kid and his mother."

"Well, let's stick to these two smokeheads and what they said."

"I was trying to give you the background."

"Good. Now give me the foreground."

"Awright. So anyway, Roland's walking down Bruckner Boulevard with Lamb. They're walking past the ramp at Hunts Point Avenue, and Roland sees this s.h.i.t on the ramp, these tires or trash cans or something, and he knows somebody's been up there trying to take off cars. So he says to Lamb, 'Come on, I'll show you how to take off a car.' Lamb don't want any part of that, and so Roland says, 'I'm not gonna do it, I'm just gonna show you how you do it. Whaddayou afraid of?' He's, you know, taunting the kid, because he's such a mama's boy. So the kid walks up on the ramp with him, and the next thing he knows, Roland throws a tire or a can or something in front of this car, this terrific-looking Mercedes, and it turns out to be McCoy and some broad. This poor f.u.c.ker, Lamb, is just standing there. He's probably scared s.h.i.tless to be there, and he's scared s.h.i.tless about running, too, because of Roland, who's only doing this whole number to let him know what a f.a.ggot he is in the first place. Then something goes wrong, because McCoy and the woman manage to get the h.e.l.l outta there, and Lamb gets sideswiped. Anyway, that's what's going around out on the street."

"Well, that's some theory. But have you found anybody who says they actually heard Roland say any a that?"

Bernie Fitzgibbon broke in. "That theory would explain why Lamb don't say anything about being hit by a car when he goes to the hospital. He don't want anybody to think he was involved in trying to take off a car. He just wants to get his wrist fixed up and go home."

"Yeah," said Weiss, "but all we got here is a theory presented by two smokeheads. Those people don't know the difference between what they're hearing and what they're hearing hearing." He twirled his forefinger up around his temple in the Looney Tunes mode.

"Well, I think it's worth checking out, Abe," said Bernie. "I think we oughta spend a little time on it, anyhow."

Kramer felt alarmed and resentful and protective, protective of Roland Auburn. None of them had bothered to get to know Roland the way he had. Roland was not a saint, but he had goodness in him, and he was telling the truth.

He said to Bernie, "There's no harm in checking it out, but I can think of ways a theory like this actually gets started. I mean, it's really the McCoy theory. It's what McCoy fed the Daily News Daily News, and it's on TV. I mean, this theory is already out on the street, and this is what it grows into. It answers one question, but it raises ten more. I mean, why would Roland try to take off a car with this kid along who he knows is a wimp, a lame? And if McCoy is the victim of a robbery attempt and he hits one of his a.s.sailants, why would he hesitate to report it to the cops? He'd do it like that like that." Kramer snapped his fingers and realized an argumentative tone had taken over his voice.

"I agree, it raises a lot of questions," said Bernie. "All the more reason not to rush this thing through the grand jury."

"We got to rush it," said Weiss.

Kramer caught Bernie looking at him in a certain way. He could see accusations in his black Irish eyes.

Just then the telephone on Weiss's desk gave three low beeps. He got up, walked over to the desk, and answered it.

"Yeah?...Okay, put him on...No, I haven't seen The City Light... The City Light...What? You gotta be kidding..."

He turned toward the conference table and said to Bernie, "It's Milt. I don't think we gotta worry about any smokehead theories for a while."

In no time Milt Lubell, wide-eyed, slightly out of breath, was walking into the room with a copy of The City Light The City Light. He laid it on the conference table. The front page jumped up at them.

City Light Exclusive:FINANCIER'SWIDOW ISMCCOY CASEMYSTERY GIRLMcCoy At Funeral: "Help Me!"

Across the bottom of the page ran a line saying: Peter Fallow's Eyewitness Report, Pictures, pages 3, 4, 5, 14, 15 Peter Fallow's Eyewitness Report, Pictures, pages 3, 4, 5, 14, 15.

All six of them stood up and leaned over with their palms on the walnut table to support themselves. Their heads converging over the epicenter, which was the headline.

Weiss straightened up. On his face was the look of the man who knows that it falls to his lot to be the leader.

"All right, here's what we're gonna do. Milt, call up Irv Stone at Channel 1." He then reeled off the names of the news producers of five other channels. "And call Fallow. And that fellow Flannagan at the News News. And here's what you tell them. We're gonna question this woman as soon as possible. That's for the record. Not for attribution, tell 'em if she is the woman who was with McCoy, then she faces felony charges, because she was the one who drove off after McCoy hit the kid. That's leaving the scene and failure to report. Hit-and-run. He hit, she ran. Okay?"

Then to Bernie: "And you guys..." He let his eyes pan quickly over Kramer, Martin, and Goldberg, to show them they were included. "You guys get hold of this woman, and you tell her the exact same thing. 'We're sorry your husband is dead, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, but we need some answers very fast, and if you're the one who was in the car with McCoy, then you're in a whole lotta freakin' trouble.' But if she's willing to come clean about McCoy, we'll grant her immunity before the grand jury." To Kramer: "Don't get too specific about that at first. Well, h.e.l.l, you know how to do it."

By the time Kramer, Martin, and Goldberg pulled up in front of 962 Fifth Avenue, the sidewalk looked like a refugee camp. Television crewmen, radio broadcasters, reporters, and photographers sat, milled, and lollygagged about in the jeans, knit shirts, zipper jackets, and Trapper Dan shoes their trade currently affected, and the idle gawkers who looked on weren't dressed much better. The cops from the 19th Precinct had set up a double row of blue police line sawhorses to create an alley to the front door for the benefit of the people who lived in the building. A uniformed patrolman stood by. For such a building, fourteen stories high and half a block wide, the front entrance was not particularly grand. Nevertheless, it bespoke money. There was a single plate-gla.s.s door framed in heavy bra.s.s, highly polished, and protected by an ornate bra.s.s grillwork, which also gleamed. A canopy stretched from the door to the edge of the sidewalk. The canopy was supported by bra.s.s poles with bra.s.s guy rods, likewise polished until they looked like white gold. As much as anything else, it was the eternity of mule's work represented by all the hand-polished bra.s.s that said money. Behind the plate gla.s.s, Kramer could see the figures of a pair of uniformed doormen, and he thought of Martin and his soliloquy on the s.h.i.tb.a.l.l.s s.h.i.tb.a.l.l.s at McCoy's building. at McCoy's building.

Well...here he was. He had looked up at these apartment buildings on Fifth Avenue, facing Central Park, a thousand times at least, most recently on Sunday afternoon. He had been out in the park with Rhoda, who was pushing Joshua in the baby carriage, and the afternoon sun had lit up the great limestone facades to the point where the phrase itself had crossed his mind: the gold coast the gold coast. But it was merely an observation, devoid of emotion, except perhaps for a mild feeling of satisfaction at being able to stroll amid such golden surroundings. It was well known that the richest people in New York lived in those buildings. But their life, whatever it was, was as remote as another planet. Such people were merely types, far outside the range of any conceivable envy. They were The Rich. He couldn't have told you the name of a single one of them.

Now he could.

Kramer, Martin, and Goldberg got out of the car, and Martin said something to the cop in the uniform. The raggedy pack of journalists bestirred themselves. Their itchy clothes flopped about. They looked the three of them up and down and sniffed for the scent of the McCoy case.

Would they recognize him? The car was unmarked, and even Martin and Goldberg were wearing coats and ties, and so they might pa.s.s for three men who just happened to be coming to this building. On the other hand...was he any longer just an anonymous functionary of the criminal-justice system? Hardly. His picture (by luscious Lucy Dellafloria) had appeared on television. His name had appeared in every newspaper. They started walking up the alley between the police barricades. Halfway there-Kramer felt let down. Not a tumble from this huge twitching a.s.sembly of the New York press.

Then: "Hey, Kramer!" A voice over to his right. His heart leapt. "Kramer!" His impulse was to turn and smile, but he fought it. Should he just keep on walking and ignore it? No, he shouldn't high-hat them, should he?...So he turned toward the voice with a look of high seriousness on his face.

Two voices at once: "Hey, Kramer, you gonna-"

"What are the charges-"

"-talk to her?"

"-against her?"

He heard someone else saying: "Who is that?" And someone answering: "That's Larry Kramer. He's the D.A. on this case."

Kramer kept his lips set grimly and said, "I got nothing for you right now, fellows."

Fellows! They were They were his his now, this bunch now, this bunch-the press, which was formerly merely an abstraction so far as he was concerned. Now he was looking the whole itchy mob of them in the face, and they hung on his every word, his every step. One, two, three photographers were in position. He could hear the whine of the rewind mechanisms of their cameras. A television crew was lumbering over. A videocamera protruded from the skull of one of them like a horn. Kramer walked a bit slower and stared at one of the reporters, as if considering a reply, to give the fellows a few more seconds of this solemn mug of his. (They were only doing their job.) When he and Martin and Goldberg reached the front door, Kramer said to the two doormen, with guttural authority: "Larry Kramer, Bronx District Attorney's Office. They're expecting us."

The doormen hopped to it.

Upstairs, the door to the apartment was opened by a little man in uniform who appeared to be Indonesian or Korean. Kramer stepped inside-and the sight dazzled him. This was to be expected, since it was designed to dazzle people far more inured to luxury than Larry Kramer. He glanced at Martin and Goldberg. The three of them were straightout sightseers...the two-story ceiling, the enormous chandelier, the marble staircase, the fluted pilasters, the silver, the balcony, the huge paintings, the sumptuous frames, any one of which, just the frame, cost about half a cop's annual pay. Their eyes were gobbling it all up.

Kramer could hear a vacuum cleaner going somewhere upstairs. A maid in a black uniform with a white ap.r.o.n appeared on the marble floor of the entry gallery and then disappeared. The Oriental butler led them across the gallery. Through a doorway they got an eyeful of a vast room flooded with light from the tallest windows Kramer had ever seen in a private home. They were as big as the windows in the courtrooms of the island fortress. They looked out over the tops of the trees of Central Park. The butler took them to a smaller, darker room next to it. Or it was darker by comparison; in fact, a single tall window facing the park admitted so much light that at first the two men and the woman who waited inside were visible only as silhouettes. The two men were standing. The woman sat in a chair. There was a set of rolling library stairs, a large desk with gilded decorations on its curved legs, and antique knickknacks on top of it, plus two small couches with a large burled-wood coffee table between them, several armchairs and side tables and...and this stuff stuff.

One of the silhouettes stepped forward from out of the glare and said, "Mr. Kramer? I'm Tucker Trigg."

Tucker Trigg; that was the guy's actual name. He was her lawyer, from Curry, Goad & Pesterall. Kramer had set up this meeting through him. Tucker Trigg had a nasal honk Wasp voice that really put Kramer off, but now that Kramer could see him, he didn't look like his idea of a Wasp. He was big, round, pudgy, like a football player gone to fat. They shook hands, and Tucker Trigg said in his honk voice: that was the guy's actual name. He was her lawyer, from Curry, Goad & Pesterall. Kramer had set up this meeting through him. Tucker Trigg had a nasal honk Wasp voice that really put Kramer off, but now that Kramer could see him, he didn't look like his idea of a Wasp. He was big, round, pudgy, like a football player gone to fat. They shook hands, and Tucker Trigg said in his honk voice: "Mr. Kramer, this is Mrs. Ruskin."

She was seated in a high-backed armchair that made Kramer think of one of those series on Masterpiece Theatre. There was a tall gray-haired guy standing beside her. The widow- widow-how young and bouncy she looked! Foxy Foxy, Roland had said. Arthur Ruskin had had a lot on his hands, seventy-one years old, with his second pacemaker ticking away. She wore a plain black silk dress. The fact that the wide shoulders and cadet collar treatment were currently quite chic was lost on Larry Kramer, but her legs weren't. Her legs were crossed. Kramer tried to keep his eyes from running up the highlit curve of the top of her foot and the glistening curve of her calves and the shimmering curve of her thighs under the black silk. He tried his best. She had the most wonderful long ivory neck, and her lips were parted slightly, and her dark eyes seemed to be drinking his right up. He was fl.u.s.tered.

"I'm sorry to intrude under these circ.u.mstances," he stammered. He immediately felt he had said something foolish. Was she supposed to conclude that under other circ.u.mstances he would be happy to intrude?

"Oh, I understand, Mr. Kramer," she said softly, with a brave smile. Oh, I unnerstin, Mr. Krimmuh Oh, I unnerstin, Mr. Krimmuh. Or was it merely merely a brave smile? G.o.d almighty, the way she a brave smile? G.o.d almighty, the way she looked looked at him! at him!

He couldn't imagine what to say to her next. Tucker Trigg spared him the task by introducing the man who stood next to the chair. He was a tall, older man. His gray hair was combed back smartly. He had the sort of military posture seldom seen in New York. His name was Clifford Priddy, and he was well known for defending prominent people in federal criminal cases. This one had Wasp written all over him. He looked at you straight down his long, thin nose. His clothes were subdued and rich, as only these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds knew how to do it. His shiny black shoes were oh-so-sweetly fitted in the instep and trim in the toe. The man made Kramer feel clumsy. His own shoes were heavy brown sloggers, with soles that stuck out like rock ledges. Well, this case wasn't in federal court, where the old Ivy League network still looked out for its own. No, they were dealing with the basic Bronx now.

"How do you do, Mr. Kramer," said Mr. Clifford Priddy, affably.

"Fine," said Kramer, shaking hands and thinking. Let's see how smug you look when we get you up to Gibraltar.

Then he introduced Martin and Goldberg, and everyone sat down. Martin and Goldberg and Tucker Trigg and Clifford Priddy; there was a quartet for you. Goldberg sat hunched over, a bit subdued, but Martin was still the Tourist Unfazed. His eyes were dancing all over the room.

The young widow in black pressed a b.u.t.ton on the table beside her chair. She recrossed her legs. The curved sheens flew apart and rea.s.sembled, and Kramer tried to avert his eyes. She looked toward the doorway. A maid, a Filipino, if Kramer had to guess, was standing there.

Maria Ruskin looked at Kramer and then Goldberg and Martin and said, "Would you gentlemen care for some coffee?"

No one cared for coffee. She said, "Nora, I'd like some coffee, and-"

"Cora," the woman said tonelessly. Every head turned toward her, as if she had just produced a revolver.

"-and bring some extra cups, please," said the widow, ignoring the correction, "in case any of the gentlemen change their mind."

Not perfect with the grammar, thought Kramer. He tried to figure out exactly what was wrong with what she had said-and then realized that everyone was quiet and looking at him. Now it was his show. The widow's lips were parted in the same strange little smile. Was it bravery? Mockery?

"Mrs. Ruskin," he began, "as I say, I'm sorry to have to come to you at this particular time, and I'm very grateful for your cooperation. I'm sure Mr. Trigg and Mr. Priddy have explained to you the purpose of this meeting, and I just, uh, want to-" She stirred her legs under her dress, and Kramer tried not to notice the way her thighs welled up under the shiny black silk. "-uh, emphasize that this case, which involves a very serious injury, possibly fatal, to a young man, Henry Lamb-this case is highly important to our office, because it's highly important to the people of Bronx County and to all the people of this city." He paused. He realized he was sounding pompous, but he didn't know how to get back down off his high horse. The presence of these Wasp lawyers and the scale of this palace had made him get up here.

"I understand," said the widow, possibly to help him out. Her head was slightly c.o.c.ked, and she smiled the smile of an intimate friend. Kramer had rogue stirrings. His mind leapt ahead to the trial. Sometimes you ended up working very closely with a cooperative witness.

"That's why your cooperation would be of such great value to us." He threw his head back, to emphasize the grandeur of his sternocleidomastoid muscles. "Now, all I want to do right now is to try to explain to you what's going to be involved if you do cooperate or if for any reason you decide not to cooperate, because I think we have to be completely clear on that. Certain things are gonna naturally flow from either decision. Now, before we start, I should remind you that-" He paused again. He had started the sentence off wrong and was going to get tangled up in his syntax. Nothing to do but plow on. "-you're represented by eminent counsel, so I don't have to remind you of your rights in that respect." In that respect In that respect. Why these pompous, pointless block phrases? "But I am obliged to remind you of your right to remain silent, should you want to for any reason."

He looked at her and nodded, as if to say, "Is that clear?" She nodded back, and he noticed the swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s moving under the black silk.

From beside the chair he lifted his attache case up to his lap and immediately wished he didn't have to. The case's scuffed corners and edges were an expose of his lowly status. (A $36,000-a-year a.s.sistant D.A. from the Bronx.) Look at the G.o.dd.a.m.ned case! All dried out, cracked, and scuffed! He felt humiliated. What was going through these f.u.c.king Wasps' minds at this moment? Were they just holding back their smirks for tactical reasons, or out of some condescending Wasp politeness?

From the case he took two pages of notes on yellow legal paper and a folder full of Xeroxed material, including some newspaper clippings. Then he closed up the telltale luggage and put it back on the floor.