Park Lane South, Queens

“And you? I don’t expect that you are anything as … uh … rudimentary as a police officer.”


“That’s a very condescending way to put it and you obviously don’t know a thing about the complexities of the New York Police Department, but, no. I’m a photographer.”

Stefan Stefanovitch had broad, narrow lips. They broke into a wide grin. “I knew it! I knew you were an artist, the minute I saw you!”

“Eee, I hate that word. I just bungle away with my camera, really. I don’t create as much as point and hope for the best. How about you?”

“Diplomatic corps. In town. Over at the UN.”

“That sounds like something to do.”

“Not really. It’s frightfully boring. Listening to dreary speeches all day long and suffering through endless stuffy cocktail parties at night. Being a photographer sounds like much more fun.”

Without looking at him, Claire silently agreed.

“What sort of photography do you go in for?”

“You mean who do I like? Oh, Mary Ellen Mark. Diane Arbus.”

“Arbus?” He scratched his head. “Wasn’t it she who said, ‘Nothing is ever the same as they said it was. It’s what I’ve never seen before that I recognize’?”

Claire whirled around. “Word for word!”

“I saw her work in London, years ago. When I was up at Oxford. Platonism, wouldn’t you say?”

“More like metaphysical idealism,” she argued, pleased. “Well. Here’s where I turn off.”

They both hesitated.

“Nice having met you,” she said.

“Yes. Awfully. Will you run tomorrow?”

Claire stopped. “Gee, I don’t know. Let’s see how my legs feel after today. Maybe I’ll be covered with Ben Gay. I’m not particularly sporty.”

“Wait, I have an idea. I’m having a mob at my place tomorrow night. Perhaps you’d like to come?”

“Oh, I don’t—”

“You could bring your sister,” he fumbled through his pocket, “—the policelady. I have nothing to write my address down on but you could find it easily enough. It’s the first house on Park Lane South with a tile roof. The only one between Mayfair and Grosvenor that faces the street. You can’t miss it. Eight o’clock. Dress however you want.”

“I don’t know. I—”

“Don’t say no!” he insisted, taking her hand in his own slender one and kissing it. He was already off. “See you then!” he cried.

The Mayor looked at Claire. Oh, yuck, was she smiling? Could she like that hideous man? Of course, she wouldn’t go to his stupid party. Preoccupied, they picked their way through the overgrown roadway entrance and didn’t notice the unmarked car in the bush. Johnny Benedetto slumped down in the seat and urgently folded one more stick of Doublemint into his mouth.





CHAPTER 5


“Come on!” Zinnie hollered down the cellar stairs. “If we’re going to this dumb party, let’s go!”

“All right, all right,” Claire muttered to herself. “Be right there,” she yelled from the fuzzy red interior of the makeshift darkroom. “Just finishing!” She scanned the last sheet of black and white as it materialized. Oh boy. Beauties. Real beauties. She inspected them with her loop. The foliage of the woods blended with the Yiddish faces and then, pop! you saw them … camouflaged but distinct all over each picture: oval, ancient portraits like gnarls in the trees.

“Clay-er!! Come on!” Zinnie’s irritated voice bellowed. “It’s eight a’fucking clock! Are we going or not?!”

Claire hung the last sheet up on a wire over her head, rinsed her hands, and switched on the light. She’d go over the last ones later. With one last wistful look, she left the darkroom and climbed the stairs. Zinnie was sitting at the top, Carmela was slouched along the wall.

Zinnie pursed her lips. “I told her she couldn’t come.”

“Of course she can come,” Claire smiled, her heart sinking.

“I don’t care. I mean, if it’s a private party or something just say so and I’ll stay home.”

Claire looked at the two of them. Zinnie was thoroughly annoyed, the way she always was if Carmela was involved. Carmela’s cheeks were two bright patches of insulted apprehension. She was all decked out. The funny thing about Carmela was, as meticulous as she was in her dress, the room she left behind looked as though an army helicopter had flown through. It was always the same: the better she looked, the filthier her room. What state it was in now Claire could only imagine, because Carmela looked terrific.

“Oh, come on,” Claire laughed. “If he doesn’t want all three of us he can—”

“Ought to be glad to have three extra women,” Carmela pushed the screen door open with a burst.

“That’s right,” Claire didn’t hesitate. The minute you made Carmela feel you didn’t want her around, she’d stick like glue. It was some perverse insecurity that made her that way—who knew why? Claire had left Freud back in Germany where she hoped he’d do her Teutonic folk some good.

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