Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(64)

Then my mind races on to Julia tending to his broken body still lying on the court. She kneels beside him and looks up at me with appalled eyes that know that I wasn’t trying to get to a ball at all. Then she turns back to him to straighten his silly glasses and smooth over his hair with the other hand. I drop my racquet and walk off the court, and in real life I straighten up from the reclined chair, open my eyes, and put another log on the fire.

My plan for calmness isn’t working. Being so focused on acting calm never made anyone calm. I think maybe I should start a diary of my own. Maybe I can take all of this and dump it onto the pages of a journal. This wouldn’t be a document to memorialize things so that years from now I could leaf through the pages and recapture the feeling. This would be the opposite. Like removing a wart, I want to cut it out of me and cast it into the pages and never see it again.

I wonder which of these roles Julia’s diary plays for her. I also decide that I’m starting not to like my own company very much. Being alone strips away all the little distractions and corners I can use to hide away from my own thoughts. It unveils me to myself. I know it should be good, like shaving down a callus to bring out the virgin skin. Two days of this will be enough and three too many. Right now I’m not sure I like myself enough to be alone.

I’m a cynical bastard stuck in relationships that I should let go. Churchill said a fanatic is a person who can’t change his mind and won’t change the subject, and I think I’m a fanatically cynical bastard. What I need is a good crisis to help me clean house.

I know I could go stir-crazy here, and I don’t like the image of getting drunk home alone in an emptied beach community, living out a clichéd version of rock bottom. I decide I’ll leave early in the morning to get a workout at the Racquet Club, then get to the office. I’ll be better off if I’m not alone.

My phone rings and it’s William calling. A few days ago I had spoken with the lawyer representing William in the assault charge. It turns out the assistant DA wants to speak with William’s boss, so the idea to include me had never been William’s or his lawyer’s.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Nick. It’s William.”

“What’s up?”

“The ADA is hoping to meet tomorrow at ten a.m. Will you be in the city? Can you make it?”

I’ll have to do it sooner or later. “I’ll be there.”

“Thanks, Nick. I haven’t even been charged yet, so my lawyer thinks this is a good show of confidence that I’m taking this meeting. The DA is One Hogan Place. I’ll be in the office early until about nine a.m., then go to the meeting.”

“Got it.”





23 | DIMAGGIO


January 31, 2006

I FINISH MY MORNING SHOWER AND SHAVE AT THE club, where I keep a suit in my locker. I want to keep my distance from William’s problem as much as possible, so I tell him I need to run some errands and won’t be in the office first but will meet him at the appointment. I get a taxi to the DA’s office all the way downtown. I haven’t been there before, and the taxi drops me in front of an office building that looks as though the architect’s instructions were to make it look as drab and depressing as possible. Across the way is Columbus Park, which has a few sickly trees, patches of grass, and benches sunk into concrete. Only Manhattan would call this a park.

Getting through security is easier than the airports. I put my wallet and watch in a plastic dish and pass through the metal detector while lawyers and staff with badges just breeze around the whole setup. There are three elevators and I take one to the sixth floor for our meeting. I step off the elevator into a main corridor that must be fifty yards long with small tributary halls shooting off the sides. The floor is the plastic-looking Kentile from the first half of the last century, made worse by the inconsistent fluorescent lighting hanging from a ceiling that hasn’t seen new paint since they stopped making Kentile floors. The corridor is lined with cheap metal filing cabinets and natural wood benches outside the office doors. There’s a big difference between a government office and a Bear Stearns office. For the price of one piece of our lobby art, they could redo this whole place.

I walk to the conference room the ADA has reserved for our meeting. A man in a suit is standing by the door and sees me approaching.

“Mr. Farmer?”

“Yes.” We shake hands. He must be the defense attorney because his suit is too nice and his hair too perfect for a government employee. His hair is completely gray but so full and groomed it’s hard to believe it’s gray. It has the thickness that usually only a kid can have. He has a ruddy face and is otherwise unremarkable. Average height, weight, and looks. Probably relates well to a jury.

“Thank you for coming. I’m Alan Gallagher. The ADA is inside. Peter Jeffries. You can go right in. William is waiting down the hall. I’m going to visit with him briefly, then I’ll be back and we’ll get started.” He smiles but it’s awkward and he looks around. I follow his eyes and see a woman seated on a bench near the door. She’s in a plain, matronly dress that can’t hide her stripper body, stripper fake tan, bleached hair, and ankle tattoos. The clothes are overwhelmed by the woman. She’s very attractive, though she looks like she’s been crying. This must be the girl.

“That’s fine.”