made his jaw hurt, having to wear that hangdog expression day after fucking day.
Paul and Karen stayed until Tuesday night and then drove back to Albany. On Wednesday, a condolence card arrived from the office, along with a bouquet of flowers. Although the card was signed by almost everyone, Max didn’t read anyone’s note except Angela’s. It read:
With My Deepest Sympathy, Angela
Gra go mor
What the fuck was with that, Greek or something?
Seeing her handwriting made Max suddenly desperate to see her in person. Again, he wanted to call her — just to hear her voice, that accent he loved, and hang up — but he knew that would be stupidest thing he could do. But he was becoming restless. He couldn’t wait to go back to work, to get back into the swing of things.
On Thursday, Berna, Max’s West Indian maid, came and scrubbed the wall and the floor in the downstairs hallway. A repairman came to fill in the bullet holes and now it was impossible to tell that anything had happened. Kamal had come back from India and on Thursday hecame by to prepare Max’s macrobiotic meals for the next several days. He hadn’t heard anything about the murders. When Max told him he broke down crying.
Max hadn’t realized how close Kamal and Deirdre had become. Max had hired Kamal a couple of months ago, after he had been referred by the massage therapist at his health club. Kamal had often come to the house while Max was at work.
When Kamal was composed enough to speak he invited Max to come with him sometime to an ashram on the West Side to meditate. Max said he’d think about it, although he couldn’t imagine himself sitting in a lotus position and chanting like some hippie.
“Remember, people don’t die, because they aren’t born,” Kamal said. “Birth and death are merely illusions. All people and objects exist now and forever in the universal unconscious.”
Max stared at him, thinking, What a crock.
Max liked Kamal’s cooking and he thought he was a nice guy, but he decided that if kept forcing this religious crap on him the guy would be history.
On Friday, Max couldn’t stand being cooped up any longer. He took a cab to his gym in the Claridge House on Eighty-seventh and Third. He swam his usual forty laps, then sat in the steam room, reading The Wall Street Journal. After he showered, he weighed himself and was thrilled to see that he’d lost four pounds.
He had a relaxing weekend at home — eating Kamal’s food, taking short walks around the neighborhood. On Saturday — a gorgeous seventy-degree day — he walked to Central Park and sat for most of the afternoon on a bench in the shade, reading networking magazines, trying to keep up on new developments in the industry. There’d been nothing about the murder or the police investigation in the newspapers or on TV. Max remembered howDetective Simmons had promised to “be in touch soon” and now more than a week had gone by since the murder. While Max was glad that the story seemed to be fading, he didn’t like the way Detective Simmons was staying away from him. As he walked home from the park, Max had a funny feeling he was being watched.
Ten
Better not to begin. Once you begin, better to finish it.
B UDDHIST SAYING
Bobby was watching the girl with the blond hair and the big rack check into her room at the reception desk of the Hotel Pennsylvania. The way she kept looking around, twirling her hair with her index finger, Bobby could tell she was uptight about something. She was wearing lowslung jeans and a tight tube top and high heels. Bobby tried to imagine what she looked like naked and, man, he liked the picture that popped into his head. He wished he could whip his camera out right there. She had a slutty look to her, but there was something innocent about her, too, like she was afraid of something. She didn’t look like a hooker, but she definitely looked like a girl who was someplace she wasn’t supposed to be.
As she walked past the table
Paul and Karen stayed until Tuesday night and then drove back to Albany. On Wednesday, a condolence card arrived from the office, along with a bouquet of flowers. Although the card was signed by almost everyone, Max didn’t read anyone’s note except Angela’s. It read:
With My Deepest Sympathy, Angela
Gra go mor
What the fuck was with that, Greek or something?
Seeing her handwriting made Max suddenly desperate to see her in person. Again, he wanted to call her — just to hear her voice, that accent he loved, and hang up — but he knew that would be stupidest thing he could do. But he was becoming restless. He couldn’t wait to go back to work, to get back into the swing of things.
On Thursday, Berna, Max’s West Indian maid, came and scrubbed the wall and the floor in the downstairs hallway. A repairman came to fill in the bullet holes and now it was impossible to tell that anything had happened. Kamal had come back from India and on Thursday hecame by to prepare Max’s macrobiotic meals for the next several days. He hadn’t heard anything about the murders. When Max told him he broke down crying.
Max hadn’t realized how close Kamal and Deirdre had become. Max had hired Kamal a couple of months ago, after he had been referred by the massage therapist at his health club. Kamal had often come to the house while Max was at work.
When Kamal was composed enough to speak he invited Max to come with him sometime to an ashram on the West Side to meditate. Max said he’d think about it, although he couldn’t imagine himself sitting in a lotus position and chanting like some hippie.
“Remember, people don’t die, because they aren’t born,” Kamal said. “Birth and death are merely illusions. All people and objects exist now and forever in the universal unconscious.”
Max stared at him, thinking, What a crock.
Max liked Kamal’s cooking and he thought he was a nice guy, but he decided that if kept forcing this religious crap on him the guy would be history.
On Friday, Max couldn’t stand being cooped up any longer. He took a cab to his gym in the Claridge House on Eighty-seventh and Third. He swam his usual forty laps, then sat in the steam room, reading The Wall Street Journal. After he showered, he weighed himself and was thrilled to see that he’d lost four pounds.
He had a relaxing weekend at home — eating Kamal’s food, taking short walks around the neighborhood. On Saturday — a gorgeous seventy-degree day — he walked to Central Park and sat for most of the afternoon on a bench in the shade, reading networking magazines, trying to keep up on new developments in the industry. There’d been nothing about the murder or the police investigation in the newspapers or on TV. Max remembered howDetective Simmons had promised to “be in touch soon” and now more than a week had gone by since the murder. While Max was glad that the story seemed to be fading, he didn’t like the way Detective Simmons was staying away from him. As he walked home from the park, Max had a funny feeling he was being watched.
Ten
Better not to begin. Once you begin, better to finish it.
B UDDHIST SAYING
Bobby was watching the girl with the blond hair and the big rack check into her room at the reception desk of the Hotel Pennsylvania. The way she kept looking around, twirling her hair with her index finger, Bobby could tell she was uptight about something. She was wearing lowslung jeans and a tight tube top and high heels. Bobby tried to imagine what she looked like naked and, man, he liked the picture that popped into his head. He wished he could whip his camera out right there. She had a slutty look to her, but there was something innocent about her, too, like she was afraid of something. She didn’t look like a hooker, but she definitely looked like a girl who was someplace she wasn’t supposed to be.
As she walked past the table
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