The Anniversary Man (27 page)

′What I said, nothing more. You look like Columbo′s understudy.′

′Jesus, you really are a very charming person.′

′So whaddya say? You wanna go out or what? We can have something to eat and we can finish our conversation.′

Irving hesitated, but only for a moment. ′Yes,′ he said, realizing that this was something he actually wanted to do. ′God, why the hell not?′

′That′s great,′ Langley said. ′Makes me sound like the last resort for a desperate man.′

′I didn′t mean that—′

′Hey, it′s okay, Detective Irving . . . relax. I′m done about six, six-thirty, and I′m not taking you anywhere fancy so you don′t need to dress up.′ ′You′re not taking me anywhere fancy?′

′The 1950s was a golden age, Detective Irving, but they′re over. It′s perfectly acceptable to be taken out by a woman.′

′Okay, yes . . . sure. Okay then. Six or six-thirty . . . I′ll come meet you there if that′s all right?′

′You don′t want your colleagues to see me. I understand.′

Irving frowned. ′That′s not what I meant—′

′Jesus,′ Langley interjected. ′It′s so easy to yank your chain. Loosen up, for God′s sake, I′m just teasing you. Meet me here just before seven, okay?′

′Okay, Ms Langley.′

′Ms Langley?′ She laughed. ′See you later, Detective Irving.′

The line went dead. Irving sat there for a moment with the receiver burring in his ear. And then he leaned forward and replaced it in the cradle, and with a strange half-smile on his face he rose from his chair and walked to the window.

He′d just been asked out. By a woman. Asked out by Karen Langley from the New York City Herald. He′d called her back set for a fight, but he didn′t get one. He got propositioned, and he accepted the proposition, and in - he glanced at his watch - in about eight and a half hours he was going out on a date for the first time in a long, long while. Losing Deborah Wiltshire had broken his heart, and he′d been left stranded. Had he even thought about the possibility of starting all over again?

Ray Irving smiled to himself. He was ahead of himself by a mile. The woman had asked him out. They had a conversation to finish. As of this moment it was business, nothing more nor less. It would be better to keep it that way, but Irving knew what loneliness was and he found himself unable to concentrate on the task at hand.

It was this, above all else, that told him he was already in trouble.

R
ay Irving owned one good suit.

Wool and cashmere, a deep rose-brown with a fine chalk stripe. He′d bought it for a wedding he′d attended with Deborah. A friend of hers, a good friend, and Deborah had told him that if he didn′t make an effort she wouldn′t take him. He′d wanted to go. It had been important to her, and he didn′t want to let her down, so he bought the suit. Went to an exclusive outfitters on West 34th near the synagogue, and spent six hundred dollars. Had worn it once for the wedding, and then put it away.

Afternoon of Wednesday, September 13th, he drove home at five. He showered and shaved, ironed a shirt, found a tie. He took the suit from where it had hung in the cupboard for the better part of five years, hoped it would still fit him. It did, in all but the waist. He′d lost weight, just an inch or so around his middle, but it reminded him that his quality of life had been better with Deborah. She had insisted he eat well. She had made him stop smoking. She had taught him something about music and literature, made him listen to hours of jazz standards, Shostakovich and Mahler, got him to read Paul Auster, William Styron, John Irving. For Deborah he had made an effort. Deborah was the kind of woman who made him want to be a better man.

So he dressed in the freshly ironed shirt, the color-coordinated tie, the one good suit, and then stood for a moment by the front door of his apartment on West 40th and 10th and asked himself whether he could do this.

Go out with a woman.

A woman other than Deborah Wiltshire.

And if he could, would it be a new beginning, a change of heart, a different direction - or would it be a betrayal?

Before he left he went back into his bedroom, picked up a small silver-framed snapshot that he′d kept. The only picture of Deborah he owned. Everything else he′d asked her sister to take away, and her sister had smiled, had understood, had accepted his doorkey and come over with her husband while Irving was at work. She′d taken almost everything, and only weeks later did he find the hair straightener, the pair of flat-soled shoes with the right toe worn through, the things he now perceived with a sense of balance and perspective. But his perspective had been that of a man alone, a man without someone. Now he was looking outside of himself, looking beyond the accepted parameters of what their relationship had represented. Unity. A simple agreement. We have one another. There is no-one else. Had this tacit understanding ever extended to there will never be anyone else?

Irving touched the smooth glass surface of the picture. Deborah Wiltshire looked back at him. She was half-smiling, an expression which said that everything of importance about this moment was already known. I am here, it said. I am me. I will never be anything more or less than who I am now. Take it or leave it.

Irving returned the picture to its rightful place on the surface of the dresser. He walked away without looking back. Her expression in the picture was neither judgmental nor censorious. She understood Ray Irving, had understood him better than anyone, and she would appreciate his situation now. Would she want him faithful to their memory, ignoring all others, ignoring his own emotional and physical needs, or would she want him to have a life? He considered that she would wish the latter, and so he didn′t feel guilty as he let himself out of the apartment, and walked to the car, his shoes clean, his shirt pressed, his only good suit seeing daylight for the first time in half a decade.

Evening had begun without him. The sky was overcast and it looked like rain was on the way.

 

Irving arrived at the offices of the New York City Herald at six twenty-five. He didn′t go inside, didn′t want to be seen by anyone who might recognize him. Most of all he did not want to be seen by John Costello. Come what may, he had to maintain a measured viewpoint. He had to be realistic. Karen Langley was a journalist. Costello was her researcher and, as of this moment, a man who knew perhaps more than anyone else about the significance of these recent murders.

In this light - waiting patiently for Karen Langley to emerge from the City Herald building on 31st and Ninth - he wondered if he hadn′t already made a very serious mistake.

P
erhaps Karen Langley felt the same sense of concern about who might see her, for she hurried around the back of Irving′s car without waiting for him to open the passenger door. She was out of breath, a little flustered, and when Irving was settled in the driver′s side she seemed eager to leave. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it was Irving′s imagination feeding his uncertainties.

′East 72nd,′ she said. ′Up near St James and the Whitney Museum . . . there′s a place I like.′

Irving started the car, but before he pulled away he hesitated.

′What?′ Langley asked.

He turned and looked at her. ′This is not something I usually do,′ he said.

′What . . . driving?′

Irving smiled. She was trying to make him feel at ease.

Karen Langley reached out and touched Irving′s arm. ′It′s not something that any of us usually do, Detective—′

′I think we′re gonna have to drop the formality now, don′t you?′

Karen Langley shook her head and frowned. ′I′m sorry . . . what is your first name?′

′Oh fuck off,′ Irving said, and he started laughing, and she was laughing with him. He started the engine and pulled away from the sidewalk. Whatever was going to be said didn′t need to be said any more.

 

It was a good restaurant. It felt right, sufficiently quiet that they didn′t have to fight to be heard over the hubbub of people. In the background was music Irving recognized - Teddy Wilson, Stan Getz. He felt overdressed with his good suit and his silk tie; she didn′t comment on it, and for this he was grateful.

′You asked me about John,′ she said, after they′d studied the menu.

Irving shook his head. ′We have to have a line, you know?′

She frowned.

′I′m heading up a multiple homicide case. You′re a journalist. Whichever way you cut it, it′s not a good combination for dinner discussion.′

′I am a human being, you know?′

′I didn′t say you weren′t—′

′That′s not what I mean. I meant that there is a point where the job ends.′

Irving smiled resignedly. ′Maybe that′s my problem . . . maybe there isn′t a point where the job ends.′

′You′re different,′ she said.

′Different?′

′Your job means a great deal more to these people than mine does. Your job is to make sure that people stay alive, I just have to tell ′em about it after the fact.′

′So we have a line?′

She touched his hand again. ′We have a line, Ray, don′t worry. There are no tape recorders.′

′And you don′t have a memory like John Costello?′

′Jesus no, the guy is an encyclopedia.′

′What is the deal with that?′ Irving asked.

Karen Langley unfolded her napkin and rested it on her lap. ′The deal? I don′t know that there is a deal. From what little he′s told me, it seems that the injury he suffered when he was attacked as a kid resulted in certain faculties being extended.′

′Extended?′

′That′s the word he uses, calls them extended faculties. He says that he can just remember stuff. I mean, for what it′s worth, you couldn′t hope to have someone better as a researcher. The guy′s like the internet, except you don′t have to wade through three hundred pages of bullshit to find what you want. At first, for a few weeks or so, I would wait until he′d left the office and then go through everything and insure that all the dates and times and places were correct, and then after a while I stopped doing it.′

′Because it wasn′t necessary.′

′Everything I checked came back accurate. It was unreal. Quite unreal.′

′So what do you think about him?′

′Honestly? He′s a good guy. I don′t know what to tell you. He does things a certain way. He eats the same thing each day of the week pretty much.′

Irving′s expression said everything.

Karen laughed. ′Mondays is Italian, Tuesdays he eats French, Wednesdays he has hot dogs with ketchup and German mustard, Thursdays he leaves to fate, Fridays he goes to this Persian restaurant in the Garment District near where he lives. Weekends I think he has Chinese take-out or something. He has lunch in the same diner every day, a block or so from the office. I don′t think he has a girlfriend, and if he does he′s never mentioned her to me, not in nearly ten years. His parents are dead. He has no brothers or sisters.′

′Lonely,′ Irving said.

′Alone yes, but I don′t really see him as lonely,′ Karen said. ′He does what he does, and the routine seems to be enough. Oh, and he counts things, and he also makes up names for people . . .′ She smiled.

′What?′

′He has a name for you.′

Irving raised his eyebrows. ′A name for me?′

′Sure. He puts words together, makes up names for people that describe them. He has one for me, one for the other guys in the office, and now he has one for you.′

′Which is?′

′Detective Hardangle.′

′ Hardangle? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?′

′John has a theory about people. He thinks that people are not just one character, one personality. He believes they have many different facets and, depending on their environment and things like upbringing, education, family relationships - you know, all the usual stuff - certain facets of the person become more prevalent than others.′

′Situational dynamics,′ Irving commented.

′Right. So, depending on what′s going on around someone, there are certain aspects of their personality that come to the fore.′

′And this says what about me?′

′You really want to know?′

′Sure,′ Irving said, smiling.

′He says that you′re not as tough as you look, and that your job makes you wear this hard face, you know? He says that you actually do have a heart, and that there was something that happened in your life that closed you down emotionally—′

′Okay,′ Irving said. ′Enough of the armchair psychoanalysis.′

′Don′t take it too seriously,′ Karen Langley said. ′You wanna hear what he calls me.′

′And what does he call you?′

′He calls me the quiet tornado.′

′Meaning?′

′That he believes I have the capacity to strip away anyone′s defenses without them even knowing it.′

′Well, all right then,′ Irving said. ′So the weather′s on its way out, don′t you think? Seems that winter is definitely here. You ready to order? Would you like a starter or shall we go right for the main course?′

Karen Langley balled up her napkin and threw it at him. She smiled pretty. Very pretty. She had depth and color, and there was something about her that was a great deal more than he′d anticipated, and for a moment he felt a prick of guilt at the thought that what he was doing could be construed as a betrayal. Deborah had been dead for . . . He paused. She had been dead since November, the better part of ten months. Perhaps he′d been dead too . . .

Karen broke into his thoughts. ′You′re a funny guy,′ she said. ′You do actually have a sense of humor.′

′It′s a rumor,′ Irving replied. ′We think we′ve got a lead on who started it and we′re closing in on them.′

′So,′ she said, ′I want a cocktail. I want a Long Beach iced tea.′

′A what?′

′Long Beach iced tea . . . gin, rum, vodka, triple sec, sweet and sour and cranberry. You never had one?′