“What places do you like?” Christina asked.
“Old Rhodes Key. That’s one place you won’t see frozen spit on the sidewalk. Fact, you won’t even see a sidewalk.”
“You old curmudgeon.” Christina said it much too sarcastically for Stranahan. “Come on, let’s get a cab.”
Her apartment was off 72nd Street on the Upper East Side. Third floor, one bedroom with a small kitchen and a garden patio scarcely big enough for a Norway rat. The furniture was low and modern: glass, chrome, and sharp angles. One of those sofas you put together like a jigsaw puzzle. Potted plants occupied three of the four corners in the living room. On the main wall hung a vast and frenetic abstract painting.
Stranahan took a step back and studied it. “Boy, I don’t know,” he said.
From the bedroom came Christina’s voice. “You like it?”
“Not really,” Stranahan said.
When Christina walked out, he saw that she had changed to blue jeans and a navy pullover sweater. She stood next to him in front of the painting and said, “It’s supposed to be springtime. Spring in the city.”
“Looks like an Amoco station on fire.”
“Thank you,” Christina said. “Such a sensitive man.”
Stranahan shrugged. “Let’s go. I gotta check in.”
“Why don’t you stay here?” She gave it a beat. “On the sectional.”
“The sectional? I don’t think so.”
“It’s safer than a hotel, Mick.”
“I’m not so sure.”
Christina said, “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“It’s not me I was thinking of. Believe it or not.”
“Sorry. Please stay.”
“The Great Reynaldo will not be pleased.”
“All the more reason,” Christina said.
They ate a late lunch at a small Italian restaurant three blocks from Christina’s apartment. She ordered a pasta salad and Perrier, while Stranahan had spaghetti and meatballs and two beers. Then they took a taxi to the Plaza Hotel.
“She’s here?” Christina asked, once in the lobby and again in the elevator.
Stranahan knocked repeatedly on the door to Maggie Gonzalez’s room, but no one answered. Maggie was in bed, coasting through a codeine dreamland with a brand-new face that she had not yet seen. The sound of Mick Stranahan’s knocking was but a muffled drumbeat in her delicious pharmaceutical fog, and Maggie paid it no attention. It would be hours before the drumming returned, and by then she would be conscious enough to stumble toward the door.
Her big mistake had been to call Dr. Rudy Graveline four days earlier when she had gotten the message on her machine in Miami. Curiosity had triumphed over common sense; Maggie had been dying for an update on the Stranahan situation. She needed to stay close to Rudy, but not too close. It was a dicey act. She wanted the doctor to believe that they were on the same side, his side. She also wanted to keep the expense money coming.
The phone call, though, had been peculiar. At first Dr. Graveline had seemed relieved to hear her voice. But the more questions Maggie had asked—about Stranahan, the TV people, the money situation—the more remote the doctor had become, his voice getting tighter and colder on the other end. Finally Rudy had said that something had come up in the office, could he call her right back? Certainly, Maggie had said and—stupidly, it turned out—had given Rudy the phone number at the hotel. Days later the doctor still had not called back, and Maggie wondered why in the hell he had tried to reach her in the first place.
The answer was simple.
On the thirteenth of February, the man known as Chemo got off a Pan Am flight from Miami to New York. He wore a dusty broad-brimmed hat pulled down tightly to shadow his igneous face, a calfskin golf-bag cover snapped over his left arm to conceal the prosthesis, a pea-green woolen overcoat to protect against the winter wind, and heavy rubber-soled shoes to combat the famous New York City slush. He also had in his possession a Rapala fishing knife, the phone number of a man in Queens who would sell him a gun, and a slip of prescription paper on which were written these words in Dr. Rudy Graveline’s spastic scrawl: “Plaza Hotel, Rm. 966.”