“Who?” he asked.
“... is present at the dinner and ball. Otherwise, you’ll have to wait till the Fourth of July,” she said, and grimaced. “Their big holiday, Independence Day. There’ll be a ceremony at the Statue of Liberty which he is scheduled to...” She hesitated, studied his face. “They told me you were familiar with New York.”
“I am.”
“You seemed puzzled when I mentioned the Statue of...”
“No, I was only wondering who.”
“I want to make certain, first, that you understand you can’t be diverted from...”
“Yes, I do understand.”
“The whore is relatively minor.”
“Yes.”
“If you can accomplish both objectives, all to the good. But you mustn’t sacrifice purpose to expediency. Forget her if you must...” A nod toward the photograph in his hand. “But get him.”
“Yes, who?” he asked again.
She handed him another small photograph.
“Him,” she said.
Sonny looked at the picture.
And then, truly puzzled now, he looked up at Mrs. Fleischer.
“The whore because...”
“Yes, I realize, but...”
“... without her, the bombing would have been impossible.”
“Yes, but...”
“He has not forgotten,” she said. Hatred burning in her eyes now.
“None of us has forgotten.” The hatred leaping into his own eyes, enflaming them. “But...”
“Nor has God forgotten. Or forgiven.”
“Allah be praised,” Sonny said.
“Praise God, for there is no God but He.”
There was a silence. They sat staring at each other, memories flaring. One of the cats mewed softly. The silence lengthened. At last, Sonny asked, “But why have we chosen...?”
“This will make it clear to you,” she said, and handed him an envelope. “The letter will explain. When you’ve read it...”
He was already reaching into the envelope.
“Not now,” she said. “There’s a telephone number in the envelope. Call it after you’ve read the letter. Ask for Arthur Scopes. You are not to contact me again. I have never entered your life, I no longer exist. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” he said.
“May God go with you,” she said, and snapped her handbag shut.
The click sounded utterly final.
4
Carolyn Fremont was in the midst of packing for the move to Westhampton Beach, carrying clothing from her bedroom dresser to the open suitcase on her bed. Elita was slumped listlessly in an armchair near the window in her mother’s bedroom, early morning sunlight streaming through the partially cracked blinds, touching her blond hair with fire. Carolyn knew the signs well; Elita was in love again. Or, worse, Elita was in love again and had once again been abandoned.
“How anyone as bright and as beautiful as you are,” she said, “can manage to get herself abandoned as often as...”
“I wasn’t abandoned, Mom,” Elita said. “There was just some mixup at Penn Station.”
“Who is this boy, anyway?” Carolyn asked.
The two were in the Park Avenue apartment Carolyn had received as part of the divorce settlement from her former husband, Ralph Talbot Randall, known to her forevermore as The Late Colonel. The $1,939 alimony check she received each and every month was made out to her maiden name, which she’d begun using again even before the divorce was final. This sum was exactly forty percent of The Late Colonel’s salary. She had also received in settlement the house in Westhampton Beach, a brand-new (at the time) green Jaguar convertible, and child support and college tuition for Elita. Which served the bastard right for starting up with his gorgeous sergeant, a twenty-seven-year-old (at the time) redhead with spectacular tits but no brains at all.
“He’s not a boy, Mom, he’s a man,” Elita said.
“I’m sure,” Carolyn said, and rolled her eyes.
Her eyes were as blue as her daughter’s — well, perhaps Elita’s were bluer in that The Late Colonel’s eyes were blue as well, and their offspring had been twice blessed genetically. Carolyn’s hair had been as light as her daughter’s when she was her age, but over the years she and an assortment of beauticians had patiently guided it to its present shade, the tawny color of a lion’s mane. At thirty-nine, Carolyn was leggier than her daughter, fuller of breast, infinitely more attractive in a womanly way, and certainly not a person anyone would ever abandon.
“His name is Sonny,” Elita said.
“I thought he wasn’t a boy,” Carolyn said.
“He’s twenty-nine years old.”
“And he still calls himself Sonny?”
“His real name is Krishnan.”
“Is what?”
“Krishnan Hemkar.”
“I see,” Carolyn said, and went to the dresser for another stack of slips. Carrying them to the open suitcase on the bed, she wondered whether twenty-nine was too old for Elita, remembered that there was a fourteen-year age difference between her and her former philandering husband, decided ten wasn’t too terribly bad, after all, and then realized she was already marrying off the child to someone named...
“What’d you say it was?”
“What was?”
“His name.”
“Krishnan Hemkar.”
“You sound like you’re clearing your throat.”
“That’s his name, Mom. He’s half-Indian, half-British. And when you meet him, I hope...”
“Oh, am I going to meet him?”
“If you meet him, I hope you won’t make fun of his name.”
“I have a friend named Isadore Lipschitz, and I’ve never made fun of his name, so why should I make fun of Christie Hemmar’s name?” Carolyn said, and shrugged and went back to the dresser. “How many sweaters should I take?” she asked aloud.
“Krishnan Hemkar,” Elita said.
“Whoever. I’m sure he’s delightful, stranding you in Penn Station.”
“I wasn’t stranded, Mom. I managed to get my bags outside all by myself, and get a taxi all by myself...”
“Mama’s big girl,” Carolyn said, carrying sweaters to the bed. “Are you coming out with me tomorrow?”
“I thought I’d stay in the city for a few days.”
Carolyn turned from the suitcase, a white, pearl-buttoned cardigan in her hands. She looked at her daughter. “Why?” she asked.
“I just got home,” Elita said. “I want to spend a few days in New York before running out to the beach.”
“The city’s going to be an oven all week long.”
“So what? I like hot weather.”
“Since when?”
“Sometimes it gets very hot in L.A.”
Carolyn kept looking at her.
“It does,” Elita said.
“There’ll be a message on the machine, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Giving the Westhampton number. If anyone calls.”
“That’s not why...”
“If this Sonny person calls.”
“I just want to spend some time in New York, that’s all. And he’s not this Sonny person.”
There was a long, strained silence. Carolyn kept looking at her daughter.
“Elita?” she said at last.
“Carolyn?” Eyebrows raised, faint mocking tone.
“I hate when you do that,” Carolyn said.
“Do what?”