Hope to Die

"And of course T J took it."

"If he hadn't," I said, "I don't know what I would do with him. Yes, of course he took it. It would have spiked his whole act to turn it down, and on top of that it would have contravened a fundamental principle."

" 'When they give you money, put it in your pocket.' "

"That's the one."

We ate at home and walked up Ninth to Lincoln Center. It was raining in earnest by the time we set out, so we might have taken a cab, but the rain made it impossible to get one. It was only half a dozen blocks, and we both had umbrellas, and stayed dry under them.

The concert featured a Belgian pianist who performed on a Mozart piano, which was evidently some intermediate stage in evolution between a harpsichord and the modern piano. The program notes told me more than I cared to know about the differences and similarities involved. The Mostly Mozart orchestra provided accompaniment, and what they played was certainly easy to listen to.

And, in my case, easy not to listen to, because I couldn't keep my mind on it. I kept playing different conversations through my mind- with Nadler, with Kristin Hollander, with my police contacts in Brooklyn and Manhattan. I ran switches on the scenario I'd spun out for Kristin ("Scudder's variations on the Third Man Theme") until they became a dream I couldn't wake up from, or a song I couldn't get out of my head.

At intermission Elaine asked me if I wanted to go. "You're not squirming in your seat," she said, "but your mind's miles away, isn't it?"

I said I'd stay. The festival had only a week to run, and we had tickets for two of the remaining concerts. She'd be taking a friend to one of them, and then there'd be the last night, and eleven months before we did it again. It was early, and Da

A Ninth Avenue bus pulled up just as we were leaving. The rain had lessened and she said she'd walk, and I said either she'd take the bus or I would walk with her.

She said, "And then turn around and walk all the way back to Seventy-second Street?"

"So take the bus," I said, and she did.

Poogan's is on Seventy-second east of Broadway, a dark little hole in the wall with precious little to recommend it, as far as I'm concerned, aside from the frequent presence of Da

Back then he looked like nobody else in the world, and that hasn't changed. He's African-American, a term I don't tend to use much, but it fits him better than "black," which doesn't fit him at all. Da

Nights, he generally holds court at one of two places where the lighting and sound are both muted. Mother Blue's, farther uptown, has live music and a more upscale salt-and-pepper clientele; Poogan's, with a tasteful if eclectic jukebox, is a little more raffish. At either place he takes his usual table and waits for people to come join him. Some bring him information and others take information away with them. If this is the Information Age, Da

I nursed a Coke at the bar while he chatted with a woman who looked too chubby to be a working girl, but who, dressed and made up as she was, could hardly be anything else. She was an overstuffed kewpie doll fresh out of a Stephen King novel, but any sense of malevolence was dispelled by her obvious jollity. She laughed with good humor, and at the conclusion of the interview she stood up, leaned over, and kissed Da

When I got to his table Da

"Time flies," I said.

"When you're having fun," he said, "and also when you're not." He cocked his head, looked me over. "You're looking well," he a

He put his handkerchief away and took a big sip of vodka, churning it in his mouth like Listerine, then swallowing it down. "Germs," he explained, "though I'm sure she tidies up after every little adventure. Still, better safe than sorry." At both Mother Blue's and Poogan's they leave the bottle for him, and he took it from the ice bucket and filled his glass. "The only thing wrong with your sobriety," he said, "is you don't get to the bars as often."

"I'm turning into a homebody," I said.

"And how is the fair Elaine?"

"Fine. She sends her love."

"And give her mine." He picked up his glass, took a sip. He could still drink like a man twice his size and half his age. They say in the rooms of AA that it's just a question of time, that nobody gets away with it forever, but I'm not sure they're right. Some friends of mine seem to do just fine.

He swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment, and I could just about feel the drink going down. He opened his eyes and said, "I'd miss it," to himself as much as to me, and thought about that for a moment. Then his eyes found mine and he said, "Well, Matthew? What brings you here?"

When I got home Elaine was in the living room, reading a Susan Isaacs novel and drinking a cup of tea. She was barefoot and wore a silk robe that left a lot of her uncovered. I looked her over and made some appreciative noises, and she told me that men are swine. "It says so right here," she said, and tapped the book. "How's Da

"The same. He sends love."

"That's sweet. Michael called."

"Michael?"

"Your son."

"He never calls," I said, remembering the last call I'd had from him. "What did he want?"

"He must have called while we were at the concert. The message was on the machine when I got home. He wants you to call him, and he left a number. His cell phone, I think he said. The message is still on the machine."

I went and played it. Without preamble he said, "Dad, it's Michael. Could you give me a call? Anytime, it doesn't matter. I don't know where I'll be, so call me on my cell phone…"

I jotted down the number and went back to the living room. "Whatever it is," I said, "you don't get a clue from his tone of voice, do you? It's perfectly neutral."

"There's probably an easy way to find out what he wants."

"It's almost midnight."

"Which is what, nine in California?"

"If that's where he is."

"If he's in Paris," she said, "it's six in the morning."

"Wherever you go," I said, "it's always sometime. All I have to do is pick up the fucking phone, but I don't seem to want to."

"I know. But it might be good news, honey. Maybe June's expecting another baby."

"I don't think that's it," I said, "and I don't think it's good news. But whatever it is, I might as well hear about it."

"Dad," he said. "Thanks for calling back. Listen, are you at home? The number I called before?"

"Sure, but- "

"Let me call you back. I'm getting an echo on this piece of crap."

He broke the co