Corman took a seat in the back and waited for the ceremony to begin. Several minutes passed, then suddenly, as if on a signal, the man in the raincoat rose silently and began to make his way down the aisle.
Corman stood up and watched him approach. He could tell that Dr. Rosen’s eyes had fastened on him, but it was too late to retreat, and so he simply stood in place as the old man made his way up the aisle.
Dr. Rosen’s head was lifted high, chin up, his face strangely shadowed, as if stage makeup had been applied to darken the deep furrows of his brow. He stared intently at Corman as he approached, then stopped dead in front of him.
“Who are you?” Rosen asked.
His face was so near to Corman’s that he could gather its details immediately, the white, carefully trimmed Vandyke, the goldrimmed glasses that looked as if they’d been imported from another age, the dark, hooded eyes. In a modern version, it was the face of Lear, Creon, King David’s face when he first glimpsed Absalom hanging by his hair.
“Who are you?” Rosen repeated, when Corman failed to answer him.
Corman lifted his shoulders nervously. “Nobody,” he said.
“Nobody?” the old man said. One of the hoods lifted. “You don’t have a name? I made it clear that this was strictly a closed memorial.”
Corman glanced away, then said, “My name is Corman.”
“Did you know my daughter?”
“No.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I’m a photographer.”
“A photographer? Why are you here? What was Sarah to you?”
Corman realized he couldn’t exactly answer that question, but struggled to do it anyway. “It’s just that … that I was there the night she …” He stopped.
Rosen’s body stiffened. “You took pictures of her?”
“Yes.”
“On the street?”
“It’s my job,” Corman said weakly.
Rosen looked at him hatefully for a moment, then suddenly his hand shot up and slapped Corman’s face.
Corman remained before him, frozen, his face still hot and trembling from the blow.
Rosen lifted his hand again, then held it trembling in the air, its gray shadow resting like a veil over Corman’s face.
“I’m sorry,” Corman sputtered. “I didn’t mean to …”
Rosen’s eyes narrowed spitefully for an instant, then darted away. For a moment he stood entirely still. Then he bolted forward abruptly and fled the room.
Corman sank down in the wooden pew, felt himself give over to the inevitable, rose again, walked into the street and headed east, toward what he thought now the only opportunity he still had.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
THE CONCIERGE was smartly dressed, and he did everything but click his heels as Corman walked through the large glass doors.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“I’m here to see Harry Groton,” Corman told him.
“And your name?”
“Corman.”
The concierge began to finger the buttons of the console behind his desk. “That’s 20–B, isn’t it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Corman said, glancing back outside. The bare limbs of the trees weaved slowly as the rain and wind lashed them. They looked forlorn, forsaken, forest exiles walled in by the cityscape, their slender uplifted branches entangled in a net of rain.
“Mr. Groton?” the concierge said into the black receiver, “Mr. Corman to see you. Yes. Thank you.” He looked at Corman. “You may go up: 20–B. Turn to your right when you step out of the elevator.”
Groton’s apartment was near the end of the corridor and Groton himself was already standing in the door, his body wobbling slightly as he offered Corman a quick wave.
“Didn’t think you’d make it,” he said. “Haven’t had a guest in a long time. Forgive the mess.”
“Don’t worry,” Corman said. “I’m used to mess.”
Groton waved his hand groggily. “Ain’t it the truth.”
Corman pulled the camera bag from his shoulder and let it drop to the floor.
“Want a drink?” Groton asked.
“Do we have time?”
“Sure. What the fuck.”
“Okay,” Corman said. “Thanks.”
“Sit down anywhere,” Groton told him. His hands swept out from his sides in a gesture of resignation. “I’m a man of simple tastes.”
Corman took a seat in a small wooden chair and let his eyes take in the room. Groton’s sleeper-sofa was still out. It sagged at the center, and a large rumpled pile of bedding spilled over the right edge and gathered on the uncarpeted floor below. The curtains were frayed at their edges, and there were no photographs on the walls.
“Two sixteen a month,” Groton said. “That’s what I pay for this place.” He shook his head. “Shit, they’ll probably get close to fifteen hundred for it when I …” He stopped, catching himself. “When it’s vacant.”
Corman smiled. “At least.”
Groton pulled two paper cups from a stack of them on a small table. “Scotch okay?”
“Yeah.”
“What? Two fingers?”
“Yeah, that’s good.”
Groton smiled. “Can’t get tight,” he said, wagging his finger scoldingly. “Them’s the rules. Can’t get tight if you got a shoot.”
He handed Corman a glass. “You look like shit,” he said, then lifted his cup. “To shit.”
Corman turned toward him. “How many have you had, Harry?”
Groton waved his hand. “Not enough.” He walked uneasily over to a chair, slumped down in it and took another sip.
“When’s the shoot?” Corman asked.
Groton started to answer, then looked as if he’d misplaced something, and said nothing.
“Did you write it down?”
Groton nodded. “Somewhere.” He stared about blearily. “Where the fuck could it be?”
“What was it on, a piece of paper?”
“Yeah,” Groton answered dully. “Some piece of paper, somewhere.”
“It’s at the Plaza,” Corman reminded him. “That’s what you said yesterday.”
“That’s right,” Groton said, suddenly remembering. “The Plaza. Pomegranate, something like that. Some fruit name. At four-thirty.”
Corman looked at his watch. “That’s in fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes,” Groton said without concern. “Yeah, that’s right. Fifteen minutes.”
Corman glanced at the cup which tilted back and forth unsteadily in Groton’s hand. He’d poured himself a good deal more than two fingers.
“You going to make it?” Corman asked.
Groton grinned childishly. “Nope,” he said quietly. He shook his head. “Nope. Nope.”
Corman shrugged. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I can handle it.”
Groton looked at him softly. “Would you do that, Corman? Would you mind? I mean, to tell you the truth—” He thrust his hand out, and a wave of scotch washed over the front of his shirt. “Shit,” he hissed angrily. “Shit.” He began to slap at his shirt, sending small amber drops across the floor. “Shit. Shit.”
Corman grabbed a handful of Kleenex from the box beside the bed, rushed over, bent down and began wiping the scotch from Groton’s shirt.
“I’m entitled, right?” Groton asked brokenly. “Just one time?”
Corman nodded quickly. “Yeah, you’re entitled. Don’t worry about it.” He could feel Groton’s fingers toying with his hair. He drew them out and lowered the hand back into Groton’s lap. “You’re okay now,” he said.
“Right, right,” Groton said. He sat up slightly, his chest thrust out, chin held up. “Just fine,” he said determinedly. “No problem.”
There were no “fruit names” listed among the people who had rented ballrooms in the Plaza, but one of the families was named Pomeroy, and Corman thought it was a safe guess that that was the one Groton had meant. It was a wedding reception, and he managed to rush up the stairs to the designated room just as Stuart Clayton was glancing nervously at his watch for what Corman figured was probably the thousandth time.