David spoke rapidly, putting things in their proper place. “Well, not exactly. We’re sort of on the fringes of the million-dollar mile. Showroom is in Manhasset and we have a small plant in Jersey. It helps with the tax structure to have the factory in Jersey.” He could see the small dark eyes calculating what his business was worth. “We do small stuff—an occasional office, but mostly dens and playrooms.”
“Sure, sure.” Santino nodded. Then he took David’s shoulder, leading him to the large, flat, wide stairway, his voice dropping now, his face pulling into a look of urgent concern. “Hey, tough shit about Murray, huh? The kid never really pulled out of it, huh? Jee-zus I remember old Murray-the-Norseman: that’s what we used to call him. I haven’t seen old Murray for years. Never got over the accident, huh?”
David, walking close to the wall, tried to ease himself from Santino’s grasp. Just let “me get through all of this, he pleaded, just let me get through this minute, this hour, this day, and let me get back home, back into my own life.
He followed where Santino, obviously at home and comfortable and familiar with the workings of the vast building, led him by a series of pressures on his elbow and arm. He sat in a small room with benches where Santino had placed him, handed him the crisp, freshly withdrawn fifty-dollar bills, while Santino set about getting a bail bondsman.
Thirty-five minutes later Santino slid himself next to David, exhaled his minty breath into David’s face and told him, in that same, loud, whispering, confidential way which David observed all around him, “The kid’ll be out in about twenty minutes.” Santino winked, holding his right eye closed for several seconds and jabbed David’s ribs with a well-padded elbow. “Old Frankie’s got the right connections, kid. We got the bond and the kid comes up for pleading next Tuesday, May 10th.” David stared blankly at the lawyer. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. This is all a formality, all in a day’s work, nothing unusual, nothing spectacular. Now, I saw Murray.” His expression was somewhere between pity and disgust. “Wow, he is some helluva mess: dirty. He still living with mama and papa?”
David winced. “Yes.”
“Helluva thing for them, but you don’t have to tell them nothing—say he got a ticket for jay-walking or something and didn’t have the price of the fine, you know? And Dave, clean him up for court on the 10th: get him showered and into a suit and shirt and tie. He sure is a mess, but man, he still got the built!”
“What happens then, Frank, on May 10th?”
“Formal arraignment—we waive to Sessions.” His voice softened, apologetically acknowledging David’s puzzled expression. “He was set bail this morning, but he wasn’t represented by an attorney so what happens is, they put the formal arraignment over to the tenth. Then, we show up with him and what we do is we waive him to Special Sessions, Part One. Then, in about another week, he comes before the magistrate and makes his plea.”
David felt his stomach beginning to rumble and his chest felt heavy. Next week. And then another week. And then another.
Hurriedly, confidentially, his hand covering the lower half of his face, Frankie told him, “I know the cop who locked him up. A sharp little cookie, this kid—a girl cop. She bagged him off the train; I’ve tangled with this kid a few times in court, on cases like this.”
The phrase was repeated over and over inside David’s head: cases like this; cases like this. Murray was a case, like other cases like this.
“Some of these cops are no good, hell in my book, they’d all frame their own fathers for a pinch. But this kid is straight—strictly on the level. There’s no doubt that Murray waved his jewels at her so I think we better cop him out.” He smiled and patiently explained, “Plead him guilty and take our chances. He doesn’t have any previous, thank God, so he’ll probably get an S.S.—suspended sentence. In fact”—he looked around, his eyes darting in circles, his voice falling a pitch or two—“I’m sure I can get him an S.S. I got a few contacts.” The hooded slow wink of the right eye: “You know.”
David could feel the heat pressing around him, inside his clothing. His mouth felt yellow and sticky. He nodded: anything, anything, okay, Frank, okay. He walked a few steps to the water fountain, leaning his face low into the small, hollow alcove. Depressing the shining steel handle, he sucked at the small, inch-high stream of warmish water, holding the water in his mouth, around his teeth, then swallowing. He watched Frank Santino: he was hanging on to the shoulder of some fat man with a spiral of wavy yellow hair, winking and nodding and smirking.
“Okay, Davey, let’s go. Murray will be out soon. We go around to the side of the building; the bondsman will point him in the right direction. I told Murray we’d be waiting.”
David shielded his eyes with his forearm against the glare of late afternoon sun, avoiding the glances of the other people who were standing uneasily at the gate where prisoners were being released on bail. A skinny Puerto Rican girl, her thin hand clutching the collar of a bright-eyed little boy, her other arm holding a sleeping infant against her body, let out a high sound: some word, some name, and a pale, emaciated, boy-sized man rushed through the gate, breaking into a toothless grin, jabbered at her in a rush of incomprehensible words and embraced her so tightly that the infant was crushed and shrieked itself awake with an angry scream. They both laughed, the man took the infant, ruffled the head of the little boy, and the girl placed her thin arm around his narrow waist. The family walked off, directly into the sunlight.
“Hey, here we go, Davey,” Frankie said, his eyes darting from the prison gate to his watch. He had other things to do this afternoon. “Hey, Murray, over here, boy.”
David Rogoff steeled himself against the sight of his younger brother, raised his eyes slowly, swallowed hard.
Murray, directed by Frank Santino, who half-embraced him, shuffled, blinking in the strong light, toward David. He looked down blankly at David, who had drawn back but then with effort stepped toward him and reached for Murray’s hand, which was cold and limp.
David hadn’t seen his brother for more than a year. The sun, shining directly onto his glasses, sparked out Murray’s eyes; all David could see was the large head and the yellowness of Murray’s face and the broad expanse of thickened bone extending backward like a hood into his filthy shirt. His eyes ran over the soiled and stale clothing and he looked away nervously, nodding and muttering at the final directions Santino was giving him. He shook hands with
Santino, accepted his rough slap on the shoulder and tight squeeze on his upper arm, then didn’t look after him as he hurried off.
David, his voice unfamiliar in his own ears, not looking at Murray, said, “I have my car around the corner in the Municipal Parking Garage. I’ll drop you off at home.”
Murray followed wordlessly. David, staring straight ahead, was aware of the stooped, forward shuffle, the sliding of the large heavy feet along the pavement, the lurching movement slightly to the right and slightly behind him. He could hear the deep intake of stifling air as they thudded down the iron-caged stairway that led, prison-like, to the lowest level of the parking lot.
Opening the door on the driver’s side, David stretched himself across the front seat, pulled up the door lock and motioned Murray around the car. Sitting now behind the wheel of his car, David forced his mind to hardness: to steel. He would drive Murray home; let him off on the street, not see his parents. He couldn’t face that. He would do only what he was capable of doing: no more, no less. He could feel Murray settling his large body into the seat beside him; shuddered at the explosive sound of the door being slammed.
And then, for the first time, he heard his brother’s voice. Unwillingly, he turned toward the words and looked directly at Murray.
“Gee, Davey, I got a terrible headache,” Murray said, the large hand brutally rubbing the top of his skull, the fingers pulling the glasses from his face, digging at the closed eyes, trying to rub the pain away. The voice was from some long dead, long buried time and Murray’s face, twisted now into a lo
ok of utter, complete bewilderment, asked him, “Davey, what was that place? I can’t figure it out. I just got this terrible headache, like pounding the top of my head off.”
David said nothing, fighting back the flood of words. He forced his lips tight against each other, kept his hands rigidly on the steering wheel. Murray’s hands swept upwards over his face, then down his head and pressed hard on the back of his neck, then suddenly, he opened his eyes and his expression changed, his entire face changed. He smiled a delighted, purely happy smile. “Hey, Davey, you know what? I got this feeling: you know, like something really good is going to happen to me today.”
It all collapsed. Somewhere inside of David, it all fell apart. All the years of all the Wednesday nights with Dr. Aronowitz; all of his resolve, firmness, decision. It all collapsed.
The face before him, large and yellowish, the nose tap prominent now, the eyes frantically blinking, the mouth, smiling like a child’s, guileless and mystified, the powerful hand extended by the long and still strong arm to the back of his bare neck, the strong legs, bent at the knees sideways so that his body could settle into the smallness of the car: it all rushed at him and David pulled his own glasses from his face, pressed his hand into his eyes, not trying to stop the tears, just spreading them over his face.
“Hey, Davey,” the voice, concerned, frightened, called to him. “Don’t do that, Davey, don’t do that.”
David’s right hand reached out blindly, touching the cheek, the neck, the powerful shoulder of his kid brother, and over and over again, he sobbed, “Murray—Murray—Murray. Oh God! Murray—why? Murray—why?”
6
CHRISTIE OPARA stood facing her body in the full-length mirror set into the door of her bedroom closet, ignoring the small puddles of water forming around her feet. The towel wrapped around her was practically dry: she was usually in too much of a hurry to dry herself after a shower, though now she wasn’t in a hurry. She had a date to meet Dan Biers at eight; Nora wouldn’t be back with Mickey from their dental appointment until 5:30.
A date with Dan was always a relaxing experience; the conversation, over good food, interesting, informative. Being a corporation attorney, Dan never baited her, never provoked her into those touchy arguments about the role of the police officer in a changing society. Nor did Dan ever suggest they should end their evening, after the theater, in his apartment. (Just that first time, and he accepted her refusal good-naturedly, filing it away for future reference.) She considered Dan, who was legally separated from his wife and son, as an attractive, pleasant, intelligent, good friend. If he were to telephone ten minutes before she left the house, begging off on their date for some reason or other, she would experience no stabbing resentment, no bitter wound, just mild disappointment. In five years of widowhood, she had suffered a few such wounds and had learned how to avoid them.
When she was with Dan, thirty-two years old, darkly good looking rather than classically handsome, Christie was aware of her femininity in a way that did not relate to any of the more basic female needs: his consistent courtesy, his unassuming natural awareness of her intelligence, his planning for an evening that she would find entertaining, made her feel attractive. And yet, at the same time, did not make her feel particularly desirable. This was exactly the way she wanted it.
Standing alone in her room, the house silent except for the soft music of the radio, Christie ignored the fact that she was soaking wet, that her short hair, clinging to her head, was dripping, and she critically studied herself, drawing the towel tightly around her waist so that there was a sharp, bony curving out at the hips. Finally, she let the towel fall to her feet.
Regarding her naked body, she stretched her arms over her head with an athlete’s sense of well-being, aware of her own easy flexibility, pleased with the trim firmness of her stomach and thighs. Christie let her head fall back, enjoying the pull along her throat and the pressure at the back of her neck. Leaning forward, she placed the palms of her hands on the floor in front of her, then slowly uncoiled her spine: not just standing, up, but unwinding herself in specific sequence. Turning sideways, stretching her arms over her head, she frowned. The slight contours of her body flattened: like a boy’s. She leaned forward from the waist, placing her hands on her knees. There. Now she had breasts. But she couldn’t very well walk around bent over like that. Straightening up, she rotated her shoulders backwards. That was supposed to help. But she had tried that before: all she had gotten out of that particular exercise was aching shoulders.
Christie picked up the towel with her toes, flipping it through the air, so that it landed on her head. She rubbed her short hair vigorously until it was damp, then brushed it. Well, it might be short, but it could still be sexy. She set a series of rollers across her forehead so that the bangs would be soft, then four rollers at the crown. She pulled a few hairs forward on her cheeks, setting them in place with Scotch tape.
She opened her lingerie drawer, sniffing at the clean, fresh fragrance of Tweed. She pulled out the flame-red Vanity Fair bra and matching pantie girdle, sprinkled herself freely with the toilet water, drying her fingers on her underwear. I feel sexy and I smell sexy. I can’t help it if I don’t look sexy.
Absently, she fingered her left wrist, feeling the slight indentation where the bone had been fractured when she was twelve. She had run the football right through the line, right through her older brothers, right through all of them, to score the point, even though she had felt her wrist snap. She had gotten up and wouldn’t stop and wouldn’t let go of the ball until she had passed the playground goalpost. To make the point.
Christie stepped into the half-slip, pulling it up over her hips. “Now that,” she said into the mirror, “looks sexy.”
By the time Nora and Mickey returned, Christie had her hair brushed and placed just the way she wanted: soft and casual. She slipped on a jersey shift: bright orange-red. It fitted her easily, outlining her small breasts, resting lightly on each sharp hipbone, her waist suggestively ignored by the fabric. Not bad.
“For heaven’s sakes,” Nora Opara said as she sank into the rocking chair by the window of Christie’s room. “I thought you were going out with Dan Biers tonight”
“I am. Why?”
Nora surveyed her daughter-in-law carefully. “I don’t know, it just looks like you had someone else in mind besides ‘ole buddy Dan.’ You’re wasting that dress on a pal.”
Ignoring Nora’s familiar taunt, she asked, “Any cavities?”
“Me, no. As for our little hero: nobody knows. He began screaming the minute Dr. Endleman said, ‘Well, now, young man, let’s have a look at you.’ That’s all the poor man said. Mickey yelled like he’d been stuck full of darts. Frankly, I think we ought to just let his teeth rot or make him brush with all the magic anti-cavity toothpastes and chew Dentyne gum.”
“Oh, Nora. I should have taken him.”
Nora shrugged easily. “Don’t worry about it. I just shoved him back into the waiting room and glared around at everyone there and asked if anybody knew this terrible child. Of course, everyone immediately denied responsibility for him, so I told him to sit and read a magazine until the child authorities showed up for him. Then I had my teeth cleaned and collected Mickey from a coloring book he was sharing with a little curly-headed girl. Very cute, too. He has good taste. We’ll go back and try again next month. What a little character.”
The clear, watercolor-blue eyes narrowed with amusement, recalling her grandson’s rebellion. Nora Opara, at nearly fifty (her exact age was Nora’s secret), had bright pink skin over a face unlined except for laugh crinkles at the sides of her mouth and eyes. Her face was constantly in motion, registering the expression of every fairytale character she created for her grandson or in perfect imitation of every sales clerk, deliveryman or neighbor with whom she had dealings. In every incident she related, she pointed up the comical aspect of the human condition, with kindness and understanding. There was no trace, no slight hint that the clear
bright face had ever experienced tragedy or discomfort of any kind. There were no visible scars of the sudden, violent widowhood she had suffered nearly sixteen years ago; no mark of the grief and torment of having endured a second inspector’s funeral some five years ago when she saw her only son, Mickey’s father, buried “in the best traditions of the New York City Police Department—killed while performing his duty,” with the added distinction of following the tradition of his father before him.
Yet, sometimes, in the late evening, when she seemed engrossed in the latest lending-library novel, her face, in repose and unaware, revealed a great and heavy sadness. This childishly slender woman, with her female awareness of the continuity of life, had been Christie’s strength during those unbelievable days when Mike had been killed and had to be buried and the whole situation had to be borne.
Nora kicked off her shoes, stretched her toes, then regarded Christie thoughtfully. “Well, your mind isn’t on your son’s rotting teeth. What’s the matter, Chris?”
“Nora, I want to ask you something. Oh, something silly, I guess.”
“I’ll probably have a silly answer for you, so go ahead.”
Christie seemed fidgety, her fingers poking at her hair. “Nora, when—when Mike first told you about me, you know, that we were serious, what did he say?”
It was one of the strong bonds between them: their resolution, through the years since Mike’s death at twenty-five, that they would speak of him easily, naturally. It had been Nora, cutting through the shock and pain, with the sharpened experience of her own widowhood, who had told Christie that they could speak of him. Nora studied Christie’s face intently; it wasn’t the ‘Mike blues’; not this time. There was something else bothering her daughter-in-law.
“Well, he came home one night, all flustered and talking his fool head off about ‘this girl, Christie Choriopoulous,’ and of course, I said, ‘Christie What-ee-opolous?’ and then I shut up because I saw that he was really saying something. Something important.”
The Bait Page 7