and independent, gritty dramas released by ministudios about New Yorkers who dress in black and use heroin. That would be my guess.
He smiled, probably despite himself. “Yes,” he said. “She needed an anesthesiologist for a patient whose face had been cut by some broken glass, and I was on call that night.”
“You crazy romantic,” I said.
Gregory’s face closed up again. “I didn’t expect you to understand,” he said.
“But I do,” I told him. “I met Sharon when she was a med student and I was writing for a trade magazine for teachers. A feature on teaching hospitals. I first saw her when she was on rounds, tending to a patient with phlebitis.”
“You crazy romantic,” Gregory said. I might have seen the tiniest hint of a grin on his face. Then it clouded over. “So, have you seen a lot of Sharon lately?”
“Why, is there more of her than there used to be?” You watch enough Groucho and it becomes a reflex.
“I’ve just gotten the feeling that she was . . . involved with someone since we . . . separated. Thought maybe it was you. Sharon would be one to fall back on a familiar face.”
I didn’t even try to respond to that. For one thing, Sharon and I had been out a few times (and in one time, if you know what I mean), but not recently. If there was another man, I didn’t know about it, and wasn’t sure I wanted to. No, I was sure: I didn’t want to know.
“Not me,” I told Gregory, and then I shut up.
He maneuvered us into the E-ZPass lane for the tunnel, and the traffic was unusually light. I guess either going into Manhattan on a Saturday after the matinees have already begun isn’t as popular as it used to be, or E-ZPass has really speeded up the toll process.
We were through the Lincoln Tunnel in fifteen minutes, and looking for a parking lot within twenty-five.
“Are we splitting the parking?” Gregory asked.
“Don’t be cheap. You own a Lexus.”
He scowled, probably wishing he could use that Lexus to run me down again, but said nothing else. We found a lot on Forty-sixth Street near Broadway, and left the car there. A quick reading of the rates indicated parking there for two or three hours wouldn’t cost Gregory more than forty dollars, the skinflint.
There were four stores and the hotel bar on the list Dutton had provided, showing purchases on the credit card with my name on it. The first was a jewelry store on Forty-fourth Street, between Eighth and Ninth avenues. We walked there, and I noted as ever that Manhattan creates a wind tunnel effect unparalleled in my experience. I felt like I was at the top of Mount Everest, but for the Sherpa guides and oxygen tanks.
The “jewelry store,” when we got there, turned out to be one of those cheap souvenir places in Midtown that specialize in Broadway-themed items made in Bangladesh, pictures of Marilyn Monroe standing on a sewer grate (did you know her first movie was Love Happy , with the Marx Brothers?) and “gift items” from New York’s most bizarre tourist attraction, Ground Zero. If I’d stopped to think about it, that would probably have led me to wonder if there was now a gift shop outside the Auschwitz concentration camp area, selling T-shirts showing the crematorium with the phrase “We Must Never Forget” written in German over it (tastefully, of course).
Luckily, I didn’t stop to think about it.
“Sharon would never shop here,” Gregory said as we approached.
“No,” I agreed, rubbing my hands together, “but I’ll bet it’s heated.”
He nodded. “That isn’t a bad thing.”
We went inside. The man behind the counter was working diligently to sell a woman in her forties a souvenir T-shirt. Judging by his accent, he must have been born somewhere outside the tristate area. Far outside the tristate area.
“Sure it’ll fit you,” he said (I’m pretty sure) to the woman. “It’s one size fits all. It fits everybody.”
“You sure? Can I bring it back if it doesn’t fit?” Her
He smiled, probably despite himself. “Yes,” he said. “She needed an anesthesiologist for a patient whose face had been cut by some broken glass, and I was on call that night.”
“You crazy romantic,” I said.
Gregory’s face closed up again. “I didn’t expect you to understand,” he said.
“But I do,” I told him. “I met Sharon when she was a med student and I was writing for a trade magazine for teachers. A feature on teaching hospitals. I first saw her when she was on rounds, tending to a patient with phlebitis.”
“You crazy romantic,” Gregory said. I might have seen the tiniest hint of a grin on his face. Then it clouded over. “So, have you seen a lot of Sharon lately?”
“Why, is there more of her than there used to be?” You watch enough Groucho and it becomes a reflex.
“I’ve just gotten the feeling that she was . . . involved with someone since we . . . separated. Thought maybe it was you. Sharon would be one to fall back on a familiar face.”
I didn’t even try to respond to that. For one thing, Sharon and I had been out a few times (and in one time, if you know what I mean), but not recently. If there was another man, I didn’t know about it, and wasn’t sure I wanted to. No, I was sure: I didn’t want to know.
“Not me,” I told Gregory, and then I shut up.
He maneuvered us into the E-ZPass lane for the tunnel, and the traffic was unusually light. I guess either going into Manhattan on a Saturday after the matinees have already begun isn’t as popular as it used to be, or E-ZPass has really speeded up the toll process.
We were through the Lincoln Tunnel in fifteen minutes, and looking for a parking lot within twenty-five.
“Are we splitting the parking?” Gregory asked.
“Don’t be cheap. You own a Lexus.”
He scowled, probably wishing he could use that Lexus to run me down again, but said nothing else. We found a lot on Forty-sixth Street near Broadway, and left the car there. A quick reading of the rates indicated parking there for two or three hours wouldn’t cost Gregory more than forty dollars, the skinflint.
There were four stores and the hotel bar on the list Dutton had provided, showing purchases on the credit card with my name on it. The first was a jewelry store on Forty-fourth Street, between Eighth and Ninth avenues. We walked there, and I noted as ever that Manhattan creates a wind tunnel effect unparalleled in my experience. I felt like I was at the top of Mount Everest, but for the Sherpa guides and oxygen tanks.
The “jewelry store,” when we got there, turned out to be one of those cheap souvenir places in Midtown that specialize in Broadway-themed items made in Bangladesh, pictures of Marilyn Monroe standing on a sewer grate (did you know her first movie was Love Happy , with the Marx Brothers?) and “gift items” from New York’s most bizarre tourist attraction, Ground Zero. If I’d stopped to think about it, that would probably have led me to wonder if there was now a gift shop outside the Auschwitz concentration camp area, selling T-shirts showing the crematorium with the phrase “We Must Never Forget” written in German over it (tastefully, of course).
Luckily, I didn’t stop to think about it.
“Sharon would never shop here,” Gregory said as we approached.
“No,” I agreed, rubbing my hands together, “but I’ll bet it’s heated.”
He nodded. “That isn’t a bad thing.”
We went inside. The man behind the counter was working diligently to sell a woman in her forties a souvenir T-shirt. Judging by his accent, he must have been born somewhere outside the tristate area. Far outside the tristate area.
“Sure it’ll fit you,” he said (I’m pretty sure) to the woman. “It’s one size fits all. It fits everybody.”
“You sure? Can I bring it back if it doesn’t fit?” Her
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