Then, one steaming night in August, it had happened. They’d gone that evening to a little seafood restaurant in Sheepshead Bay. The bluefish were running and they had each ordered one broiled with sage and rosemary. For a long time they had lingered on the terrace, sipping espresso and the last of their Frascati in the fresh Atlantic breeze. Suddenly, there on the terrace, Grace had sensed a barely disguised yearning in the way Angelo’s eyes kept returning to the blouse she had partially unbuttoned in the warm night air. She’d been through three affairs since they met, each begun in promise and ended in pain. Angelo was not a handsome man; yet there was an undeniable appeal in his battered, craggy face. Above all, there was a solidity about him, a promise of strength like that of the old oak that has survived many an autumn storm. Walking out the door, Grace reached for his hand.
“Angelo, take me home with you,” she whispered.
Now, beside her, Angelo gave a soft groan as he contemplated the menu. They were after him, every time he took his Department physical, to lose a little weight. “Watch the blood pressure,” they’d say. Tomorrow, he thought, and ordered cannelloni, a bistecca Fiorentina, and a bottle of Castello Gabbiano Riserva 1975. Grace gave him a disapproving glance, then asked for a veal piccata and a green salad.
“Hey,” he mumbled, “I’m the policeman, remember?”
As the waiter moved away, they lapsed into silence. Grace seemed suddenly distant, absorbed in some private world of her own.
“What’s the matter?”
“I got some news yesterday.”
“Good or bade’
“Bad, I guess. I’m pregnant.”
Angelo set his whiskey down with a slow, deliberate movement. “You sure?”
She slipped her hand over his. “I’m sorry, darling. I wasn’t going to tell you. Not yet, anyway. Your question caught me while I was thinking about it.” She reached for her glass and took a measured sip. “It’s one of those things that should never happen anymore, I know. I was careless. You see, after I had Tommy I had some trouble. They told me it was very, very unlikely I’d ever conceive again.” She giggled and the corners of her dark eyes crinkled with her laughter. “And until you came along, I never did.”
“I guess I should take that as a compliment.” Angelo slid his heavy arm along the top of their seat so that his fingers rested lightly on her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I suppose it’s my fault. I should have been watching out. I guess I’m out of practice.”
“Sure. I guess so.”
Grace studied the detective an instant, an appraising coolness in her eyes, waiting for another word, another phrase. It did not come. She twisted and stretched her long fingers on the tablecloth. “It’s strange carrying a life inside you. I don’t think a man can ever understand just what that means to a woman. I’ve spent the last thirteen years living with the idea it would never happen to me again.” She took another drink. Her eyes were downcast, her voice suddenly plaintive. “And now it has.”
Angelo let his regard travel around the crowded restaurant a moment, taking in the heads leaning conspiratorily together, making, unmaking deals. As he did, he tried to puzzle out the mood of the woman beside him.
“Grace, tell me something. You’re not thinking about keeping it, are you?”
“Would that be so terrible?”
Angelo paled slightly. He took his drink, swallowed the last of his whiskey, then stared moodily at the glass clasped between his fingers.
“You know, I never told you, Grace, about Catherine and me. She had troubles, too. We tried for years to have a baby. She kept miscarrying and miscarrying. We didn’t know why.”
He lowered his glass to the table. “We couldn’t figure out what God or nature or whatever the hell you want to call it was trying to tell us.
Until Maria was born.” Angelo was a long way from their crowded Italian restaurant. “I’ll never forget going into the delivery room that morning.
I was so proud, so happy. I wanted a boy, sure, but a child, that’s what mattered. And there she was, this little tiny thing all red and shriveled, the nurse holding her up there by the ankles. Those hands, those little, tiny hands, were moving, kind of picking at the air like, and she was crying.”
He paused a moment. “And then I noticed her head. It didn’t seem quite right, you know? It wasn’t round. The nurse looked at me. They know right away. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Rocchia,’ she said, ‘your daughter’s mongoloid.’ “
Angelo turned to Grace, the sorrow of that instant, of all the painful instants that followed it, on his face. “Believe me, Grace, I’d die before I’d hear those words again.”
“I understand you, darling.” Her hand closed over his.
“But they have a test now. It’s called amniocentesis. They can tell if a child’s going to be a mongoloid before it’s born.”
“How did you find that out?”
“I checked with my doctor.”
Angelo made no effort to conceal his astonishment. “So you’ve been thinking a lot about this?”
The waiter appeared with their dinner. They watched in awkward silence as he set their plates before them, then drifted off.
“I suppose I have. It’s caught me so much by surprise.” Grace picked at her veal. “You see, I know it’s the last chance for me, Angelo. I’m thirtyfive.”
“How about me?” There was an edge of petulance in his voice. “Do you really think a man is anxious to become a father at my age?”
Grace laid down her fork and meticulously dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “What I’m going to say sounds selfish, I know. And I guess it is.
But if I decide to have the child, it will be because I want it. Because I want something to help me fill the years I see ahead. Because this is a last chance and you don’t let go of last chances in life easily. But I’ll promise you one thing, Angelo. If I do decide to keep it, it’ll be my responsibility. I won’t burden you with the problems my decision causes. I won’t lay any responsibilities you don’t want on you.”
Angelo felt a sudden chill. “What do you mean? You’d want to bring it up like that, by yourself? Alone?”
“Yes, I think perhaps I would.” Again Grace rested her hand on his. “Let’s not talk about it anymore. Not now at least.” She smiled. “Guess what? Our beloved Mayor’s giving a press conference at nine tomorrow to explain why he hasn’t been able to get the snow off the streets. Because of my piece in this morning’s paper.”
Much farther up Manhattan, on Central Park South, Laila Dajani stepped out of the Hampshire House, shiny black satin disco pants flashing beneath her fur jacket.
“Studio Fifty-four,” the doorman ordered her cabdriver.
The driver looked at her appreciatively in his rearview mirror.
“Hey, you must know people, lady.”
“I have friends,” Laila smiled. Then, as they approached Fifty-seventh Street, she leaned forward. “You know, I’m going to change my mind. Take me to the corner of Thirty-second and Park.”
“Got friends there tool”
“Something like that.”
Laila stared out the window to stop the conversation. When they reached Thirty-second and Park she paid the. fare, smiled at the driver and began to stroll casually along the avenue. Her eyes remained fixed on the taillights of the cab, following them until they disappeared from sight. Then she quickly turned and hailed another cab. This time, she told the driver to take her where she really wanted to go.
In Washington, D.C., the FBI’s fortresslike headquarters at Tenth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, seven blocks from the White House, blazed with lights. On the sixth floor of that headquarters the Bureau maintained a nuclear-emergency desk manned twentyfour hours a day by a trio of specially trained agents. It had been there since 1974 when the FBI assigned nuclear extortion a priority so urgent it was reserved for only a handful of major incidents headed by the most dreaded occurrence of all, Presidential assassination.