Authors: Robin Hathaway
Sleight of Hand (8 page)
I spent a restless night. Bits and pieces of Max's story kept turning up in my dreams, along with a heavy feeling of sadness over his and Lolly's plight. What a terrible way to live, hiding out like fugitives, in constant fear of being discovered by the police. And he wasn't even guilty! At one point, I got up in the middle of the night and turned on my laptop. I searched the Internet for Regina via her maiden and married namesâCox and Rawlings. There was nothing under Cox, but Rawlings brought up a slew of stuff about “Amazing Max the Magician” and “his beautiful partner, Regina.” All this ended abruptly the year Max went to prison. After that, there was nothing. Nada. I shut down and went back to bed, falling into a fitful sleep.
I woke up feeling more tired than when I'd gone to bed. I dragged through my daily routine with the enthusiasm of a wet rag. I put off calling on Max until the end of the day, reluctant to face him after his confession. I was afraid the delicate balance of our relationship might have been upset. But I needn't have worried. He greeted me with his usual indifference. I examined his wound and he went back to his TV.
Jeopardy
was his choice that night. It was as if he had never spoken to me about his past. He had crawled back
into his cocoon, his safe house, donning his role of fugitive as easily as a set of old clothes.
Jeopardy
was his choice that night. It was as if he had never spoken to me about his past. He had crawled back
into his cocoon, his safe house, donning his role of fugitive as easily as a set of old clothes.
As I rode home, I felt as if I was dragging a huge weight with my bike. I knew it was depression. Slowly, I came to a decision. I would try to find Regina. I would go to New York and look for her. I was sure that Manhattan was the city she would have returned to. It was the one she loved and knew best. And she'd have little to fear. All she would have needed to do when she returned was change her name, dye her hair, and steer clear of anything remotely related to magicians or magic.
The minute I made up my mind, I felt better. My bike sped along like a gull as my mind churned with plans: what to tell Max; who to get to cover my practice while I was gone; and the best way to get to New Yorkâby train or my Honda? By the time I got home, I'd decided to tell Max a white lie: say my father was sick, and I had to visit him for a few days; beg Barry to cover for meâagain; and take the train, because the thought of maneuvering my Honda on the Jersey Turnpike gave me the willies.
The next day, I stopped at the farmhouse early because I had to teach Lolly how to change Max's dressing. I expected this to be a difficult chore, but, to my surprise, she caught on quickly and was proud to be of help. This spurred me on because I realized if Lolly was free to go to school, she could probably learn some useful vocation that would make her independent.
Max swallowed my white lie without question. And Barry was happy to help me out. My biggest problem was deciding what to wear. I'd been in jeans and sneakers for so long, I'd forgotten how to dress up. Not that you had to dress up to go anywhere nowadays. I'd seen people at the opera in sweatshirts and jeans. Besides, I reminded myself, I was no longer a fancy specialist working for an upscale medical group who needed to dress the part. On the contrary, I was a low-end general practitioner from the boondocks whoâconsidering my clandestine missionâwould do best to keep a low profile.
I threw on a pair of black pants and a black turtleneck, then slipped into a pair of black clogs. I stuffed a pair of pj's, a change of underwear, toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant in my backpack and was ready to go. At the last minute, I tossed in a windbreaker in case the ideal fall weather took a turn for the worse. A trench coat would be more to the point, I thought ruefully, considering the Sam Spade role I was about to play.
When I entered Philadelphia's Thirtieth Street Station after a jarring bus ride from Bridgeton, New Jersey, I realized with a jolt that I could no longer afford the Metroliner and would have to settle for New Jersey Transit, saving over fifty dollars. The con side of this was that the trip took three hours instead of one and a half, and I would have to change in Trenton. Oh well, at least I was dressed for the part.
Despite the uncomfortable seats and freezing draft that swept through the car at every station stop, I dozed most of the way. Except for my rude awakening at Trenton, where I was forced to get off and find the connecting train to New York, it wasn't a bad trip.
As the train neared Penn Station, I came to and was suddenly aware of a knot in my stomach. Hunger? I'd had my usual breakfast of coffee and two doughnuts. No, something else was turning my gut into a stony ball. This was the first time I would be spending time in the city from which I had made such a hasty, emotional exit over a year ago. I had been back a couple of times to see Dad, but then I had gone straight to Queens, dodging through Manhattan underground, my emotional blinders securely in place. This time was different. I would be revisiting some of my old haunts and
might even run into some of my old medical colleagues. In some ways, New York can be like a small town. Certain people frequent certain places and you run into them often. Was I up to this? My brain told me yes, but my stomach was sending a different message.
might even run into some of my old medical colleagues. In some ways, New York can be like a small town. Certain people frequent certain places and you run into them often. Was I up to this? My brain told me yes, but my stomach was sending a different message.
I stepped out of the station, onto Seventh Avenue. The city was in full swing, and I felt giddy. October is the month when the city is at its peak, fully charged, raring to goâall vestiges of the languorous summer days long gone. It is impossible to resist the force of so much purposeful energy. Everyone, from the pretzel vendor to the Wall Street swell, is hell-bent on some vital mission, usually to make more money. My mission was different, but I joined the flow to avoid being bumped into the gutterânot really, it just seemed that way.
I fell into step, quickly adapting to the dart-and-dodge dance required of every pedestrian. It came back easily. Before I had gone a block, I had picked up the rhythm and was in perfect sync. I glanced up at the patch of blue sky caught between two skyscrapers and thought of the acres of blue sky over the fields I had left behind. The sirens, horns, and incessant cell phone chatter set me thinking of the silence of Bayfield, which was interrupted only by the call of a bird or the chirp of a cricket. While waiting for a light, I watched two garbagemen hurling bags into the dark cave of their truck, and another picture came to mind: two farmhands chucking bales of hay into an open truck with the same dexterity, probably using the same muscles.
By the time I reached Thirty-fourth and Fifth, it was as if I'd never left. I was moving as naturally in the crowd as a fish swims in the sea. But where was I going? I spied an empty bench near the curb. This was new, wasn't it? I dropped down and closed my eyes, shutting out the electrifying scene. I tried to pull my thoughts together and think what to do next.
“You feelin' all right, honey?”
I opened my eyes, to see a middle-aged woman wearing a concerned expression.
“Oh, yes, fine.” I was embarrassed.
“You sure?”
I nodded vigorously.
“Well, you just sit awhile and take a load off your feet.” She gave me an encouraging smile and went on.
Good grief! What had happened to this city? Was this an after-affect of 9/11? Some humanitarian wave? Next thing, someone would offer me a seat on the subway. I sat up straight and adopted my most alert expression, hoping to ward off any further well-meaning inquiries about my health. I decided what I needed was a stiff cup of coffee.
On my way to my favorite coffee shop, I noticed other changes, not so celebratory: more cell phones, fewer pay phones, more chain stores, fewer small shops, more horn blowing. I was relieved to find my coffee shop still intact and old Beelzebub still in charge. I'd nicknamed him that because his dark brows came to a point over his nose and he wore black shoes that were also pointed. His real name was Eddie.
“Yo, Jo! How's it go?” Eddie gave his usual greeting, as if I had been away only a week, instead of a year.
“Pretty good,” I mumbled.
“The usual?” He pried no further, respecting the New Yorker's natural love of privacy.
I nodded and watched him prepare my vanilla latte.
“We made a few improvements since you were here.” He nodded at the marble-topped tables and wrought-iron chairs scattered about. “Gotta compete, you know.”
I knew he was alluding to Starbucks. I hated to disappoint him, but I missed the cozy old wooden booths with the lumpy vinyl seats. “It's okay,” I said.
“We still have some booths in the back.” He winked.
I brightened.
He smiled. “In fact, I saved one for youâthe one with the torn upholstery and the initials carved all over the tabletop.”
I grinned. “Thanks, Eddie.” I grabbed my latte and my backpack and headed for the darker recesses of the back room, where I could think.
Never overlook the obvious. That was my first thought, the mantra I'd learned in medical school. I figured I should go to the public libe and check out the Manhattan phone booksâand the ones from all the boroughsâfor a Regina Cox or Regina Rawlings. If only I'd brought my laptop, I chided myself. What a jerk I was. I drained my cup and paid my tab. “Don't leave us for so long next time,” Eddie said as he handed me my change. He wore the same worried expression I'd seen on the woman who'd stopped by my bench. At the first display window I came to, I checked my reflection for signs of ill health. A tall, tan, robust female stared back at me. I stuck out my tongue and walked on.
Lord & Taylor's striped awnings were still intact and Patience and Fortitude, the two stone lions, were still guarding the central public library, I was happy to see.
The phone books yielded nothing useful. Next stop, the microfilm department to scan the
Times
and
Daily News
for any articles describing the assault of Jane Lansing. I had to pass through the main reading room to get there and was pleased anew by the rehab there, complete with high stools, sloping desks, and green-shaded lamps. There wasn't a computer in sight.
Times
and
Daily News
for any articles describing the assault of Jane Lansing. I had to pass through the main reading room to get there and was pleased anew by the rehab there, complete with high stools, sloping desks, and green-shaded lamps. There wasn't a computer in sight.
The few articles I found on microfilm were skimpy and unrevealing. The attempted robbery and subsequent death of a woman in Manhattan was too commonplace to attract much notice. One article mentioned that Regina's husband, Max Rawlings, had served time for jewelry theft. And Mrs. Lansing's obit stated that she was survived by her husband, Frederick B. Lansing, assistant professor of art history at Columbia University. I repeated my mantra: Never overlook the obvious.
The obvious thing to do was contact the police department. But I couldn't do that. The last thing I wanted was to attract attention to the case and remind the police of Max! I glanced at my watch. It was past noon, and all that research had given me an appetite. I headed up Fifth to find the nearest deli. While munching a juicy corned beef on rye, I tried to recall everything I knew about Regina. She was beautiful, selfish, and ambitious, even a bit ruthless. She had gone from secretary to partner of a gifted magician, and all the fame and fortune that entailed. She had even married him. And she had acquired expensive tastesâin jewelry, primarily. Oh, yes, and she liked cats. That was the only thing I liked about her.
Not much to go on. While waiting for my check, I leafed aimlessly through a weekly neighborhood newspaper someone had left on the table. My eye fell on the “Personals”: “Sexy female desires companion on cruise to Jamaica”; “Arlene, all is forgiven. Please come home. Love, Mom”; and “Tommy, please give me one more chance. S.B.”
When people change their names, they often keep their old initials, I thought, in case they have some monogrammed clothing or luggage they don't want to part with. Regina's would be R.R., since she probably wouldn't have been able to afford monograms when she was Regina Cox. I tried to think of other clues. Having once been a secretary, she might have started a freelance business offering these skills. But there must be millions of such businesses in the Yellow Pages and on-line, I thought. And she wouldn't use her own
name for her business, but some generic name like Office Aide or Quick Copy.
name for her business, but some generic name like Office Aide or Quick Copy.
I did have some idea of her appearance. Max had described her red hair, milky skin, and green eyes. And I'd seen the artist's rendering of her on the poster. But Max had said her looks had faded. That probably meant she had gained weightâand of course she would have dyed her hair. So all I had to do was keep an eye out for a pudgy blonde or brunette with the initials R.R. in a city of over seven million. Shit!
To distract myself, I looked at Tiffany's windows. The decorators had outdone themselves. An emerald ring perched on a bare wooden spool that had once held thread, a pair of diamond earrings winked from the top of a coil of rope, and a ruby necklace dangled from the spokes of a bicycle wheel. By combining the exotic with the ordinary, the artists had created an eye-catching display.
Suddenly, my brain began to work full-time. Regina loved jewelry. She named her cats after jewels. What if I place a personal ad in some of those neighborhood newspapers announcing that I'd found a ring with the name Regina engraved inside? Preferably a sapphire, since, according to Lolly, that was Regina's favorite stone. It was a long shot, but I couldn't think of anything better. I took a cab back to the library to save time, and spent the rest of the afternoon jotting down the phone numbers of the classified sections of neighborhood newspapers. Then I planted myself in a phone booth for privacy, but used my cell phone to call the papers, dictating my carefully composed ad over and over, until I was hoarseâ“Regina: Found sapphire ring. Name engraved inside. Call ⦔âand once more I gave Dad's phone number. I must remember to tell him. My credit card had never been used so often, or for such a worthy cause. The thought of my bill for the next month didn't even bother me. At last I was doing
something
!
something
!
On the way to the subway that would take me to Queens, I stopped suddenly, to the irritation of the man behind me. He sent
me a look, but he'd get over it. What if the real Regina answered my ad and I had no ring to show her? I turned into Forty-seventh Street, Jewelers' Row, and hurried, because I knew the bearded, black-hatted owners closed promptly at five o'clock. Picking a discount store in need of paint, I went inside. In the murky interior, I saw a man behind the counter. Miraculously, he had just what I wanted: a small sapphire ring with a gold band at a price I could afford. Once again, I called forth the magic power of my credit card. The clerk was in the process of wrapping the little parcel when I stopped him. “Could you engrave a name on that?”
me a look, but he'd get over it. What if the real Regina answered my ad and I had no ring to show her? I turned into Forty-seventh Street, Jewelers' Row, and hurried, because I knew the bearded, black-hatted owners closed promptly at five o'clock. Picking a discount store in need of paint, I went inside. In the murky interior, I saw a man behind the counter. Miraculously, he had just what I wanted: a small sapphire ring with a gold band at a price I could afford. Once again, I called forth the magic power of my credit card. The clerk was in the process of wrapping the little parcel when I stopped him. “Could you engrave a name on that?”
He looked wary, probably fearing some lengthy moniker.
“Regina,” I said quickly.
He looked relieved and nodded.
“How much will that be?” I asked.
“Thirty-five dollars.”
My bill for the ring with the engraving would be over two hundred dollars. This investigation was getting expensive. “Okay,” I said. But I felt no regrets. For the first time since I'd arrived in the city, I felt that thing with feathers Emily Dickinson described: hope.
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