"So what happened to the body?" Subarsky asked.
Donald Devine flipped to another page in his file.
"Ashes to ashes," he said reverently. "The body was taken to the crematorium in mist Roxbury on… March 11. I would assume that the urn was sent to the deceased's sister."
"Well then, I guess that's it," Eric said.
"I hope I've been of some help to you gentlemen," Donald Devine said, extending a hand that felt as if it had been kept in a meat locker.
"You've been a great help," Eric said. He was thinking of how pleasant dinner with Laura Enders was going to be, now that he had no bad news for her.
Devine again formed his phalangeal steeple.
"Think nothing of it," he crooned. "At the Gates of Heaven, service is our middle name."
"Nice slogan," Subarsky muttered thoughtfully.
"'Service is our middle name." I like that."
They thanked the mortician. Then, to the strains of muted string music, they departed.
Although the lobby of the Hotel Carlisle was badly in need of refurbishing, the lighting was so subdued that Eric actually had an impression of opulence as he crossed the frayed Oriental carpet in the lobby and settled into a cracked blue leather easy chair near the elevators. He was ten minutes early, and Laura had asked him to wait.
The prospect of spending time with her was appealing for reasons even beyond his initial attraction. She would be the first woman unassociated with medicine he had dated in longer than he could remember.
Buoyed by thoughts of the evening, he had enjoyed a day as peaceful, productive, and close to normal as any he had had in some time. The morning, which Verdi had ushered in with an aria that might have been from Madama Butterfly, had been spent paying bills and writing some long-overdue letters. In the afternoon he had played racquetball with a friend and attended grand rounds at the hospital.
Normal. After thirteen years of study and training, of ungodly hours and one sacrifice after another in his personal life, he wasn't even sure he knew what the word meant. what he did know, however, was that change was in the wind for him, with or without the appointment as associate director of the E.R.
It had been a full week since the search committee meeting. For three of those days he had worn the caduceus pin, but so far no one had made contact with him. Still, all three members of the committee had seen the pin on his clinic coat, and he sensed that before much longer Caduceus would make its requirements known to him.
A pretty blonde in spike heels and a skintight red dress caught his eye and sashayed over to him.
"Hi. My name's Wendy. You looking' for a date?" she asked.
"Huh? Oh, no. That's a really nice invitation, Wendy, but no thanks.
I'm waiting for someone."
"She this hot?" The woman gestured to her body.
Beneath her excessive makeup, Eric saw, was a girl still in her mid-teens.
"Maybe not," he said, stifling the urge to ask her the what's-a-nice-girl-like-you question, or to lecture her on the importance of safe'sex. "But tonight I think she's all I can handle."
The prostitute struck a pose and folded down her lower lip in an exaggerated pout.
"Your loss," he said. "You're real cute. I could give you a hell of a time at a hell of price."
"Thanks, Wendy, but no thanks."
"Suit yourself."
She scanned the lobby and set her sights on a man who was buried behind a newspaper.
"Hi, friend," Eric heard her say. She pushed down the top of the paper with one finger and peeked over.
"Looking for a date?"
"Beat it." The man, wearing sneakers and a tan windbreaker, snapped the paper back over his face.
"Suit yourself," Wendy said.
The prostitute retreated to her post just as the elevators opened and Laura stepped out. She had on a long gmy sweater over jeans, and carried a trenchcoat over one arm. Her sable hair was tied back with a clip, and she moved with the ease and grace of a natural athlete. She was even lovelier than Eric had remembered.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," she said.
"No problem." He stumbled getting up from his chair. "You look great."
"Thanks. It's amazing what twenty miles a day of tless walking can do."
"No success?"
"Not unless you count a hundred or so 'hey, baby's," ten requests for dates, and two proposals of marriage.
"Don't get discouraged."
"I'm not. At least not yet."
"Good. You still up for a slice of Armenia?"
"You bet. The thought got me through half a dozen hotels, two hospitals, a few computer stores, and a sleazy reporter who suggested that there might be a way to run a story about Scott in his paper if I was willing to come by his place tonight for an interview."
"Never underestimate the power of the press. Tell me something, Laura.
With all these people coming on to you, what made you say yes to me?"
She thought for a moment.
"Actually, I was quite surprised to hear myself doing that," she said.
"And to tell you the truth, I really haven't tried to figure out why I did. But it's better that way, yes?"
Eric helped her on with her coat and they started across the lobby. As they passed the reception desk Windy winked at him, gave him a thumbs-up sign, and mouthed the words, "Not bad." Laura caught the exchange.
"Friend of yours?" she asked.
"Her name's Wendy."
"She's been here every night. She's so pretty, it makes me sad to think of what she has to do."
They waved to Wendy and then pushed through the glass doors into an evening that smelled and felt like spring. Behind them, the man in the tan windbreaker quickly folded up his paper and followed.
Pariegam was a gritty little place on a back street just off Watertown Square. Every month or two Eric managed to stop by for dinner, and invariably a significant proportion of the other patrons were relatives of his.
His parents each had three married siblings, all still living in Watertown; each of those couples had children who, in Turn, had in-laws and another set of aunts and uncles.
Only once before had he taken a date to Paxiegam, and that night had been a disaster. The woman, a social worker at the hospital, had been so intimidated by the crush of relatives fussing over him and unabashedly sizing her up that she had spilled a glass of wine in her lap. Bringing Laura here was a calculated risk, but he loved the place, and suspected she would too.
"There's still time to change your mind about this," Eric said at the door.
"Is it going to be that bad?"
"That's hard to predict. At best, I think you can hope that only half the patrons in there are related to me. It's highly doubtful we'll be able to slip in and out unnoticed."
"I'm sure they're proud of what you've done with your life, and they have a right to be."
"I'm glad you understand. Armenians have been persecuted as much as any people in the history of the world. Life is very precious to us, and success in life means all the more because of what we've had to overcome to attain it."
"And for the ultimate in success read: physician."
"That's the way a fair number of Armenians feel especially those my parents'age."
"Well, I promise I won't embarrass you," she said.
"Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so pomPous."
"Nonsense. All you're saying is that being a doctor is important to you. I hope someday I find a,career that makes me feel that way.
Now, if I don't get some dolma and yalanchee in me soon, I could get mighty testy." Eric stared at her, genuinely impressed.
"You know, I think I like you," he said.
The restaurant, which was always crowded and noisy, was more so than usual this night. The small bar was packed three deep, and every table was filled.
At one end of the place, on a small raised stage, a second or third cousin of Eric's was playing the oud, accompanied by a percussionist who was snapping out remarkable rhythms on dumbeg.