“You can’t heal the world, Liebchen. I know you know that. You can only work with one person at a time, in a very small way. And over the individuals you help you have much effect. It’s only the megalomaniacs, the Hitlers and their ilk, who think they have the answer for everyone’s life. You are in the world of the sane, Victoria, the world of the limited.”
She took me into the kitchen and fed me the remains of the chicken she’d cooked for Max. She continued to pour brandy into me until I was ready for sleep. After that she took me to her spare room and undressed me.
“Mr. Contreras,” I said thickly. “I forgot to tell him I was spending the night here. Can you call him for me? Otherwise he’ll have Bobby Mallory dragging the lake for me.”
“Certainly, my dear. I’ll do it as soon as I see you’re sleeping. Just rest and don’t worry.”
When I woke Sunday morning I felt light-headed, the result of too much brandy and tears. But I’d had my first thorough sleep since my attack; the soreness in my shoulders had diminished to the point where I no longer noticed it every time I moved.
Lotty brought in The New York Times with a plate of crisp rolls and jam. We spent a leisurely morning over papers and coffee. At noon, when I wanted to start talking about Art Jurshak—about some way to get past his ubiquitous bodyguards to speak to him—Lotty silenced me.
“This will be a day of rest for you, Victoria. We’re going to the country, get fresh air, turn the mind off completely from all worries. It will make everything seem more possible tomorrow.”
I gave in with as good grace as I could muster, but she was right. We drove into Michigan, spent the day walking at the sand dunes, letting the cold lake air whip our hair. We dawdled around in the little wineries, buying a bottle of cherry-cranberry wine as a souvenir for Max, who prided himself on his palate. When we finally returned home around ten that night, I felt clean throughout.
It was a good thing I’d had that day of rest. Monday turned into a long, frustrating day. Lotty was gone when I woke up—she makes rounds at Beth Israel before opening her clinic at eight-thirty. She left me a note saying she’d looked at Dr. Chigwell’s notebooks after I went to bed, but didn’t feel confident in interpreting the blood values he’d been recording. She was taking them to a friend who specialized in nephrology for a reading.
I called Mr. Contreras. He reported a quiet night, but said that young Art was getting restless. He’d loaned him a razor and a change of underwear, but he wasn’t sure how long he could keep the boy at the apartment.
“If he wants to leave, let him,” I said. “He’s the one who wanted protection. I don’t really care too much if he doesn’t want to accept it.”
I told him I’d be by to pack a small suitcase, but that I was going to stay with Lotty until I felt more secure against midnight marauders. He agreed, wistfully—he’d much rather I sent young Art to Lotty and stayed with him and Peppy.
After stopping at my place for a shower and a change of clothes, I went downstairs to spend a few minutes with Peppy and Mr. Contreras. The strain of the last few weeks was starting to etch hollow lines in young Art’s face. Or maybe it was just thirty-six hours spent with Mr. Contreras.
“Do you—have you done anything?” His uncertain voice had faded to a pathetic whisper.
“I can’t do anything until I’ve talked to your old man. You can help make that happen. I don’t see how I can get past his security guards to see him alone.”
That alarmed him—he didn’t want Art, Sr., to know he’d come to me; that would really get him in hot water. I reasoned and cajoled to no avail. Finally, getting a little testy, I headed for the door.
“I’ll just have to call your mother and tell her I know where you are. I’m sure she’d be glad to set up a meeting between me and your old man in exchange for knowing her precious baby was safe and sound.”
“Goddamn you, Warshawski,” he squeaked. “You know I don’t want you talking to her.”
Mr. Contreras took umbrage at the young man’s swearing at me and started to interrupt. I held up a hand, which mercifully stopped him.
“Then help me get in touch with your dad.”
At last, fulminating, he agreed to call his father, to say he needed to talk to him alone and to set up a meeting in front of Buckingham Fountain.
I told Art to try to set the appointment for two today—that I’d call back at eleven to check on the time. As I left I could hear Mr. Contreras upbraiding him for talking so rudely to me. It sent me southward with my only laugh of the day.
My parents had banked at Ironworkers Savings & Loan. My mother had opened my first savings account for me there when I was ten so I could stash stray quarters and baby-sitting earnings against the college education she long had promised me. In my memory it remained an imposing, gilt-covered palace.