opposite side of the bed, mostly uncovered, and dressed in a faded T-shirt and ratty pajama bottoms he’s never seen before. Her one arm is flung out into space in what could almost be a parody of their earlier romp, which saw her arched and grasping for purchase over the side of the bed. She must sense his scrutiny, because with her other arm she gropes backward till she finds a hand to squeeze.
“What’s an oast house?” she mumbles before lapsing back into the measured breathing of untroubled sleep.
THIRTEEN
Morning, April 19, 1987
A meeting at an Elizabeth, New Jersey, diner does not call for intimidating dress. Nate nevertheless debates the salient features of three different pairs of jeans before making a selection. He bases his choice on history and picks the pair worn on the clandestine trip to L.A. With them, he puts on a long-sleeved polo, a nondescript jacket, and steps into worn loafers that last saw duty the night he gave sanctuary to Laurel Chandler. He calls downstairs to have the car brought around, remembering for no particular reason that it hasn’t been driven since he took Amanda to the airport five days ago.
Knowing that today’s meeting won’t require any fake bonhomie and very little ego display, he should feel somewhat relaxed when he sets out for the diner at nine-fifteen on an unusually quiet Sunday morning. He encounters no traffic to speak of until he reaches Jersey, where there’s a slowdown at the Bayonne Bridge and another at the connection to the Staten Island Expressway. Then it’s clear sailing across the Arthur Kill and into the grimy neighborhood that’s home to the BridgeGate Diner in all it tarnished splendor.
He parks the BMW where he can keep an eye on it from the window seat he’ll insist on when he goes inside.
The contact, Brownell Yates, has anticipated that necessity by installing himself in the booth nearest the door. Brownie’s gaze remains fixed on a cup of sludgy coffee when Nate slides in across from him.
The freelance reporter looks up, extends a hand, but not to shake. He reaches for the envelope Nate’s about to slip inside a menu, and snatches it without concern for appearances. He glances inside, riffles the contents, and counts with his lips moving before saying anything, and then it’s only to remark that it’s good to be back on the payroll.
“I figured when you called off the smear campaign against the hot Chandler babe you were done pullin’ strings from behind the scenes, but I’m hearin’ otherwise lately.”
Nate waves off an approaching waitress. “Does meeting here on the fringes of civilization have anything to do with what you’ve heard?”
“Yeah. Has to do with you keeping your head down. You’re still anonymous in these precincts, but your interest in Gibby Lester’s murder hasn’t gone unnoticed elsewhere. You were spotted in his old neighborhood a week or so ago, and more recently you were seen at that tourist trap of a pub adjoining Lester’s place, where you milked the bartender for what he was worth. I’m also hearing that another slaying’s captured your interest. I’m told that just a day or two ago you were observed checkin’ out the hospital where Sid Kaplan was whacked. There’s even the rumor out there that you tried bribing the orderly that discovered Kaplan’s body, and an even crazier rumor has it that you tried to break into Kaplan’s place in the Bronx just yesterday. If any of that happens to be true, I’m gonna say it’s because you’re entertaining a few independent theories—you’ve got some sort of investigative bug in your bonnet—and not because you’ve suddenly got extra time on your hands and the need for a new hobby.”
“Okay, that’s enough. I’ll cop to the charge of not having been all that low profile lately—with no small thanks to your brotherhood, the Fourth Estate, for that.”
“Who’s the Fourth Estate? I don’t belong to no brotherhood of the Fourth
“What’s an oast house?” she mumbles before lapsing back into the measured breathing of untroubled sleep.
THIRTEEN
Morning, April 19, 1987
A meeting at an Elizabeth, New Jersey, diner does not call for intimidating dress. Nate nevertheless debates the salient features of three different pairs of jeans before making a selection. He bases his choice on history and picks the pair worn on the clandestine trip to L.A. With them, he puts on a long-sleeved polo, a nondescript jacket, and steps into worn loafers that last saw duty the night he gave sanctuary to Laurel Chandler. He calls downstairs to have the car brought around, remembering for no particular reason that it hasn’t been driven since he took Amanda to the airport five days ago.
Knowing that today’s meeting won’t require any fake bonhomie and very little ego display, he should feel somewhat relaxed when he sets out for the diner at nine-fifteen on an unusually quiet Sunday morning. He encounters no traffic to speak of until he reaches Jersey, where there’s a slowdown at the Bayonne Bridge and another at the connection to the Staten Island Expressway. Then it’s clear sailing across the Arthur Kill and into the grimy neighborhood that’s home to the BridgeGate Diner in all it tarnished splendor.
He parks the BMW where he can keep an eye on it from the window seat he’ll insist on when he goes inside.
The contact, Brownell Yates, has anticipated that necessity by installing himself in the booth nearest the door. Brownie’s gaze remains fixed on a cup of sludgy coffee when Nate slides in across from him.
The freelance reporter looks up, extends a hand, but not to shake. He reaches for the envelope Nate’s about to slip inside a menu, and snatches it without concern for appearances. He glances inside, riffles the contents, and counts with his lips moving before saying anything, and then it’s only to remark that it’s good to be back on the payroll.
“I figured when you called off the smear campaign against the hot Chandler babe you were done pullin’ strings from behind the scenes, but I’m hearin’ otherwise lately.”
Nate waves off an approaching waitress. “Does meeting here on the fringes of civilization have anything to do with what you’ve heard?”
“Yeah. Has to do with you keeping your head down. You’re still anonymous in these precincts, but your interest in Gibby Lester’s murder hasn’t gone unnoticed elsewhere. You were spotted in his old neighborhood a week or so ago, and more recently you were seen at that tourist trap of a pub adjoining Lester’s place, where you milked the bartender for what he was worth. I’m also hearing that another slaying’s captured your interest. I’m told that just a day or two ago you were observed checkin’ out the hospital where Sid Kaplan was whacked. There’s even the rumor out there that you tried bribing the orderly that discovered Kaplan’s body, and an even crazier rumor has it that you tried to break into Kaplan’s place in the Bronx just yesterday. If any of that happens to be true, I’m gonna say it’s because you’re entertaining a few independent theories—you’ve got some sort of investigative bug in your bonnet—and not because you’ve suddenly got extra time on your hands and the need for a new hobby.”
“Okay, that’s enough. I’ll cop to the charge of not having been all that low profile lately—with no small thanks to your brotherhood, the Fourth Estate, for that.”
“Who’s the Fourth Estate? I don’t belong to no brotherhood of the Fourth
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