“Et cum spiritu tuo,” Scanlon said by rote, and both men smiled in the conspiracy only lapsed Catholics shared.
“Fat Nickie Nicoletta, Frankie Palumbo...”
“Nice company the kid’s keeping...”
“Joey Di Luca...”
“Enough already,” Scanlon said.
“The way I figure it,” Michael said, “we’ve got probable cause coming out of our ears.”
“Oh, really?” Scanlon said. “Where? How do you know anything criminal is going down in that shop? They could be using it as a social club, a place to meet, have a cup of coffee, talk about who’s cheating on his wife, what horse looks good in the fifth at Belmont, whatever, none of it criminal. Where’s your p.c., Michael?”
“We’ve got Faviola and his brother on a wire, talking about the kid taking over when...”
“So let’s say he did.”
“So all at once he shows up at this tailor shop every day of the week...”
“Maybe he likes clothes.”
“... and, he’s visited there, by ten thousand capos who are running operations like narcotics and loan-sharking and...”
“That doesn’t mean that’s what they talk about there.”
“I think they’re reporting to him, Charlie.”
“Gut feelings don’t add up to probable cause.”
“Let’s try it on a judge.”
“I don’t think it’ll fly.”
“It’s worth a shot.”
“Okay,” Scanlon said, “write your affidavit, and I’ll ask the Boss to make application for an eavesdropping warrant. We’ll pick our judge, and hope for the best. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” He puffed on his pipe again, and then looked up and asked, “Who’s sitting this week?”
She was wearing a black silk robe monogrammed in red with the letters AF over the breast pocket. She had rolled up the sleeves, and she was sitting in one of the living room easy chairs, her legs tucked under her. He had mixed drinks for both of them — a Scotch and soda for her, a Beefeater martini for himself. Like a cat getting used to new surroundings, Sarah had prowled first the upstairs bedroom and then the kitchen and dining room on the second floor, and lastly — while he mixed the drinks — the office and conference room behind the living room here on the entry level. From inside the living room, you couldn’t tell there was an entrance door; the wall bearing the door merely looked like solid wood paneling. No doorknob, nothing to indicate the presence of a door. To open the door from the inside, you pushed on it, and a touch latch snapped it open to the walnut-paneled stairway leading to the street.
“Why isn’t there a door on this side?” she asked.
“Architect thought it would look better.”
“I guess it does,” she said, appraising the wall again.
“Freshen that?” he asked.
“I’d better not,” she said.
She felt comfortable in his robe. Rather like the way she’d felt wearing her father’s shirts when she was a little girl. It was still only a bit past five thirty, they had hours together yet.
“Why didn’t you call me?” she asked.
“You told me not to.”
“I didn’t ask you to send a car, either.”
“I thought I’d make it easier for you.”
“I kept waiting for you to call, I kept visualizing one of the other teachers in the lunchroom picking up the phone and saying, ‘It’s for you, Sarah.’ I kept imagining going to the phone, and saying ‘Yes?’ and then hearing your voice. I used to tremble just wondering what I would say when I heard your voice again.”
“What’d you decide?”
“What do you, mean?”
“To say. If I’d called.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Because you told me not to.”
“And you always do what I say, hmm?”
“Always.”
“Since when?”
“Since now.”
This both excited her and tempted her. She felt suddenly like giving him a command, tossing the robe aside, spreading herself to him, ordering him to kiss her everywhere again. There was something thrilling about being in his robe, too. Wearing something of his, possessing it if only for a little while, was like possessing Andrew himself.
“What would you have said?” he asked.
“I think I’d have said, ‘Who’s this, please?’”
“And when I said, ‘You know who this is. When can I see you?’”
“I’d have said, ‘Oh, yes, Dr. Cummings, I was going to call you later today. Do you have any free time on Wednesday?’”
“Is that your doctor’s name?”
“No, I just made that up.”
“Cummings, huh?”
“Yes,” she said. And then, getting it, “Oh.”
He was sitting on the sofa opposite her, wearing a robe not quite as luxuriant as the one she was wearing, a sort of cotton wrapper you might find at Bloomie’s. His comment on her inadvertent pun recalled St. Bart’s and his outrageous definition of “bimbo.” Did he know how Freudian the Cummings pun had been? Well, of course he knew. Why else would he have mentioned it?
“Do you know the one about the Freudian slip?” she asked. “This man is with his psychiatrist and he tells him he made a terrible Freudian slip with his wife this morning. The doctor asks him what it was, and he says, I can’t believe I made such a slip. The doctor says, Well, what was it? The man says, What I wanted to say was ‘Please pass the toast, darling,’ but I made this slip. Well, what did you say? the doctor asks. And the man answers, What I said was ‘You fuckin’ cunt, you ruined my life!’”
Andrew’s eyebrows went up in surprise for an instant, and then he burst out laughing. Watching the conflicting responses cross his face was amusing in itself. She began laughing as well.
“Did you ever see That Championship Season?” he asked, still laughing.
“No,” she said, and wondered what that had to do with Dr. Cummings or Dr. Freud, for that matter.
“There’s a line Paul Sorvino has. Do you know him? He’s a wonderful actor. He was also in GoodFellas, did you see that one?”
“Are these movies?”
“Yes. Well, That Championship Season was a play first, but I didn’t see it on the stage, I saw the movie. I don’t go to see plays too often, do you?”
“Hardly ever,” she said. She did not tell him that Michael felt most plays were simplistic.
“The other one was a book first. About the Mafia. But television stole the title — there was a show on television called Wiseguy — so they had to change it when they did the book as a movie. The movie was called GoodFellas. Paul Sorvino played a capo. He was very good. Very believable.”
“A what?”
“A capo. That’s some sort of lieutenant, I guess. I guess the Mafia has all that kind of military crap. Like the army, I guess.”
“Uh-huh.”
She was wondering just how much she’d really shocked him with the word “cunt.” She was also wondering if he was getting hard again. With Michael, you made love once, and that was it for the night. Or sometimes even the week. Andrew seemed to be perpetually ready. The idea that he was only twenty-eight was exciting to her. She felt as if she were bedding a seventeen-year-old. She also wondered if she’d get anything to eat tonight. Last Wednesday, she’d left here as ravenous as a bear. Dining out with the girls was fun except that you didn’t get anything to eat. She was beginning to feel really very hungry again. She suddenly thought the Scotch might be getting to her; she’d already forgotten how they’d got to this part of their conversation.