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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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BOOK: Sleight of Hand
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My dad's home, once mine, was located on a busy thoroughfare. It was a solid square brick building with white trim. The print shop was on the first floor and he lived above—in a four-room apartment: two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen dinette. They were fair-sized rooms and I had never felt cramped. The sign over the door looked newly painted, but the words were the same: BANKS' PRINTING, in gold letters on a black background.
As I approached the door I heard the familiar throb of the press. I had called him and said I was coming, but I hadn't mentioned the time, for the simple reason that I hadn't known when I'd arrive. I was glad he was working. Dad was the sort of man who was happiest when occupied. He grew cranky and depressed if he was idle too long. The door was unlocked. I dropped my backpack by the door, as I had dropped it hundreds of times when I had come home from school, and went to find Dad. He was in the next room, adjusting the paper cutter, that lethal instrument that reminded me of a guillotine.
“Hi, Dad!”
He looked up, and his expression of grim concentration dissolved into a broad grin. I ran into his arms.
We went to his favorite hangout for dinner—Murphy's. Everyone knew him, not because he was a heavy drinker—far from it, since two beers a night were his quota—but because he went there often, was good company when he wasn't working, and tipped well. I was glad he had a place to go after work, where he was welcome and they treated him right. Of course the whole staff knew me, too. Had known me since I was old enough to go to Murphy's for dinner without setting too many tongues wagging. It was an exclusively Irish neighborhood back then. Now there were Asians, Hispanics, and Italians living there, too.
When the news spread that Banks and his daughter were in the restaurant, Murphy himself came out of the kitchen and gave me a big hug. “How's the doctor? Making big bucks?” he asked.
I guess Dad hadn't told him about my change in venue. “Yeah, sure. Have to bring a wheelbarrow to haul those gold bricks home every night,” I said.
He laughed and said dinner for two was on the house. Dad argued and, as usual, lost. The same routine had been going on since I first went away to college, and came home for Thanksgiving. That time, Murphy had bullied Dad into accepting two full-course turkey dinners and I had my first legal glass of wine.
Satisfied that he had won the argument, Murphy went back to the kitchen and Dad and I settled into our booth with two mugs of beer. Later, we indulged in two bowls of beef stew with dumplings, a Murphy specialty. Sitting across from Dad, I noticed new lines in his face and more white in his hair. But his gaze had the same intensity and he listened intently to my every word—just as he had when I was a kid. From the time I could say my first words, I was the talker and Dad was the listener. Without saying anything, he had a way of egging me on with his eyes, and this night was no different. He seemed to drink in everything I said like a man dying of thirst.
For the first time, I found myself unburdening myself of the whole tale of Max and Lolly (minus the gun). This was the one person
I could trust. I knew the story would be safe with him. When I got to the part about why I had come and my search for Regina, he interrupted for the first time. “If you do find this woman, you should appeal to her maternal instincts, Jo. Ask her to make the sacrifice for her child.”
“Ha.” My single sharp laugh shocked him. I told him about Regina's antipathy to Lolly and how she had abused her.
“That's unnatural.” Dad shook his head.
“Yes,” I agreed.
When I told him I might have to stay an extra night to complete my investigation, he was overjoyed. “We can have dinner in Brooklyn, take a walk over the bridge and see the skyline,” he said, looking like a kid who had just received a new bicycle. This bridge walk had been one of our favorite pastimes when I was a child—that and a ride on the Staten Island ferry. Dad always said he was a tourist at heart, and I took after him. I still looked up at the tall buildings like any rube from the boondocks. Then I remembered that now I
was
a rube—from south Jersey.
Before I turned in, I called Max on my cell phone to check on his hand. Everything was okay. “How's your Dad?” he asked, in turn.
I had to think before I remembered my white lie. Dad was supposed to be sick. “Oh, he's coming along,” I said.
My room hadn't changed. Everything was the same as when I'd gone off to college—down to the giant poster of Pierce Brosnan on the wall and the teddy bear with one eye on my bed.
I slept better than I had in weeks.
I woke to the beat of the press in the print shop below my room. Dad was getting an early start. I glanced at the alarm clock beside my bed. Oh my god! Not early, I thought. It was nine o'clock. I had forgotten to set the alarm. What was I thinking? I had to get into the city. I showered, dressed, and was in the kitchen by 9:20, pouring coffee from a pot Dad had thoughtfully left plugged in for me. I snagged a muffin from a plate nearby and was on my way. I stuck my head in the shop and yelled over the racket, “Meet you at Molly's at six!”
“You bet.” Dad looked younger in his work shirt and apron. As the press spit out the sheets, he leaned forward, snatched one up, and inspected it for flaws. “Stop the press!” He waved at the helper, who was in charge of the feeding end of the press—my job, once upon a time. I left feeling happy that Dad had work to do.
On the train into the city, I planned my strategy for the day. It was always best to have something to do on the subway; otherwise, you might catch someone's eye—a no-no for subway riders. I took a pad and pen from my backpack and made some notes. Never overlook the obvious, I told myself yet again.
1.
Buy
Times.
Check for magic shows.
2.
Check Yellow Pages under “Secretarial Services” for any with names of Cox or Rawlings.
3.
Get off at the right stop!
I got off at Times Square and headed for the library. The jostling crowd was intent on one thing: getting to work on time. I bought a paper and searched the entertainment section for magic shows. No soap. A disheveled elderly man shook his cup at me. I dropped some change in and was rewarded with a “god bless.” I had seen many like him at Bellevue, when either the cold or the heat drove them inside. Or sometimes they just needed detox. A thought struck me. What if Regina had fallen on bad times? What if she was in a homeless shelter? There were so many, it would be impossible to search them all. Besides, it was still balmy, and the homeless went to the shelters only in extremis, when the weather turned bitterly cold. Another dead end. After checking the Yellow Pages at the library for secretarial services and coming up with zilch, I was at a loss as to what to do next.
It had seemed so easy from a distance, back in Bayfield. But up close, Manhattan was overwhelming. I'd forgotten how enormous it was, how anonymous. You couldn't get chummy with the police chief and find out who had committed the latest misdemeanor, or soften up the postmistress to get the latest gossip. I stood on the steps of the library, staring at the streams of yellow cabs sailing down Fifth Avenue, the hordes of pedestrians plowing through the intersection at Forty-second Street, and thought what a fool I'd been to think I could find Regina in this megalopolis. In the back of my mind flickered Emily's tiny feather of hope—the personal ad. But that was such a long shot.
I decided I needed a pick-me-up. I strolled up to Bloomingdale's and went in for a quick shopping fix. But I emerged empty-handed. After a year in south Jersey, the prices seemed outrageous.
Did people really pay three hundred dollars for a blouse? Besides, where would I wear a Bloomie's outfit in Bayfield? The rodeo? An auction? The pancake breakfast at the fire house? I headed downtown, bought a hot dog and a soda from a vendor, and sat on the steps of St. Patrick's to people-watch—once a favorite pastime of mine, but not available in Bayfield. Bird-watching was more up their alley. Wrong. There were no alleys in Bayfield. I was on my way to pay my respects to the Chrysler Building, my favorite New York landmark, when a hand came down on my shoulder from behind and a hearty voice said, “Dr. Banks?”
I turned and saw a face from the past, from another world, another life. Dr. Philip Graham, my mentor and friend, professor of general surgery at Bellevue. “Hi,” I said, acutely aware of my jeans, T-shirt, and sweater.
“How are things going?”
“Pretty good.”
“Where are you practicing now?”
“Uh—I'm doing some private work …”
“You don't say. What's your hospital affiliation?”
“Bridgeton,” I muttered.
“Brigham. Well, you can't do better than that.”
“No, Bridgeton, New Jersey,” I said.
He scanned my face for some clue to explain what I was telling him. People pushed around us as we blocked the parade downtown.
“Nice to see you, Doctor.” I grabbed his hand, shook it, and rejoined the moving throng. I glanced back once and saw him looking after me with a puzzled expression. Oh hell! I thought.
I continued walking in a daze, unaware of people, buildings, traffic, as if encased in my own plastic bubble. Tires squealed, horns blew, and the bubble was burst by an irate driver who had almost hit me. I stepped back on the curb. At least in New York, no one paid any attention to the incident. If I'd been in Bayfield, it would have been the talk at the General Store for days. Deciding more coffee
was in order, I ducked into a Starbucks and ordered a large regular. The clerk looked offended because I hadn't ordered something fancier. This gave me great satisfaction. I took my plain brew to an empty table and sipped it slowly, trying not to scorch my tongue. Gradually, I recovered from my bump with the past and returned to thinking about my current mission. It was discouraging. I'd really made no progress and could think of nothing more to do. I window-shopped until it was time to take the train to Brooklyn and have dinner with Dad.
Dinner got off to a rocky start when Dad asked me about Tom Canby.
“He's okay,” I said, hedging. Dad had fallen for Tom in a big way when he had paid me a visit in Bayfield. He had Tom pegged as prize husband material. Sometimes he was worse than a nagging mom. I loved being with Tom once or twice a week, but I wasn't ready for anything more. I kept him at bay because my feelings for him were stronger than I was willing to admit. I was trying to keep our relationship in the slow lane, at least for the time being. “He's giving me archery lessons,” I said, in an effort to placate Dad.
He brightened. “How're you doing?”
“Not good. My concentration wanders.”
“Why's that?”
“Too many things on my mind.”
“Like this woman you're tracking?”
I nodded.
“Have you made any progress?”
I shook my head and told him about the personal ad. “By the way, I gave them your number,” I said with a sheepish grin.
He smiled. “That's okay. It'll be nice to hear the phone ringing again.”
I felt a pang of guilt and made a mental note to call him more often.
Our food came and we talked of other things—such as some of the printing disasters we'd worked on together. On one particular job, a full-color cover for an annual report for an important company, we hadn't been able to get the ink to dry. And we'd had a twenty-four-hour deadline. We'd tried everything—from surrounding the press with space heaters to using my hair dryer. Nothing had worked. Finally, Dad had realized it wasn't the ink that was to blame, but the paper. He'd printed the job on coated stock, which refused to absorb the ink. When he ran the job on uncoated stock, it dried right away. When I'd praised him for his insight, he'd said modestly, “I just looked at the job from a different angle.”
Mellow with good food and wine, we began our stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge in a happy frame of mind. It was a perfect night, mild, with a slight wind off the East River. There was even a moon to supply the Manhattan skyline with an extra glow. But when we were halfway across the bridge, we paused, both struck at the same time by the empty space where the Twin Towers had been. They had been there when we had last walked the bridge a few years ago. We were silent for a moment. When we moved on, our mood had changed from mellow to somber and remained that way on the subway until we reached home. Before we headed off to bed, I asked, “Do you think it will happen again?”
He knew immediately what I meant. Maybe he was wondering the same thing. But he was all reassurance, as he had always been when I was a kid. “Lightning never strikes twice,” he said, and gave me a good-night kiss.
Of course in Bayfield, the chances of a terrorist attack were slim. Then again, there was that nuclear plant … .
BOOK: Sleight of Hand
2.59Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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