FOUR

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” Walt Rathka said.

Crissa set the FAO Schwarz bag beside his desk, unwound her scarf. Sleet rattled the big office window, the clamor of horns drifting up from Fifth Avenue, twelve stories below.

“Have a seat,” he said. “Get dry. Hang those things up. Sorry Monique’s not here to take them.”

He went back to his chair. He was in his late fifties, wore a suit and tie, red suspenders. She could smell his cologne, knew it went for about eighty dollars an ounce.

“When did you get back?” he said.

“Yesterday.”

She settled into the red leather chair in front of his desk. She had a wine headache from the night before, had finished most of the bottle. It had relaxed her, but not enough to sleep, so she’d taken half a Lunesta. She was feeling the aftereffects now, a tightness around her eyes, a drowsiness two cups of herbal tea at the West Way hadn’t cured.

“Successful shopping trip?” he said.

“Not very. I was able to get something for the twins, though.”

“Generous of you. My daughter thinks I’m spoiling them.”

“That’s what kids are for.”

“What my wife says. Any complications?”

“None I know of.”

“Good. I worry about you sometimes, Crissa.”

“Don’t. Go ahead, have a look.”

He drew the bag closer, took out the stuffed animals, a blue dog and pink rabbit. Beneath was a layer of tissue paper. He pulled it back to expose the banded stacks of money, tilted the bag for a better look.

“It’s not much,” she said. “I’d hoped to do better.”

He replaced the paper and the stuffed animals. “I’m sure the twins will enjoy them.”

“How’s our project going?”

“The Alabama one? As planned. Construction should begin early next year. Or the next. Hard to tell. Companies are doing well, though, stable as can be. In fact…”

He opened a drawer, slid a legal-sized envelope across the blotter. Inside was a pale blue check for twenty thousand dollars, from a land development company in Anniston. It was made out to Christine Steiner. She kept a Bank of America account in that name.

“Your quarterly consulting fee,” he said. “Legal and accounted for. You can do whatever you like with it.”

“Thanks.” She closed the envelope, nodded at the bag. “You should put that someplace.”

“I will. You look tired, Crissa.”

“Long drive. Bad weather.”

“You staying in the city for a while?”

“For the immediate future. Unless something comes up.”

“Good. I heard from the Realtor in Connecticut. She says the Hammersteins are about ready to make a decision on the house. I’m told your offer is near the top of the list. You’re still interested, right?”

“If the terms are right. If they keep screwing around, I’ll walk away. There are other houses.”

“That’s what I told her. She said they wanted to know more about your background. I said, if you’re willing to put sixty percent down, especially in this economy, what do they care about your background? They’ll come around, I think.”

“What about the Texas situation?”

He sat back.

“Well, that…” he said.

“I’m going down there to see him soon. I want something to tell him.”

He crossed his arms. “I’m afraid it doesn’t look good at the moment.”

“Define that.”

Sleet slashed the window.

“He’s had some issues since he’s been in custody there, as you know,” he said. “There was a fight with another inmate.”

“That was self-defense.”

“I’m sure it was. Even so, it’ll hurt him at the parole hearing in March. My colleague down there says he has an in at the statehouse that could help us, but he wants more money up front to get his man properly motivated, grease the necessary wheels.”

“You mean palms.”

“That, too.”

“This lawyer, you trust him?”

“As far as it goes. Whether his man has as much clout with the Texas Department of Criminal Justice as he’d like us to believe, I don’t know. I guess we won’t find out until the hearing.”

“How much this time?” she said.

“For his man at the statehouse? Two fifty, he says. I’m guessing that means two for his man and fifty for him.”

“With all we’ve given him already…”

“I know. It adds up. And if I were licensed to practice in Texas, I’d be down there right now myself, shaking trees and working the angles. So to a certain extent we have no choice. We have to trust him.”

“Two hundred and fifty grand’s a lot. I don’t know if I could put that much together right away. Not in cash.”

“It’s your call, as always.”

She looked out the window at the rain.

“Wayne turns fifty-one in April,” she said.

“I know.”

“That place is killing him.”

“I can try to get him down to two hundred, but I don’t know if he’ll go for it.”

Goddamn Texas, she thought. It would never let her loose.

“He’s got seven years left on his bid,” she said. “If he doesn’t make parole, he’s going to die in there. I’m not going to let that happen. Whatever we have to do, whatever it costs, that’s what we’ll do.”

“Understood.”

“Tell your man he’ll get the two fifty. But push him for some reassurances, some names.”

“He might be reluctant to do that.”

“Push him anyway.”

“Consider it done.”

She stood. He got up, went to the door, waited as she put on her jacket and scarf. The envelope went into an inside pocket.

“I’ll call you as soon as I hear back,” he said. “You have a new number yet?”

“Soon. I’ll call, give it to Monique.”

He opened the door for her, put out his hand. She shook it.

“When you talk to him…” he said.

“Yes?”

“Tell him we’re doing our best.”

“I will,” she said.

*   *   *

She took the subway uptown, the 1 train packed with tourists and holiday shoppers. No empty seats. She worked her way to the end of the car, grasped the vertical pole. Across from her sat two Asian girls, barely in their teens, clutching hard plastic cello cases. To her left stood a well-dressed man in his forties, suit and overcoat, dark hair flecked with gray. He reached up to grip the pole above her head, gave her a bemused smile and looked away.

Four people got off at 50th Street, but twice as many squeezed on, forcing her closer to the man in the suit. Soon she was sweating freely from the heat in the car, the headache still nagging her.

At 59th, more people crowded in, including a man in his twenties wheeling an upright bicycle. The doors closed twice on the rear tire, bonged, and opened again. He pulled the bike in farther, embracing the frame like a lover, people wordlessly shifting to make room. As the doors closed, he met Crissa’s eyes, then looked away. She studied him anyway, half from practice, half from boredom. He was shaven-headed, wore glasses with thin black frames. The Moby look, a style half the men in the city under fifty seemed to affect these days.

The train lurched out of the station, people swaying with the motion, and the man in the suit bumped hard against her. “Excuse me,” he said. He reset his grip on the pole, his hand brushing hers for an instant.

At 66th, the Asian girls got off, maneuvering their cello cases through the crowd and onto the platform. Their seats were taken instantly. When the doors opened at 72nd, there was a communal groan as more people pressed in. She caught a glimpse of a cop on the platform, a leashed German shepherd lying at his feet.

They pulled out of the station, and as the car accelerated, the man in the suit bumped her again. He looked at her and smiled. “Sorry.”

Enough of this, she thought. Too many stops to go to put up with it. She let go of the pole, moved through the car, squeezed past the man with the bicycle, reached the connecting door and pulled it open.

The next car was no better. She found a spot at the far end, beside a Mexican worker listening to an iPod. He shifted to give her room. She gripped the pole with her left hand, watched the tunnel walls blur past the windows.

Seventy-ninth. Four more stops to go, three if she got off at 103rd and walked. People filed out of the car, and an equal number seemed to get back on, filling the gaps they’d left. An old woman sneezed loudly.

Crissa faced the doors, her headache worse now. Someone bumped into her from behind, drew away. She turned to the left, saw the man in the suit. He met her eyes, smiled.

She looked away. The car was too crowded for her to move any farther. The train swung into a jostling turn, lights flickering, people holding on, and the man closed the distance, bumped her hip again, held it longer this time before pulling away.

“Back off,” she said. When she turned to him, there were only inches between them. He pointed down. She looked, saw the erection pushing through the material of his pants.

She felt heat in her face, looked away. No one else around them had noticed their exchange. She tried to move to her right, couldn’t.

The car rattled and swayed as it entered another curve, picking up speed. She knew what was coming, how the vertex of the turn would bunch everyone together before the track straightened. She flexed her fingers, gripped the pole tighter.

The lights blinked again. In her peripheral vision, she saw the man draw back, ready to let the momentum of the car take him. He knew what was coming, too.

The train swung wide, and as he swayed toward her she let go of the pole, brought her left elbow around and down hard, twisting her hips into it. She felt the impact, his nose giving way. He fell back as the train came out of the turn, the crowd holding him up. People pushed him away in irritation.

The train slid into the station, the doors hissing open. She stepped out onto the platform, looked back, people streaming around her. She saw the man fall in stages, his eyes unfocused, blood pouring from his nose. He slumped to the floor. A Hispanic girl in a pink vinyl jacket got on, looked down at him, said, “Gross.” The doors closed, and the train pulled away.

Crissa went up the stairs and out onto Broadway. Almost dark now, the rain slanting down.

Halfway down the block, she noticed the blood smear on her left elbow. She got a Kleenex from her pocket, wiped at the leather until it was clean.

Crossing Broadway, she turned north into the wind, dropped the bloody tissue into a trash basket. Eighty-sixth Street. Twenty-two blocks to go. She tightened her scarf. The walk will do you good, she thought. You can use the exercise.