Pessie story. He says I can put in for my day rate and get paid for mileage.
“If I stay overnight, do you think I can get reimbursed?” I ask. “I’ve got a couple leads on addresses related to the ex-fianc é .”
“Okay,” says Larry. “Run ’em down. Just one night, though. And make sure the room’s cheap. Less than one-fifty. I can swing that.”
On the subway to Manhattan, instead of listening to a WNYC podcast to pass the forty-five-minute ride, I do something I haven’t done in months: I think about a story. When a woman dies, the first suspect is always the husband. But if Levi Goldin killed his wife he wouldn’t be begging a reporter to pay attention to her death, so I feel safe assuming he’s not the perp. It sounds as though Sam was the one that dumped Pessie, so jilted lover doesn’t fit, either. Unless she had another ex-fianc é , or lover, which Levi isn’t likely to know about. Her family probably wouldn’t know either—though even if they did I can’t imagine they’d tell me. So far, Sam seems like the best possible source for information on what was happening in Pessie’s life. Sam and maybe this Nechemaya. The fact that Nechemaya called me is, frankly, a huge coup. If he didn’t hate me, I’d call Tony and brag: Scoop’s got a scoop. I wonder if he’d even want to hear from me again. He probably thinks I dumped him because I got bored or hooked up with someone else. He doesn’t know that I’ve never had a relationship that lasted more than four months. He doesn’t know that the only time I didn’t run when I felt like I might be in danger of falling in love was when I was pregnant in college and imagining that my boyfriend and I would make up for where my dad and Aviva went wrong. He doesn’t know that that boyfriend was also sleeping with two other people, and that Iris was the one who took me to Planned Parenthood. He doesn’t know that I haven’t been able to make myself come since we broke up. He’s probably with somebody else by now, anyway.
Shit. Iris.
I call her but the call goes to voice mail. Maybe she has her phone on silent for yoga.
“Hey,” I say, “I’m really sorry but Saul says he has some stuff to tell me about my mom, and I think I should hear it before I head upstate tomorrow. Get this: apparently her mom died in childbirth, like, while she was still with my dad. And Saul thinks Sam might be that kid. I doubt I’ll be too late. Maybe you guys can wait up? I’m meeting him right after work. Okay. Did you get my text? I love you. I’m really happy for you. Okay. Bye.”
When I get into the office I call Nechemaya and tell him I can meet him tomorrow.
“Thank you,” he says. “There is a Starbucks in the Target just off the Thruway. Can we meet at eight thirty?” Saul always used to ask me to meet him at Starbucks. So did a former Haredi woman I met a few months ago. What’s with Starbucks?
“Sure,” I say.
I walk over to the editors’ desk at the center of the newsroom and fill Mike in on my plans tomorrow. There have been two arrests in Drug Dorm Den, and a small plane just went down on Long Island, so he’s not terribly interested in my little maybe-murder upstate. I start to walk back to my desk when he stops me.
“Wait,” he says. “Does this mean you have a car now? We need somebody in Nassau County tonight to door-knock when we get an ID on the plane vics. I’d rather have you on that than this … other thing.”
“It’s a friend’s,” I say. “He can’t loan it to me until tomorrow.”
“Oh.” And he’s done with me.
I leave work at ten and get on the F train to West Fourth Street. Saul is sitting inside his car, which is parked in front of what I assume is The Doom Room. It looks like your standard downtown club—blacked-out windows, no sign—except that there isn’t a velvet rope or bouncer outside. I knock on the passenger-side window and Saul unlocks the door.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“Oh
“If I stay overnight, do you think I can get reimbursed?” I ask. “I’ve got a couple leads on addresses related to the ex-fianc é .”
“Okay,” says Larry. “Run ’em down. Just one night, though. And make sure the room’s cheap. Less than one-fifty. I can swing that.”
On the subway to Manhattan, instead of listening to a WNYC podcast to pass the forty-five-minute ride, I do something I haven’t done in months: I think about a story. When a woman dies, the first suspect is always the husband. But if Levi Goldin killed his wife he wouldn’t be begging a reporter to pay attention to her death, so I feel safe assuming he’s not the perp. It sounds as though Sam was the one that dumped Pessie, so jilted lover doesn’t fit, either. Unless she had another ex-fianc é , or lover, which Levi isn’t likely to know about. Her family probably wouldn’t know either—though even if they did I can’t imagine they’d tell me. So far, Sam seems like the best possible source for information on what was happening in Pessie’s life. Sam and maybe this Nechemaya. The fact that Nechemaya called me is, frankly, a huge coup. If he didn’t hate me, I’d call Tony and brag: Scoop’s got a scoop. I wonder if he’d even want to hear from me again. He probably thinks I dumped him because I got bored or hooked up with someone else. He doesn’t know that I’ve never had a relationship that lasted more than four months. He doesn’t know that the only time I didn’t run when I felt like I might be in danger of falling in love was when I was pregnant in college and imagining that my boyfriend and I would make up for where my dad and Aviva went wrong. He doesn’t know that that boyfriend was also sleeping with two other people, and that Iris was the one who took me to Planned Parenthood. He doesn’t know that I haven’t been able to make myself come since we broke up. He’s probably with somebody else by now, anyway.
Shit. Iris.
I call her but the call goes to voice mail. Maybe she has her phone on silent for yoga.
“Hey,” I say, “I’m really sorry but Saul says he has some stuff to tell me about my mom, and I think I should hear it before I head upstate tomorrow. Get this: apparently her mom died in childbirth, like, while she was still with my dad. And Saul thinks Sam might be that kid. I doubt I’ll be too late. Maybe you guys can wait up? I’m meeting him right after work. Okay. Did you get my text? I love you. I’m really happy for you. Okay. Bye.”
When I get into the office I call Nechemaya and tell him I can meet him tomorrow.
“Thank you,” he says. “There is a Starbucks in the Target just off the Thruway. Can we meet at eight thirty?” Saul always used to ask me to meet him at Starbucks. So did a former Haredi woman I met a few months ago. What’s with Starbucks?
“Sure,” I say.
I walk over to the editors’ desk at the center of the newsroom and fill Mike in on my plans tomorrow. There have been two arrests in Drug Dorm Den, and a small plane just went down on Long Island, so he’s not terribly interested in my little maybe-murder upstate. I start to walk back to my desk when he stops me.
“Wait,” he says. “Does this mean you have a car now? We need somebody in Nassau County tonight to door-knock when we get an ID on the plane vics. I’d rather have you on that than this … other thing.”
“It’s a friend’s,” I say. “He can’t loan it to me until tomorrow.”
“Oh.” And he’s done with me.
I leave work at ten and get on the F train to West Fourth Street. Saul is sitting inside his car, which is parked in front of what I assume is The Doom Room. It looks like your standard downtown club—blacked-out windows, no sign—except that there isn’t a velvet rope or bouncer outside. I knock on the passenger-side window and Saul unlocks the door.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“Oh
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