I rode in silence to La Guardia and still had three hours to spare before my flight departed. I was angry, hurt, and bewildered. I couldn’t stand parting like this. Finding an empty chair inside a bar, I ordered a drink and lit a cigarette. I watched blue smoke curl up and dissipate in the hazy air.
Minutes later I was feeding a quarter into a pay phone.
“Orndorff & Berger,” the businesslike female voice announced.
I envisioned the black console as I said, “Mark James, please.”
After a pause, the woman replied, “I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number.”
“He’s with your Chicago office. He’s visiting. In fact, I met him at your office earlier today,” I said.
“Can you hold?”
I was treated to a Muzak rendition of Jerry Rafferty’s “Baker Street” for what must have been two minutes.
“I’m sorry,” the receptionist informed me when she returned, “there’s no one here by that name, ma’am.”
“He and I met in your lobby less than two hours ago,” I exclaimed impatiently.
“I checked, ma’am. I’m sorry, but perhaps you have us confused with another firm.”
Cursing under my breath, I slammed down the receiver.
Dialing directory assistance, I got the number for Orn-dorff & Berger’s Chicago office and stabbed in my credit card number. I would leave a message for Mark telling him to call me as soon as possible.
My blood ran cold when the Chicago receptionist announced, “I’m sorry, ma’am. There is no Mark James at this firm.”
6
Mark wasn’t listed in the Chicago directory. There were five Mark Jameses and three M Jameses, and after I got home I tried each number and either got a woman or some unfamiliar man on the line. I was so bewildered I couldn’t sleep.
It didn’t occur to me until the next morning to call Diesner, the chief medical examiner in Chicago whom Mark had claimed to run into.
Deciding being direct was my best recourse, I said to Diesner after the usual pleasantries, “I’m trying to track down Mark James, a Chicago lawyer I believe you might know.”
“James …” Diesner repeated thoughtfully. “Afraid the name’s not familiar, Kay. You say he’s a lawyer here in Chicago?”
“Yes.” My heart sank. “With Orndorff & Berger.”
“Now, I know Orndorff & Berger. A very well respected firm. But I can’t recall, uh, a Mark James
…”
I heard a drawer opening and pages flipping. After a long moment, Diesner was saying, “Nope.
Don’t see him listed in the Yellow Pages either.”
After I hung up, I poured myself another cup of black coffee and stared out the kitchen window at the empty bird feeder. The gray morning threatened rain. I had a desk downtown requiring a bulldozer. It was Saturday. Monday was a state holiday. The office would be deserted, my staff already enjoying the three-day weekend. I should go in and take advantage of the peace and quiet.
But I didn’t care. I couldn’t think of anything but Mark. It was as if he didn’t exist, as if the man was imaginary, a dream. The more I tried to sort through it, the more tangled my thoughts became.
What the hell was going on?
To the point of desperation, I tried to get Robert Sparacino’s home number from Directory Assistance and was secretly relieved to find it was unlisted. It would be suicidal for me to call him.
Mark had lied to me. He told me he worked for Orndorff & Berger, told me he lived in Chicago and knew Diesner. None of it was true! I kept hoping the phone would ring, hoping Mark would call. I straightened up the house, did the laundry and ironing, put on a pot of tomato sauce, made meatballs, and went through the mail.
The phone didn’t ring until five P.M.
“Yo, Doc? Marino here,” the familiar voice greeted me. “Don’t mean to be bothering you on the weekend, but been trying to find you for two damn days. Wanted to make sure you was all right.”
Marino was playing guardian angel again.
“Got a videotape I want you to see,” he said. “Thought if you was going to be in, I’d just drop it by your house. You got a VCR?”