“Oh?”
“That writer, I forget his name. The one who strangled that woman in the Village.”
“Crichton,” Boasberg said.
“That’s a different writer, but now I remember, and you’re close. It’s Creighton.”
“And you figure he did it?”
“I don’t know enough to have an opinion,” he said, “but they’ve evidently got enough to charge him. That doesn’t necessarily mean they’ve got enough to convict him, far from it, but it shows you they believe he did it, and they’re usually right.”
“Anybody read anything he’s written?”
Nobody had.
“Well, now he’s got something new to write about,” Avery Davis said. “You ever think about writing a book yourself, Fran?”
“I’ve thought about it.”
“And?”
“I’ve been approached a few times.”
“I should think so. It’d sell a few copies.”
“I don’t know, Avery. In this town, maybe, but would anybody out in Idaho give a rat’s ass? And what do I know about writing a book?”
“Would you have to write it yourself?”
“Oh, everybody was quick to tell me I’d never have to touch a keyboard or look at a computer screen. I’d work with a writer.” He rolled his eyes. “God knows there’s enough of them in this town. Of course most of them are loaded down with work. That’s why it’s standing room only every night in Stelli’s.”
“There’s one I can think of who’s going to have some time on his hands,” Saft offered. “Unless our fat friend over there gets him off the hook in a hurry.”
“There you go. I’ll collaborate with the Charles Street Strangler. Maybe that’ll get their attention in Pocatello.”
They laughed, and Boasberg said, “You could just tell some stories like the ones you told tonight.”
“War stories? No, they’d expect more than that. Some personal history, the story behind the story, and how much of that does a man want to get into? Plus what what’s-his-name would call ‘the vision thing.’ ”
He’d intended that as an opening, and they seized it as such; he caught Avery Davis shooting a glance at each of his companions before leaning forward and narrowing his eyes. “The vision thing,” he echoed. “You know, Fran, a lot of people are looking at you with more than the bestseller list in mind. I’m sure you’re happy living where you are, but I’d be surprised if you haven’t thought now and then of moving a few blocks uptown and closer to the river.”
In other words, Gracie Mansion.
“And you’ve probably thought about some of the changes you’d like to implement if you found yourself living there.”
He considered this. “Be hard not to,” he acknowledged.
“Impossible, I should think.”
“You pick up a paper or turn on New York One, you hear speculation. Not so much now, but a year or two ago, say.”
“A lot of people thought you might take a shot at it last fall.”
“The timing was wrong,” he said. “I’d have been running against Rudy, and he wouldn’t have been running, and you just look like you’re kicking a guy when he’s down, between the prostate cancer and the divorce. Of course that was before anyone knew he’d turn out to be a national hero, which made running against him completely impossible.” He grinned. “So now they’re talking about 2005, and it’s way too early for that, but even so you have to think about it. Whether it’s what you want, and what you’d do if you got it.”
“And?”
“And what do I see myself doing? Or at least championing?”
He let the moment stretch, then looked off into the middle distance. “Landmark areas,” he said. “Every time an older building gets pulled down, a piece of the city’s history is lost forever. It’s vital that we protect what we’ve got by designating more landmark areas, and that doesn’t mean only the remote past, the obviously historical. What about the white-brick apartment buildings that went up in the sixties? They’re not building any more of them, and once they’re gone they’re gone forever. Fortunately there’s still time to save them.”
“Landmark areas,” Hartley Saft said.
“Hand in hand with that,” he went on, “is rent control. A noble experiment, as I’m sure you’ll agree...”
They were nodding, a little more sanguine now. Brace yourselves, he thought.
“...but time has made serious inroads on rent control, and both working-class and middle-class tenants are being priced out of the market. All new housing, including conversions of factory and warehouse space to residential use, has to come under rent control, and the process of decontrol has to be stopped in its tracks and reversed. Otherwise where are we?”
God, the looks on their faces! He kept his own straight for as long as he could, then let his merriment show.
“Jesus Christ,” Irv Boasberg said.
“Guys, I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist. Look, I’m not about to make a policy statement, on or off the record. At this stage you probably know as much as I do about what I’d be likely to do as mayor of New York.”
“If nothing else,” Davis said, “you just demonstrated a subtler sense of humor than the last man to hold the office.”
Or a stronger suicidal streak, he thought, talking up rent control and preservationism to three titans of New York real estate.
“Sweetheart, you’ll excuse me,” Maurice Winters said, and pushed back from the table. “I’ll be right back.”
He didn’t wait for a response, but headed straight for the men’s room. When his bladder prompted him, social graces were a luxury he couldn’t afford. He had to respond in a hurry.
And then, of course, he would wind up standing in front of the urinal trying to trick his prostate into getting out of the way long enough to allow the stream to flow. Magically, peeing became the only thing more difficult than resisting the urge to pee. It was a hell of a thing, getting old, and the only thing that made it remotely attractive was when you considered the alternative.
Which was something he’d been forced to consider more and more lately, ever since he’d been diagnosed with prostate cancer.
Eight months now. Back in August his internist did a PSA and made an appointment for him with a urologist, and then the fucking Arabs killed three thousand people for no reason whatsoever, and he canceled the appointment and forgot to make another until his internist called him, all concerned, and got him into the urologist’s office for an ultrasound and a biopsy in early November. Both procedures were literally a pain in the ass, and they only confirmed what everyone had pretty much known from the PSA, which was that he had prostate cancer, and that it had very likely metastasized.
There were choices, the urologist assured him. You could have surgery or you could have radiation, and if you took the latter course you could have radioactive seeds implanted that avoided some of the worst effects of radiation therapy. What he’d recommend, himself, was surgery first, to remove the prostate and if nothing else make urination less problematic, followed by a course of radiation to zap whatever adventurous cancer cells might have migrated outside the walls of the prostate gland.
And then, should the cancer return, then they could knock it back with hormonal treatments. What that amounted to, he learned, was chemical castration, although nobody liked to call it that because it sounded as though they were going to cut off your balls. Which they sometimes did as an alternative, as it saved you from having to go in for the shots, and it was guaranteed one hundred percent effective. Not at curing the cancer, but at shutting down your production of testosterone, which propelled the cancer.
It also shut down your sex life. Coincidentally, Winters had run into an old friend, a law school professor in his eighties who’d still been sexually active until he’d had the shots as a last-ditch effort to delay the cancer long enough to — what, die from something else? “I dreaded this,” the fellow told him. “I thought this means the end, you’re not a man anymore, you’ve got nothing to live for. But the shots took away everything, including the desire, the interest. I couldn’t do anything, but I didn’t want to do anything. I didn’t care!”