"What's wrong with that? Clay, what's the matter with you? Don't you want me to be happy?"
"Sure I do, it's just that—oh, fiick it, Laura, you know I hate it when things happen and I don't know about them . . . when I'm 6>Mr5/V/e ..."
"But you can't be in the center of everything," Laura said gently. "Even if you still lived here, I wouldn't tell you everything I do."
"You'd tell me more. What did you call to tell me?"
"They found some of the stolen jewelry."
**They what?"
"In a pawnshop in New York. What do you think we should do?"
"Shit, I don't— What did they find?"
"One of the bracelets."
"Just one?"
"That's all they told us about. They— "
"What else did they sayT'
"Nothing much. They don't know who pawned it but—^"
"But the guy who owns the pawnshop! He must have said something!"
"Clay, if you'd let me talk ... He said it was a young man with blond hair and dark glasses; nothing unusual—^"
"But the receipt! They always sign a receipt! The police must have seen it!"
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"It was signed Ben Franklin. With a fake address."
"And that's ail they have? Nothing else?"
"Aren't you even surprised at the name?"
"Yeah. Real cute of Ben. Is that really all they have? No other clues? Not even where to look next?"
"They say they don't, but I don't suppose they'd tell me if they did. Clay, I can't think of—"
"You're sure they didn't say anything else? Some little thing you might have missed? Damn it, think about it! Are you sure the owner didn't spot something? How come he called the police?"
"He recognized the bracelet from the description the police sent out. Clay, I can't think of anything to do. Can you?"
"No. Stay out of it. We're not involved; nobody thinks we are. How come Ben's in New York, anyway? I thought he was in Europe. You're the one he writes to; did he tell you he was going to New York?"
"No, I didn't know anything about it. You'd think he'd call if he was this close."
"You told him not to."
"Well, I know, but if he really wanted to see us . . . Sometimes I think it would be so nice to see him."
There was a silence. "Yeah, it would," Clay said finally. "He was really great . . . most of the time. Like, remember the time we did that job in Brooklyn, and the people came home early and we had to get out through the attic and across the roof? We were so scared, and Ben kept telling us jokes and he took us to a movie and afterwards we had hot dogs and ice cream. Shit, I have ice cream all the time now, but it tasted better when Ben bought it. Except—Christ, if he gets us in trouble ..."
There was another silence. "I'd better go," Laura said. "Owen expects me in a few minutes. I'll talk to you in a couple of days. But call me first if you think of anything we should do."
"Just keep cool and quiet. And call me if anything else happens. Take care, now."
"I will. I love you, Clay."
"Me, too." Clay was scowling as he hung up. Fuck it, he thought. Things were going pretty good; he was starting to
Judith Michael
make plans; now this had to happen. Three years, for Christ's sake; you'd think any decent pawnshop would throw away pohce descriptions of stolen goods when they hadn't been heard of in three years. What was wrong with those idiots; didn't they ever throw anything away? You couldn't count on anything tfiese days. You thought you were all set and then—
"Clay! You playing with yourself in there?" He shot up as the manager's voice bellowed from the front office. The son of a bitch could still scare him, even though he wasn't making any noises about firing him. Clay knew they didn't like him but, what the hell, why should they? He was a kid of twenty who'd never worked in a hotel in his hfe, and he'd been foisted on them by Felix Salinger, telling them this was their new assistant desk clerk, whether they liked it or not. What were they supposed to do? Cheer?
They didn't cheer, but they didn't make too much noise, either. They were old and shabby, like the hotel; they'd been around forever, like the hotel, and they knew Felix wanted Owen to sell the hotel and build a fancy new one on a bigger lot, which would mean the end of their jobs. They didn't know why Owen hadn't done it, but they didn't ask: they kept their mouths shut and hoped nobody would pay attention to the Philadelphia Sedinger. It may have been fading and shabby, but to the old-timers it was home. |l
None of which. Clay reflected, prevented them from treating him like shit, scheduling him for night shifts and talking around him when he was in the room. But lately he'd begun to win them over. Owen Salinger liked this old hotel for some reason, and Clay figured if he played his cards right he could someday replace Willard Payne as manager and run it himself. Laura kept saying there was a future for them with the Salin-gers, so why shouldn't he be a hotshot executive? After all, if Ben could be a security expert, for Christ's sake, in a hotel in Europe, why couldn't Clay do better than that with the Salin-gers in America?
"Sorry," he said as he walked into the manager's office. "I was talking to my sister in Boston. She sends you her love and says thanks for keeping an eye on me."
Willard Payne adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses. "Bullshit."
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Clay grinned, man to man, and sat on the comer of the desk, leaning close to the old man's hearing aid. "What she said was, I should listen to you. I was telling her you worked the hell out of me and she said it was good for me because I need settling down, and I could leam a lot from somebody who's been in the business as long as you. And I guess she's right."
Willard nodded several times, his loose jowls flapping softly. "A smart young lady, your sister; you could leam from her. Age is wisdom, young man; age is wisdom. You're young, you're impatient, you leam that age is wisdom and you'll be getting smart." He pushed back his chair. "You take over. I'll see you tomorrow."
"It's awfiil late for you to be here," Clay observed. "Almost midnight."
"I'm checking something," Payne said vaguely. "See you in the moming."
Alone, Clay reclined in Payne's chair, his feet on the desk. "Checking up on me, " he mumbled. "Treating me like a goddam high school kid." He knew he was young; it drove him crazy that he wasn't silver-haired and smooth, like a politician or a Mafia don. He wished Laura were there; she'd have said Payne was jealous because Felix had done Clay a favor, and that would have made him feel better. She always could make him feel better; that was one great thing about her. But here he was alone in Philadelphia in a mn-down hotel and he hadn't found a girl yet and nobody gave a danm about him. Ben was gone, and Laura had Owen and some guy, whoever he was— took her to Julien's, for Christ's sake; it probably cost a pile —and who else was there? Nobody.
Shit, nobody in the whole goddam world was as alone as he was.
I need a drink, he decided. The office can take care of itself for half an hour.
He waved at Terry Levonio as he walked into the crowded Brass Ring Saloon, just off the lobby. Terry grinned back beneath the handlebar mustache that had become part of Philadelphia lore. The Brass Ring was a hangout for newspaper and television people, it was listed in Philadelphia tour guides, and it was the only part of the Philadelphia Salinger that consistently made money.
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"Midnight, the hour of melancholy," Terry observed as Clay took the last empty stool at the bar. "And you are in need of a small friend." With dextrous fingers he mixed Clay's favorite scotch and soda. "A companion to cheer night's darkest depths."
"Cheers." Clay drank it off and held it out for a refill. "Was Payne asking about me?"
"The usual. How much time do you spend in here, how much do you drink, do you ever talk about the Salingers, why are you here? Same old stuff. Take this one slowly; I expect customers to let my perfect drinks slither down like a caress, not a fucking Niagara."
"Why not." Clay s
ipped tiie drink. "Nice cuff links," he said, eyeing the jet and diamond rectangles on Terry's starched cuffs.
"A gift."
"Who from?"
"Me to me." He left to serve two women standing at the curved end of the bar; Clay recognized one as a news anchor-woman, the other as the host of a noon talk show. Where did Terry get the money for jet and diamond cuff links? he wondered idly. And the Porsche he drove. And Brioni ties and a Lx)ewe wallet. Taken singly, they were expensive but not impossible; Clay had some Brioni ties, too. But taken together, Terry's lifestyle was a hell of a lot flashier than Clay's. And Clay knew his salary and could guess at his tips.
Only one way, he thought, finishing his drink. He's stealing it. He brooded over the idea. Shit, the guy's probably been stealing the whole time I've been here; something going on practically under my nose that I didn't know about. He can't do that to me; I'm assistant desk clerk; he can't play me for a fool. Another idea struck him. Shit, if there's money missing from anywhere in the hotel, who'd get blamed? Me, who else? Christ, just when I'm straight and making something of myself, this son of a bitch comes up playing tricks.
He did not look up when Terry returned and refilled his glass; he was thinking about how somebody could rip off a bar. The easiest way would be to pocket the money for every third or fourth drink and not ring it up on the cash register. That's what he's doing, Clay decided. He's too cheerful to be honest; he never stops smiling.
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He began to watch. The hours passed; he kept his eyes on Terry's whirlwind fingers, pouring, mixing, serving, playing the keys of the cash register, collecting money and dropping it into the register's compartments without missing a beat. "Who's minding the store?" Terry asked a little after two in the morning.
^They'll call me if they need me," Clay said.
"Some wise fella said the mice play when the cat's not looking," Terry observed cheerfully.
Clay nodded. "I was thinking the same thing."
But he'd been watching for over two hours and whatever Terry was doing, it wasn't pocketing money or failing to ring the charges; he'd swear to that. So it was something else. I should have known, he thought; Ben told me plenty of times that smart thieves make their tricks look legal. He slid off the stool. "Put it on my bill," he said to Terry. "I'll see you tomorrow. What time do you get here?"
"Three o'clock, as you well know since you check my time cards for my inhuman hours."
"You don't work them every day."
"Tomorrow I do. Shall I call you an hour from now to make sure you haven't fallen asleep at your desk?"
"I won't fall asleep. I know how to keep my eyes open." He waved as he left, and the next morning, when the bar was dark and the maids were all upstairs, he slipped quietly into the employees' room in the basement of the hotel and picked the lock on Terry's locker.
He felt like a detective solving a crime. But he felt a different thrill, too. Just like old times, he thought, reveling in the coolness of the metal pick in4iis hand, the feeling of power when the door swung open. Wait'll I tell Laura I can still do it. I No, can't tell Laura; she wouldn't appreciate it. It's my own secret. Except for Terry, of course. Because if I find something, I'm going to stop him dead in his tracks.
Paul reached the top of the seawall and turned to help Laura. But she was already there, taking a smooth, high step to stand beside him, and together they looked out at the silver-blue ocean. This part of the shore of Cape Ann, a knob of land thrusting into the Atlantic north of Boston, was lined
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with enormous rocks dredged up by reclamation teams and wedged together in a wall that stretched as far as the eye could see. On the rocks gulls perched in small congregations; farther 11 out, belted kingfishers wheeled above the ocean's waves, div- ] ing to snatch unwary fish from just below the surface, then, jj their wings beating strongly, climbing straight up to vanish into the bright afternoon mist. Waves pounded the rocks below Paul and Laura, and when the wind shifted a fine spray blew across them, leaving tiny droplets in Laura's hair that shimmered like jewels in the afternoon sun. Paul touched one and then another, and they clung to his finger when he put his arm around her.
"You took those rocks as if they were a stairway," he said. "I never had a chance to be gallant. You didn't tell me you're a climber."
"I haven't been for a long time." She put her head back, feeling strong and free in the fresh salt air. "I used to climb on the rocks up the Hudson with my brothers."
"Your brothers?"
"My brother's friends." She moved away and sat on a rock, tightening her shoelace with shaking fingers. She felt angry and a little sick. She didn't want to lie. She never wanted to lie to Paul or any of the family again. She'd done so much lying she couldn't remember which lie she'd told to whom, and that scared her, but it was more than that. She and Paul had gone out five nights in the two weeks since her party, to dinners and concerts and piano bars where they sat and taJked for hours, and she knew she wanted it to go on forever, just as she wanted everything with the Salingers to go on forever. And that meant being honest with them. It was as simple as that. But, still, if she kept making stupid mistakes . . . How do I get out of a lie that's gotten so big and gone on so long? She stood up but she stayed a little distance from Paul. "Can we walk along the rocks for a while?"
"Good idea. I haven't done it since I was a kid and my father brought me here."
''YouT father?" She was taking a long step to another rock; when her feet were securely planted, she looked back at him. "You and Thomas jumped around here?"
He laughed. "My very quiet father was a champion rower
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and mountain climber until he did something to his back and had to quit." He took the step and joined her. "And who taught you to do this? Not Clay, I'll bet; from what Tve seen, he isn't nearly as surefooted as you are."
"No, it was . . . someone in New York."
"A friend of yours?"
"For a long time he was the best friend we had."
She left him behind, jumping lightly from rock to rock, remembering how it had been to climb brick and graystone walls, clinging with callused fingertips to windowsills and drainpipes and ivy. She speeded up, exulting in her strength. Tennis and swimming, long walks to and from the university, and exploring Boston had kept her muscles taut and responsive. / could do it again if I had to. But I never will.
Paul watched her slender body flowing in long, smooth lines. She reminded him of a dancer whose movements are so liquid there seems no break between them. Or a gazelle, he thought: elusive, wary, quick to flee when startled, beautiful to watch. He followed her, thinking that he knew more about her than he had known two weeks earlier, but still far less than he had expected. After two weeks with any other woman, he would have known about her past, her ftiends, her likes and dislikes, and the feel of her beneath him. He would have been able to categorize her. He hadn't realized, until now, how predictable his affairs had grown, or how absorbed he could become in a woman who was so different: frustrating, annoying, fascinating, and enthralling. And fitting into no category that he could think of.
Some distance ahead, Laura had stopped and had bent down to pick something up. "It's a tiny ring made of stone," she called, the lilt of her voice carrying over the crash of the waves below them. "Or maybe it's bone. Isn't this amazing?"
He caught up to her and looked at the tiny ring in her palm. "Crinoid. Distant cousin of the starfish and the sea urchin." He took it from her palm. "It's a fossil, probably about three hundred fifty million years old."
Laura stared at him. "Three hundred fifty million?" He handed the fossil back and she touched it with her finger. "It's so hard to comprehend; it's like touching infinity." She smiled. "You'd think, if something can survive this long and this perfectly, love affairs and reputations could, too."
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He laughed. "Well put. It makes us sound f
ickle and hopelessly short-hved."
She was still rolling the small ring in her palm. "What did it look like?"
"It probably had arms, like plumes on top of a stalk. A paleontologist would know for sure,"
"Starfish . . . sea urchin," she whispered as if the words conjured magic images. "Incredible ... so many marvelous things waiting to be discovered." She tucked the fossil into the pocket of her jeans. "Wouldn't it be wonderful to have a collection of things like this? Then when something bad happened we could take them out and remember that some things are perfect and don't disappear and if we keep trying . . ." She flushed, then gave Paul a quick smile. "Of course, lots of people wouldn't need that."
He put his hand under her chin. "You have the strangest notion that the worid is full of people who have no problems. I don't know where you got it. Even this crinoid isn't perfect; after all, it died."
Laura broke into laughter. "You're right. I'd better find something else to envy."
"No." He held her face between his hands. 'There's nothing and no one you should envy. My sweet girl, you outshine everyone; if you'd just learn to trust yourself as much as everyone trusts you— "
"Thank you," Laura said quickly. She felt dizzy, as if all of her were being drawn to the warmth of Paul's hands and she could scarcely feel her feet balancing on the rocky ledge. "Don't you think we should turn back? Isn't it getting late?"
He shrugged, feeling purposely misunderstood, and followed her as she made her way along the rocks. She was moving quickly, almost flying, and as he kept up with her, Paul began to lose his annoyance and respond to the beauty around them and the exhilarating harmony of his body. The ocean had quieted, its waves lapping at the dark rocks that seemed to change color from moment to moment beneath lengthening shadows and a copper sun low in the sky. The air was warm, but a breeze brou^t a hint of evening coolness. When he saw the parking lot, he was regretful; it was ahnost like leaving childhood.
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f
mm 'I'm glad you suggested that/' he said to Laura as they sat If in the car. "You brought back my youth and made it better , tiian it ever was, even in my memory." He backed out of the I parking lot. "I don't know when I've had a better day." f "When you photographed the beautiful women in the marketplace at Avignon," Laura said mockingly.
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