Frank walked across the street quickly, then eased himself over near the entrance to the store and peered in.
The old woman lingered beside the counter, her head jerking left and right from time to time as if she were being slapped by an invisible hand.
The store clerk returned, his arms wrapped around several tall bottles. He bagged them slowly, inserting small squares of cardboard between the bottles, then handed the bag to the old woman. She paid him in cash, counting out the bills one by one, then turned back toward the door.
Frank stepped away quickly and shrank back into the small cigar store next door. Then he waited, listening for the bell of the liquor store door.
After it had sounded, he eased himself out into the street again, and darted into the liquor store.
The clerk nodded to him as he stepped up to the counter.
“The old woman who was in here just now,” he said, “do you know her?”
The clerk shrugged. “She’s just a customer.”
“What does she buy?”
The clerk didn’t answer.
Frank drew a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket, along with his identification.
The man snapped up the bill, his eyes giving the identification only a quick, indifferent glance. “She just started coming in lately,” he said. “I’d say about the last three weeks or so.”
“Had you ever seen her before then?”
The clerk shook his head.
“What does she buy?” Frank asked.
“Some weird drink the old owner used to keep around,” the clerk said. “We still got about a case and a half left over.”
“What’s the name?”
“Raki,” the man said. He shrugged. “The old owner used to keep specialty items like that. Me, I just stock the usual.”
“And she’s been buying raki for about three weeks?”
“Yeah.”
“About how often?”
“Maybe a bottle every couple of days.”
“That’s a lot.”
“If it was wine, it wouldn’t be that much,” the clerk said. “I even have heavy stuff going out that often. But liqueurs, shit like that, that’s for sipping, you know? Sweet stuff. Most people don’t go through it that fast.”
Frank nodded. “Did you ever see anybody with the old woman?”
“No.”
“Particularly a man.”
The clerk shook his head.
“Did she ever say anything to you?”
“No.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Just one word,” the clerk said. “No talk. No conversation. She just comes in and she says, ‘Raki,’ and that’s the end of it.”
Frank nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks.” He started for the door.
The clerk glanced at the twenty, as if it carried with it some added obligation. “Today, though, she looked different”
Frank turned back toward him. “Different?”
“Nervouslike,” the clerk explained. “Scared.”
“She looked scared?”
“Yeah, there was just this funny look in her eyes,” the clerk went on. “Like she thought somebody was maybe after her, or something.”
“Had she looked that way before?”
The clerk chuckled. “Well, she never did look like a happy-go-lucky type,” he said. “But to tell you the truth, today it was different. I noticed it in her eyes, you know. And then, when she was giving me the money, it was like her hand was trembling, you know, like shaking real bad. I mean, enough so’s a guy would notice.”
Frank smiled at him appreciatively. “Okay, thanks,” he said.
“Don’t mention it,” the clerk told him.
Frank walked back out onto the street and glanced southward, trying to get her in his sight. Far in the distance, barely a small dot in a sea of small dots, he could see the old woman’s red scarf bobbing softly like a float in the water.
He glanced at his watch, then started to follow her, shifting quickly through the crowds, edging closer and closer until the old woman reached the storefront and disappeared inside.
Frank held back for a moment. He had already burned his cover with Mrs. Phillips, and it was not a mistake he intended to make again. For a time, he simply waited, then, slowly, he moved toward the window of the storefront. The blue curtain was still in place, but the sign had been taken down. He pressed his back against the window, lining the right side of his body up with the small slit in the blue curtains, then quickly glancing over his shoulder and inside the room.
He could see the old woman as she meticulously drew the bottles out of the bag and placed them carefully in a large canvas bag. There were several small boxes scattered around the room, all of them neatly tied with rope. All the musical instruments had been taken from the walls and were now gathered together in one corner.
Suddenly the old woman’s head jerked up, and Frank pulled away from the window. He waited a moment, then cautiously eased himself back and looked in.
The old woman was standing rigidly in place, her eyes staring to her left. For a moment she remained very still, then in a quick, abrupt movement, she stepped back, as if shrinking away from some threatening presence.
Frank glanced toward the floor. He could see a gray shadow as it eased out of his line of sight, then bolted forward suddenly. He looked up and saw a tall, slender man as he leaned forward slightly, his body held just at the edge of Frank’s line of sight. He had a black mustache, his head was covered with a bright red handkerchief, almost exactly like the old woman’s. He stood very erect, his head lifted haughtily while he spoke to her, pointing here and there, as if giving her a series of very detailed directions. Then he shrank back behind the covering wall and the old woman set to work, gathering up the few items that remained scattered across the floor and placing them carefully in the last empty box.
Frank pulled himself back from the window and tried to think about his next move. He knew that they were leaving, but he didn’t know when or how. He stepped over beside the door, away from the small, narrow break in the curtains, and pressed his back against the brick wall. In his mind, he saw the man again, the distant, severe look in his eyes, the hard cut of his jaw. No one had ever looked more entirely in command. In a few minutes, he knew, they could be gone, and once they were out of sight, they would be gone forever. He had to find a means to follow them. He lifted his head slightly and tried to think of a way to cover both the front and back entrances of the storefront. It would be possible only if he were able to get above the building, look down on it, and keep track of them from a kind of watch-tower overhead. He glanced across the street, to the long line of squat red tenements that ran along the avenue. Up there, he would be able to see them. He let his eyes move up the ragged face of the building across the way, then up over the top, his eyes widening as he saw her staring down at him, her black eyes fixed on his.
She was standing in full view, as if to display herself, and he moved toward her instantly, his eyes still fixed on hers as he bolted across the street, then up the rickety wooden stairs that led to the roof.
At the top of the stairs, the metal fire door had been locked, so he jerked back and slammed his shoulder into it, breathing heavily now, but slamming forward anyway, first once, then again and again, growing more desperate with each plunge, until the door finally flew open and he went sprawling across the tar-paper surface of the building’s roof.
He rolled onto his back, but she was on him instantly, staring down furiously, her knee on his chest. He felt the point of a knife blade at his throat. “I told you that I did not want you,” she whispered vehemently.
Frank said nothing. Her face was utterly radiant, her hair beautiful even in disarray, hanging like black seaweed over her broad, brown shoulders.
She pressed the point more firmly against his throat. He could feel a trickle of warm blood as it pierced his skin.
He looked at her longingly, and when she caught the expression
in his eyes, Frank could see that hers took on a distant sympathy, as if he could hardly be expected to know what she already knew. Then, suddenly, the sympathy vanished and her face grew very grim.
She felt under his arm, pulled the .45 from his shoulder holster. “There is only one way,” she told him determinedly as she raised the pistol high in the air, then brought it crashing down upon him. “To be as dangerous as a man.”
There was still some light left in the air around him when Frank finally came to. He glanced about slowly, hazily, his mind still trying to orient itself. In his imagination, he could see the ghostly, translucent image of the Puri Dai as she had held herself above him, and in some indecipherably deep corner of himself, he also knew that he yearned for her return.
But she was gone, irretrievably gone, leaving everything in her wake with nothing but a lingering sense of fearful reverence.
He pulled himself into a sitting position, then groggily got to his feet. From the roof, he could see the evening traffic as it made its way toward the Lincoln Tunnel, and beyond it, the flat gray surface of the Hudson. He let his head slump left and right as his eyes stared out over the now deserted roof. Down below, he could see the window of the fortune-teller’s shop, but the small neon sign was gone, along with the blue curtain that had once hung over the window and the small table and chair which had rested beyond it. Everything was gone, entirely abandoned.
He took a step, felt his legs regain their force, then headed back down the stairs and onto the street.
Once on the street, the faint light which remained in the air reminded him of the day case, and he realized that he wanted to let it edge out the night case, gently nudge the lost Puri Dai from his mind.
He glanced at his watch. There was still time to make his meeting with Powers, and so he walked swiftly across town.
As he walked, he could feel himself still yearning for the Puri Dai, for the allure of the uncertain, the mysterious and eternal call of those things in life which cannot be pinned down. He saw her kneeling over him again, her knee bearing down upon his chest, her hair hanging toward him like long black ropes, and the vision itself was like something aching softly in his chest, a thin, hairline fracture in his soul.
At the corner of Forty-ninth Street and Sixth Avenue, he turned to the left and headed uptown, moving along the avenue until he reached Fifty-sixth Street. Then he turned right, walking more and more quickly, until he saw the silvery awning of Broadway Lights.
The hostess smiled sweetly as she turned toward him, men instantly looked at him in alarm. “Are you all right, sir?”
“What?”
She pointed toward the left side of his face. “You’re bleeding slightly.”
Frank touched the side of his head, felt the broken skin and slender trickle of blood. “Oh, no, that’s all right,” he said. “It was just an accident on the way over.”
The hostess didn’t seem to believe him, but launched into her usual routine anyway. “Will you be having dinner, then?” she asked.
Frank couldn’t imagine it, and for a moment didn’t answer. His hand lifted to his throat, and he felt the trickle of blood mat now dried there.
“Will you be having dinner?” the woman repeated.
Frank nodded.
“Just yourself this evening?”
“No, I’m waiting for somebody else,” Frank told her.
The woman nodded politely. “And is the reservation in your friend’s name?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Frank said. “Powers.”
She recognized the name immediately. “Oh yes, Dr. Powers,” she said brightly. “Would you like to wait for him at his table, or at the bar?”
Frank shrugged. “Table’s okay.”
“Fine,” the woman said. “Just follow me, please.”
She led him over to a small table at the back of the room. “The restrooms are right over there, if you want to clean up.”
Frank smiled. “Thanks.”
In the restroom, Frank blotted up the blood, though the cut still looked alarming, and brushed off his clothes. Fortunately, the tussle on the rooftop hadn’t done them too much harm.
He returned to the table, glanced at a small ashtray on the table, took out a cigarette and lit it. Then he sat back and let his eyes take in the restaurant’s ornate interior. It was large, but cluttered with Broadway memorabilia, old musical instruments, framed original manuscripts of show music from various periods, drawings of famous actors and actresses, and a scattering of costumes, posters, even some famous actor’s makeup kit in a glass case by the door. It was the sort of place he’d always heard about, but never seen, the kind that Karen mocked as lowbrow, and he’d simply avoided because the whole atmosphere struck him as contrived, a dream that would never grow legs strong enough to carry it into something real.
But it fit Powers well enough, and when Frank glimpsed him striding toward him from the front section of the restaurant, he was amazed at how much a part of it he seemed. He walked jauntily down the aisle, his white coat now replaced by a bright-red blazer, his head neatly covered with an appropriately graying toupee.
“Well, nice to see you again, Mr. Clemons,” he said smartly when he reached Frank’s table. “I hope the accommodations are acceptable.” He sat down, pulled the napkin into his lap, then looked back up at Frank. “Oh, my goodness,” he said suddenly. “What happened to you?”
“Me?” Frank asked.
“That gash on the side of your head,” Powers said. “It looks quite nasty.”
Reflexively, Rank reached up and touched the wound again. “Oh, yes,” he said. He rushed for an explanation. “I had a little fall.”
Powers leaned toward him, his hand coming near his face. “Want me to have a look?”
Frank pulled back instantly. “No, it’s okay,” he said. Then he glanced about quickly and tried to change the subject. “Nice place.”
“The food’s not bad, really,” Powers said as he leaned back into his seat. “The only thing you have to worry about is the travel trade.”
Frank looked at him quizzically.
“The tourists,” Powers explained. “The gawkers from the Great Plains.” He laughed happily. “Anyway, it’s nice to see you again.”
“You, too,” Frank said, trying to keep the edginess from his voice.
The waiter stepped over immediately. “Good evening, Dr. Powers,” he said.
“Hello, Jerry,” Powers said.’ ‘What’s the special tonight?”
“We have three.”
Powers smiled. “Well, go ahead, then, I have nothing but time, right, Mr. Clemons?”
Frank nodded, then waited as the waiter went through the evening specials.
“I’ll have broiled scallops,” Powers told him when he’d finished. “And a glass of white wine. The house will do.” He looked at Frank. “Decided yet?”
“The rib eye,” Frank said. “And a scotch.”
The waiter wrote it down, nodded, then vanished behind the kitchen’s double doors.
Powers leaned back in his chair and let out a long, slow breath. “Busy day,” he said. “At some point I should probably think about a brief vacation.”
“Do you have office hours every day?” Frank asked casually, like one businessman talking to another.
“Every single one,” Powers replied. “Five days a week, just like everyone else, Monday through Friday, nine to five. And some Saturdays—like today.” He smiled gently. “Not that I’m complaining, of course. I live a good life.” He looked at Frank pointedly. “Despite the nearly confiscatory tax bill I have to swallow once a year.” He frowned. “You might say that once a year I buy the government a new missile silo.”
Frank offered him a smile that was small and tentative, but still the best one he could muster. “Do you see all your patients in your office?”
Powers nodded. “Of course, where else would I see them? I don’t have a château in the south of France.”
“Some people have private p
atients,” Frank said matter-of-factly. “Especially with …”
“A Fifth Avenue practice?” Powers asked. “Is that what you mean?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I’m not that sort of snob,” Powers said. “My patients are all doing quite well, of course.” He grinned. “Financially, at least.”
Frank let his smile stretch out a bit.
“But, frankly,” Powers added, “I don’t believe in treating a select few of my patients more luxuriously than others.” He shrugged. “Besides, a home is for living, entertaining, enjoying the fruits of one’s labor.” He laughed. “I mean, really, how would you integrate an examining table or an EKG machine into your overall decor?”
Frank could feel his edginess growing, along with the throbbing in his head. He knew that he could not contain it any longer. The thin, languishing smile dropped dead. “Virginia Driscoll,” he said flatly.
Powers’s eyes hardened. “What?” He leaned back slightly. “What are you talking about?”
“A woman,” Frank said stiffly. “One of your patients.”
Powers’s lower lip drooped to the right. He studied Frank’s face silently.
“You see her at your house,” Frank told him.
“My house?”
“On Mondays,” Frank added. He leaned toward him and let his voice put the squeeze on, even though he wasn’t sure what it might squeeze out. “I’m a private investigator,” he said. He took out his identification and handed it to Powers.
Powers looked at it a moment, as if checking its authenticity, then returned it to Frank. “And so all this tax consultant thing,” he said, “it was just some sort of charade, is that it?” He looked like he couldn’t decide whether to be indignant or amused.