Sleight of Hand

by Robin Hathaway

  On my way to my favorite coffee shop, I noticed other changes, not so celebratory: more cell phones, fewer pay phones, more chain stores, fewer small shops, more horn blowing. I was relieved to find my coffee shop still intact and old Beelzebub still in charge. I’d nicknamed him that because his dark brows came to a point over his nose and he wore black shoes that were also pointed. His real name was Eddie.

  “Yo, Jo! How’s it go?” Eddie gave his usual greeting, as if I had been away only a week, instead of a year.

  “Pretty good,” I mumbled.

  “The usual?” He pried no further, respecting the New Yorker’s natural love of privacy.

  I nodded and watched him prepare my vanilla latte.

  “We made a few improvements since you were here.” He nodded at the marble-topped tables and wrought-iron chairs scattered about. “Gotta compete, you know.”

  I knew he was alluding to Starbucks. I hated to disappoint him, but I missed the cozy old wooden booths with the lumpy vinyl seats. “It’s okay,” I said.

  “We still have some booths in the back.” He winked.

  I brightened.

  He smiled. “In fact, I saved one for you—the one with the torn upholstery and the initials carved all over the tabletop.”

  I grinned. “Thanks, Eddie.” I grabbed my latte and my backpack and headed for the darker recesses of the back room, where I could think.

  CHAPTER 22

  Never overlook the obvious. That was my first thought, the mantra I’d learned in medical school. I figured I should go to the public libe and check out the Manhattan phone books—and the ones from all the boroughs—for a Regina Cox or Regina Rawlings. If only I’d brought my laptop, I chided myself. What a jerk I was. I drained my cup and paid my tab. “Don’t leave us for so long next time,” Eddie said as he handed me my change. He wore the same worried expression I’d seen on the woman who’d stopped by my bench. At the first display window I came to, I checked my reflection for signs of ill health. A tall, tan, robust female stared back at me. I stuck out my tongue and walked on.

  Lord & Taylor’s striped awnings were still intact and Patience and Fortitude, the two stone lions, were still guarding the central public library, I was happy to see.

  The phone books yielded nothing useful. Next stop, the microfilm department to scan the Times and Daily News for any articles describing the assault of Jane Lansing. I had to pass through the main reading room to get there and was pleased anew by the rehab there, complete with high stools, sloping desks, and green-shaded lamps. There wasn’t a computer in sight.

  The few articles I found on microfilm were skimpy and unrevealing. The attempted robbery and subsequent death of a woman in Manhattan was too commonplace to attract much notice. One article mentioned that Regina’s husband, Max Rawlings, had served time for jewelry theft. And Mrs. Lansing’s obit stated that she was survived by her husband, Frederick B. Lansing, assistant professor of art history at Columbia University. I repeated my mantra: Never overlook the obvious.

  The obvious thing to do was contact the police department. But I couldn’t do that. The last thing I wanted was to attract attention to the case and remind the police of Max! I glanced at my watch. It was past noon, and all that research had given me an appetite. I headed up Fifth to find the nearest deli. While munching a juicy corned beef on rye, I tried to recall everything I knew about Regina. She was beautiful, selfish, and ambitious, even a bit ruthless. She had gone from secretary to partner of a gifted magician, and all the fame and fortune that entailed. She had even married him. And she had acquired expensive tastes—in jewelry, primarily. Oh, yes, and she liked cats. That was the only thing I liked about her.

  Not much to go on. While waiting for my check, I leafed aimlessly through a weekly neighborhood newspaper someone had left on the table. My eye fell on the “Personals”: “Sexy female desires companion on cruise to Jamaica”; “Arlene, all is forgiven. Please come home. Love, Mom”; and “Tommy, please give me one more chance. S.B.”

  When people change their names, they often keep their old initials, I thought, in case they have some monogrammed clothing or luggage they don’t want to part with. Regina’s would be R.R., since she probably wouldn’t have been able to afford monograms when she was Regina Cox. I tried to think of other clues. Having once been a secretary, she might have started a freelance business offering these skills. But there must be millions of such businesses in the Yellow Pages and on-line, I thought. And she wouldn’t use her own name for her business, but some generic name like Office Aide or Quick Copy.

  I did have some idea of her appearance. Max had described her red hair, milky skin, and green eyes. And I’d seen the artist’s rendering of her on the poster. But Max had said her looks had faded. That probably meant she had gained weight—and of course she would have dyed her hair. So all I had to do was keep an eye out for a pudgy blonde or brunette with the initials R.R. in a city of over seven million. Shit!

  To distract myself, I looked at Tiffany’s windows. The decorators had outdone themselves. An emerald ring perched on a bare wooden spool that had once held thread, a pair of diamond earrings winked from the top of a coil of rope, and a ruby necklace dangled from the spokes of a bicycle wheel. By combining the exotic with the ordinary, the artists had created an eye-catching display.

  Suddenly, my brain began to work full-time. Regina loved jewelry. She named her cats after jewels. What if I place a personal ad in some of those neighborhood newspapers announcing that I’d found a ring with the name Regina engraved inside? Preferably a sapphire, since, according to Lolly, that was Regina’s favorite stone. It was a long shot, but I couldn’t think of anything better. I took a cab back to the library to save time, and spent the rest of the afternoon jotting down the phone numbers of the classified sections of neighborhood newspapers. Then I planted myself in a phone booth for privacy, but used my cell phone to call the papers, dictating my carefully composed ad over and over, until I was hoarse—“Regina: Found sapphire ring. Name engraved inside. Call …”—and once more I gave Dad’s phone number. I must remember to tell him. My credit card had never been used so often, or for such a worthy cause. The thought of my bill for the next month didn’t even bother me. At last I was doing something!

  On the way to the subway that would take me to Queens, I stopped suddenly, to the irritation of the man behind me. He sent me a look, but he’d get over it. What if the real Regina answered my ad and I had no ring to show her? I turned into Forty-seventh Street, Jewelers’ Row, and hurried, because I knew the bearded, black-hatted owners closed promptly at five o’clock. Picking a discount store in need of paint, I went inside. In the murky interior, I saw a man behind the counter. Miraculously, he had just what I wanted: a small sapphire ring with a gold band at a price I could afford. Once again, I called forth the magic power of my credit card. The clerk was in the process of wrapping the little parcel when I stopped him. “Could you engrave a name on that?”

  He looked wary, probably fearing some lengthy moniker.

  “Regina,” I said quickly.

  He looked relieved and nodded.

  “How much will that be?” I asked.

  “Thirty-five dollars.”

  My bill for the ring with the engraving would be over two hundred dollars. This investigation was getting expensive. “Okay,” I said. But I felt no regrets. For the first time since I’d arrived in the city, I felt that thing with feathers Emily Dickinson described: hope.

  CHAPTER 23

  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.

  CHAPTER 24

  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 a
ffiliation?”

  “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.

  CHAPTER 25

  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.