47

At eleven A.M. Toby Grissom checked out of the Cheap and Cozy Motel where he had spent the night on the Lower East Side and started to walk to Forty-second Street where he could get a bus to LaGuardia Airport. His plane wasn’t until five o’clock, but he had to be out of his room and anyhow he didn’t want to stay in it any longer.

The weather was cold, but the day was clear and bright and it was the kind of day on which Toby used to enjoy taking long walks. Of course, it had been different since he started getting the chemo treatments. They really knocked the stuffing out of him and now he wondered if there was any point in taking them any longer if all they could do was to keep him out of pain.

Maybe the doctor could just give me some pills or something so I wouldn’t have to be so tired, he thought, as he trudged up Avenue B. He glanced down at his canvas bag to reassure himself that he hadn’t forgotten it. He had put the manila file with the pictures of Glory in it. They were the most recent ones she had sent him before she disappeared.

He always carried the postcard Glory had sent him six months ago folded in his wallet. It made him feel near to her, but ever since he came to New York, his sense that she was in trouble had gotten steadily worse.

That Bartley Longe guy was bad news. You could tell that in a minute. Sure, he wore clothes that any dope could tell were expensive, and he was good looking but in that narrow-nose, thin-lip kind of way. When he looked at you, it was like you were dirt under his feet.

Bartley Longe had work done on his face, Toby thought. Even a run-of-the-mill guy like me would know that. His hair is too long. Not like those rock stars with those wild mops that make them look like a bunch of bums, but still too long. Bet it cost him four hundred dollars to get a haircut. Like the kind of money those politicians pay to barbers.

Toby thought about Longe’s hands. You’d never guess he ever did an honest day’s work in his life.

Toby realized he was gasping for breath. He was walking close to the curb. Slowly, he worked his way through the stream of oncoming pedestrians, until he reached the nearest building and, leaning on it, dropped his bag and took out his inhaler.

After he used it, he took deep breaths to force more air into his lungs. Then he waited for a few minutes until he felt ready to resume walking. While he waited, he observed the passersby. All kinds of people in New York, he decided. More than half of them were talking on cell phones, even the ones who were pushing strollers. Yak. Yak. Yak. What the devil did they have to say to each other? A group of young women, maybe in their twenties, passed him. They were talking and laughing and Toby eyed them sadly. They were dressed nice. They all were wearing boots that went anywhere from their ankles to past their knees. How did they ever wear those crazy high heels? he asked himself. Some of them had short hair, others had hair down past their shoulders. But they all looked as if they’d just stepped out of the shower. They were so clean they glistened.

They all probably had pretty good jobs in stores or offices, he thought.

Toby resumed his walk. I can understand now why Glory wanted to come to New York. I just wish she’d decided to get a job at an office, instead of trying to be an actress. I think that’s what got her into trouble.

I know she’s in trouble and it’s the fault of that Longe guy.

Toby thought about how his sneakers had made a stain on the carpet in Longe’s reception area. Hope they can’t get it out, he thought as he dodged a homeless woman pushing a cart laden with clothes and old newspapers.

Longe’s private office looks phony, too, Toby mused. Real formal. You’d think you were in Buckingham Palace, but not a paper on the desk. Where does he do all that fancy planning of those houses he decorates?

Deep in thought, Toby almost stepped from the curb after the light turned red. He had to jump back to avoid being sideswiped by a sightseeing bus. I better watch where I’m going, he told himself. I didn’t come to New York to get splattered by a bus.

His thoughts immediately turned back to Bartley Longe. I wasn’t born yesterday. I know why Longe snowed Glory into going up to his country home. That’s the way he talked about his house in Connecticut. “His country home.” Glory was a sweet, innocent girl when she came to New York. Longe didn’t bring Glory up to Connecticut to play tiddlywinks. He took advantage of her.

If only Glory had married Rudy Schell right out of high school. He was crazy about her. Rudy went to work when he was eighteen and has a big plumbing business now. Big home, too. He only got married last year. When I’d run into him, he always asked about Glory. I could tell he still really liked her.

Toby realized he was not that far from the 13th Precinct, where he’d met Detective Johnson yesterday. A thought struck him. That guy never asked to see Glory’s postcard. She printed what she wrote on it, and I thought it was because the card was small and her hand writing was kind of big with all those loops. But suppose she never sent the card herself? Suppose someone figured that I’d be getting nervous about her and decided to put me off looking for her? Maybe that person knows that I’m on my way out.

I’m going to see that Detective Johnson again and sit at his desk, that he says is such a privilege to have, Toby decided, and I’m going to ask him to check this postcard for fingerprints. Then I’m going to tell him that I want him to see Mr. Bartley Longe right now if he hasn’t already. Does Detective Johnson think he’s kidding me? All he’s probably planning to do is to call up Longe and apologize for the inconvenience and then tell him that this old bird came in and he has to follow through. Then he’ll ask him if he knew Glory, and what was the nature of their relationship. Longe will give him the same kind of bull he gave me about trying to help Glory’s career and that he doesn’t hear from her anymore. And Detective Johnson, sitting at his window desk, which doesn’t have a view, will apologize for bothering Mr. Longe and that will be that.

If I miss the flight, I miss the flight, Toby thought as he turned down the block heading to the 13th Precinct. But I can’t go home until that detective checks the fingerprints on that postcard and until he goes face-to-face with that creep Longe and pins him down about when he last saw Glory.