by Joan Smith
In the studio, the grey-haired anchorman said: ‘What’s the latest, Shari?’
She nodded, not missing a beat. ‘Questions are being asked about the exact role in today’s dramatic events of store manager Arnie Lorenzo. Earlier today Lorenzo was being hailed as the hero of the hour when he offered himself as a hostage on condition that his assistant was freed. Nineteen-year-old Stavros Jones’ — a blurred snapshot appeared briefly on the screen — ‘was hit in the hand and shoulder when the raiders burst into the store armed with hand guns and semi-automatic weapons shortly after nine o’clock this morning. The hostage deal was brokered by Elder Roberto Rush of the nearby Resurrection Day Chapel after talks between a police negotiator and the raiders reached deadlock.’
‘Shari, if I can stop you there. You’re on the spot, are the cops now suggesting that Arnie Lorenzo is not the hero we all thought? That maybe he was in on this from the start?’
‘Well, Pete, it’s certainly looking that way. Lorenzo’s wife Suzanne was escorted home to Queens by the cops and found that items including a suitcase, clothing and securities were missing. There’s also no sign of yesterday’s takings, which Lorenzo should have banked on his way home last night.’
‘Any indication how much is missing?’
‘It’s early days –’
‘In ball-park terms.’
‘OK. Definitely thousands. All this week the store has been running a special promotion, neighbours say it’s been unusually busy –’
‘Any word from the medics on Stavie Jones?’
‘Well, Pete, this is an interesting point. This morning the cops were saying Lorenzo hit the alarm button as the raiders stormed in but now it looks like it was Stavie, and that’s when he got shot.’
‘So Stavie’s the real hero of the hour?’ The lop-sided photo appeared again, just long enough for Loretta to make out a youth with glasses.
‘Looks like it, Pete.’
‘And what about Elder Rush? I guess he’s feeling kind of embarrassed at this outcome? Did he have any idea that Lorenzo was in on the deal?’
The reporter shook her head. ‘Elder Rush was called in because the mother of one of the alleged raiders worships at the nearby Resurrection Day Chapel –’
‘We’re talking local boys?’
‘From the neighbourhood, yes.’
‘Thanks, Shari. I’ll come back to you later in the hour so you can keep us right up to date on developments.’ Adopting a sonorous tone, he looked directly at Loretta and announced: ‘Now, Bosnia.’
Loretta turned off the TV. She stood by the set for a moment, then returned to the phone and dialled the Gramercy Park Hotel. Tracey answered, still sounding cheerful, and told her he was in the middle of shaving.
She twisted her wrist. ‘At five to five?’
‘Five o’clock actually, your watch must be slow. I had a busy morning, if you remember. We on for tonight?’
Loretta explained about Kelly’s party.
‘You must be doing better than I thought if your agent can afford a place on East 81st Street. Maybe I should think again about this book business.’
‘She has other clients, you know. One of them is the woman who wrote that book about reincarnation — Death: Only the Beginning, it’s been on the New York Times bestseller list all year.’
‘Which one, fiction?’
Loretta said impatiently: ‘She took me on because she likes Edith Wharton, she’s hardly going to make a fortune out of me. Can I meet you at the restaurant?’
‘All right. But don’t be late, I’ve booked a table for half eight.’
‘Without asking me?’
‘Come on, Loretta, this is New York. You don’t wait till Saturday evening and start thinking about where to eat.’
‘So what’s it called?’
‘The restaurant? I said on the machine, the TriBeCa Grill.’
‘What?’ She remembered the matchbook, the one she’d found behind the diadoumenos, picturing it quite clearly. ‘No, you didn’t, I would have remembered, you only said a restaurant in TriBeCa.’
‘So?’ He was starting to sound peeved. ‘I thought you were keen on De Niro.’
She said blankly: ‘What’s he got to do with it?’
‘Oh, Loretta. I thought everyone knew — look, I’ll tell you later, I’ve got shaving foam all over my face. See you at half eight.’
‘Wait. Have you been there before?’
‘Why? What is this?’
‘Have you?’
‘No. If you remember, I only got in to New York yesterday morning and I was with you last night.’
‘I meant — before.’
‘Bloody hell. I have never been to the TriBeCa Grill in my life, this one or any other previous incarnation. That satisfy you?’
‘All right. Sorry. See you later.’
Biting her lip, she went to the hook on the back of the front door where Honey’s lead was kept and lifted it down. The dog stretched out her front paws with her bottom in the air, growling and yelping excitedly. Loretta was struggling to attach the lead to her collar when the phone rang. ‘Stay there,’ she said sternly to the dog, and went to answer it.
Her hand was actually on the receiver when she remembered Michael. Her fingers opened uncertainly, hovering over the phone as its familiar tone took on the guise of a threat. In quick succession she recalled the phone pest’s gasps of pleasure as he masturbated the previous night, the triumphant expression on the car salesman’s face when he humiliated her in front of all those people at the Frick —
She rushed across the room and activated the answering-machine, holding her breath while she waited to hear Michael’s distinctive, insinuating voice speaking on to the tape. Instead there was a longish silence and then the sound of the line being disconnected. Loretta stood very still and almost at once it rang again, unnaturally loud over the rattle of the air conditioning. Again she let the machine take the call, telling herself that Toni or any other legitimate caller would undoubtedly leave a message. The silence this time was shorter, but once again there was a click and the unknown caller disconnected without speaking. Loretta shivered, a response which prompted her, illogically since she wasn’t really cold, to cross the room and turn down the air conditioning. It took her a moment to remember that she’d been on her way out and she had got as far as the front door, the poop-a-scoop and a clean plastic bag in her free hand, when the phone rang a third time. A male voice spoke into the room, one she thought she recognised as Lieutenant Donelly until she picked up a faint, foreign inflection.
‘This is Detective... Detective Destri, Ms Lawson. Are you at home?’
She pushed the door wide, trying to hook Honey’s lead over the handle so the dog couldn’t wander off on her own. It slipped off and Honey pranced into the corridor as though they were playing a game, growling at Loretta when she followed. She made an unsuccessful grab at the lead and gave up, hoping the dog would not roam too far while she spoke to Donelly’s subordinate.
Inside the flat the detective, sounding anxious and uncertain, was explaining that Lieutenant Donelly had had to go out. ‘He wanted you to know that we ... we have a location on your nuisance caller, we’ve traced the, um, the bells to a church down on first Avenue. He said this is your last night in New York so it’s vital... really important you’re there when he calls, maybe our last chance ...’
First Avenue? Loretta listened intently, staring at the phone, making no move to pick it up.
‘The lieutenant thought you’d be home right now, what I’m thinking is maybe you’ve put the machine on while you’re in the tub? I guess I better not stay on the line but if you get this message we’d be grateful if you’d pick up soon as you get another call. As long as you know we’re ... we’re right on his ass.’
There was a click and Loretta remained where she was, rooted to the spot. Donelly, Destri, there was no doubt the voices were very similar ... From the beginning something hadn’t seemed quite right, the likelihoo
d that there were still old-fashioned exchanges in New York where numbers couldn’t be traced automatically. Yet Donelly had sounded so convincing, and it wasn’t as if anybody else she’d gone to for help — the operator, the precinct she had called on Thursday evening — had shown any interest at all. Loretta put her hand up to her head, silently going through the sequence of events, until a loud bark reminded her that Honey was loose in the corridor. She turned to see the bulldog regarding her pugnaciously through the open front door, growling and whining and pawing the edge of the carpet.
‘All right,’ she said distractedly and began collecting her things for the third time — keys, plastic bag, poop-a-scoop. In the lift she leaned back, closing her eyes as it rode down to the ground floor, too wrapped up in her thoughts to notice that the attendant was looking at her oddly. Nor did she react when someone tried to attract her attention as she crossed the lobby.
‘Hey, lady.’
This time she did stop, realising that the porter was speaking to her.
‘You wanna see me about somethin’?’
Loretta stared at him, vaguely aware that she’d left a message for him but unable to remember why. She dragged the dog with her to the desk, winding the lead round her hand and ignoring Honey’s protests. ‘I thought — weren’t you supposed to come on duty at four?’
He regarded her stonily, obviously thinking his lateness was none of her business. She shrugged to show it didn’t matter and an idea occurred to her. ‘You didn’t ring me about ten minutes ago?’ she asked hopefully. ‘When the answering-machine was on?’
‘Nope. Couple times I tried, line was busy.’
Her shoulders sagged. ‘Oh well, never mind.’ It came back to her, what she had wanted to see him about, and she added in a different tone of voice: ‘The man you told me about last night, the one who tried to sneak upstairs. Remember?’
‘Sure.’
‘Was he bald? I mean,’ she amended, mentally picturing the car salesman, ‘was he losing his hair?’
He grinned. ‘No way.’
‘He wasn’t?’ She stared at him. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure.’
‘What colour hair did he have?’
The porter considered. ‘Long,’ he said finally, as if this was an answer to her question.
Loretta was barely able to contain her exasperation. ‘He had long hair?’
‘Sure.’
‘How long? Like mine?’
He lifted both hands to the back of his head and made a pulling motion, which Loretta could not immediately interpret.
‘You mean a pony tail?’ she hazarded. She was disappointed and relieved at the same time, thinking the description suggested one of Toni’s students. It certainly didn’t fit the car salesman. ‘I mean — it definitely was a man?’
He lifted his eyebrows contemptuously.
‘I just thought I’d ask, since you seem to have noticed nothing about him. Oh well, thanks,’ she added ungraciously. ‘Come on, dog.’
Honey was lumbering to her feet when she heard the porter say: ‘Guy was here again.’
Loretta turned. ‘Who was?’
‘Same guy.’ He tapped the book lying open on the desk in front of him, the one in which she’d seen him write down the complaint about the air conditioning system the night before. Turning it round so she could read it, he pointed to an entry in black biro half-way down the left-hand page. ‘See?’
The handwriting was cramped and indistinct but years of deciphering students’ scripts meant that Loretta was able to read almost anything — including Tracey’s new girlfriend’s handwriting, she recalled, shoving the thought away. The note was from the porter on the earlier shift, the one who had still been on duty when she came back, covering for his late colleague. She felt a spurt of annoyance that he hadn’t mentioned the incident when she inquired about the absence of the black porter, though to be fair she hadn’t said why she wanted to speak to him.
This time the man, described as ‘young guy with long hair’, had apparently made some attempt to impersonate a courier, holding up an envelope and saying he had to deliver it in person to 15G. When he was challenged, he flatly refused to leave it at the desk and couldn’t produce any evidence of his identity or the company he said he worked for. Loretta made a mental note of the time, 2.10 that afternoon, although it told her nothing.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said, straightening up. ‘If he’s really got something for Toni, an essay’s the most likely thing, why didn’t he just put it in her post box?’ She gestured with the poop-a-scoop, pointing towards the rows of wooden boxes on a side wall. The key to the box was on a ring in her skirt pocket with Toni’s spare front door key.
‘I mean,’ she went on, thinking aloud, ‘I know students occasionally get worked up about their essays but — Honey, stop that.’ The bulldog was pulling on her lead, trying to sniff the bottom of a black poodle whose owner was crossing the lobby.
‘It’s OK. Honey and Lulu are friends, aren’t you girls?’ said the poodle’s owner, clearly a more tolerant woman than Loretta.
Barely acknowledging her, Loretta rolled her eyes upwards and made another attempt to leave the building. Honey went with her reluctantly, casting longing glances over her shoulder until the poodle disappeared into the lift. Then, still a trifle sulky, she allowed Loretta to lead her through the swing doors into the street.
‘So I’m standing in front of this picture and I’m feeling like — ‘Katha Curran rolled her eyes upwards in a gesture apparently intended to re-create the astonished recognition she had experienced in the art gallery. Loretta looked down at her feet, wondering how soon she could decently sidle away and find someone else to talk to. She was finding the party hard going, all strangers except Kelly and her husband Alan Larner whom she did not know well.
‘Like?’ someone said encouragingly, an older woman who had already told Katha twice that she absolutely loved her book.
‘Like I’ve seen her before,’ Katha said bathetically. ‘Not seen her, because till then I never even heard of her. But I’m getting this feeling, I’m staring right at her and she’s looking back at me and I just know what she’s trying to tell me. She has this little dog, real cute little fella, and it comes into my head that she lost him and some guy brought him home and she’s so grateful. You can tell from the way she’s holding on to him, like she don’t want to be parted from him again ever.’
Across the room, Kelly Sibon caught sight of Loretta’s pained expression and grinned sheepishly. She lifted her hands palm upwards, dissociating herself from what Katha Curran was saying.
‘You really never heard her name before?’ another of Kelly’s clients asked sceptically. She was a cookery writer, and had been telling Loretta about her eccentric recipe for zabaglione —apparently she added currants and chopped almonds — when Katha arrived late and took the floor.
‘There was a film,’ said Loretta, trying to turn the conversation away from Katha’s book. ‘With Glenda Jackson as Lady Hamilton. In — oh, 1972 or thereabouts.’
A tall man who hadn’t been introduced said: ‘You’re talking about the movie based on the Rattigan play, right? Did you ever see That Hamilton Woman?’
Loretta smiled. ‘No, but it sounds terrible.’
‘Alexander Korda, 1941, if memory serves. With Vivien Leigh and Olivier.’ He grinned. ‘It’s supposed to have been Churchill’s favourite movie.’
‘I never saw no movie,’ Katha interrupted. ‘I never even heard of her till my niece takes me to this musuem. Lady Hamilton, it says on the frame, and it don’t mean nothing to me. Couple days later, I’m at my friend Eileen’s house and her library books are on the table. First one I pick up, there she is again, same picture. And then –’She stopped.
Loretta said, trying not to sound as bored as she felt: ‘And then you read it?’
‘I did not. I wait till my friend comes back with the coffee cups all laid out on a tray and I say to her — Eileen,
did you read this? Sure, she says, and I say — you wanna ask me some questions? Go right ahead.’
The small group waited.
Katha said: ‘I got every one. Every single one. That’s when I knew. That I was her, this Lady Hamilton, in another life.’
Loretta frowned. ‘What I don’t understand is, in your book you say you’ve been able to recall what, five previous lives?’
‘Six.’
‘OK. Who else do you ... ’She hesitated, caught the eye of the man who seemed to know a lot about films, and thought she was going to laugh. ‘I mean, who else have you ... been?’
Katha Curran flicked her hennaed hair back from her sallow face, making her ear-rings tinkle. They were complicated designs in multi-coloured beads and silver, the kind of jewellery Loretta had seen in New Age shops in Cow Hollow. She suspected that if she asked, Katha would say they were traditional Native American designs, dream-catchers or some such thing.
‘You want them in order?’ she heard Katha say. ‘Like -chronological?’
‘All right.’
‘This is not how I remembered them, right? I mean, when I began hypnosis, I had to really trust my therapist before I was able to go all the way back. Imhemet, the Egyptian slave, I only remembered her at the end. She was killed by a rival — ‘
Loretta said: ‘Imhemet?’
‘— a rival because the king liked her singing better, he was so upset when she died he gave her a state funeral.’ She held out her hands, half closing her eyes. ‘They laid her body on a boat and took her down the Nile –’
The man next to Loretta said: ‘Was this before or after she’d been embalmed?’
‘After. I can recall every detail of the process, if you’re interested in making a study of it, it’s all in my book. Next is Sarah, she was a girl from a rich Roman family, senators and stuff, who heard St Paul preaching and converted to Christianity.’
‘What happened to her?’ Katha’s fan asked breathlessly.
