Outside the coffee shop, we turned north and walked up Fifth. At that time of night, there wasn’t anybody on the street. When we reached Fourteenth Street, she reached out and held my hand as we walked. That little gesture surprised the hell out of me. Christ, no one had held my hand since the sixth grade. Her hand felt as small as a child’s.
It was the kind of night that was perfect for walking. Cool and clear. It almost made the city look good. At a certain hour, and in a certain kind of light, New York was like a hooker who can trick you into thinking she’s passably fuckable.
As we walked, Rachel told me about Alicia. About her conversion to feminism, her joining some kind of Earth Mother cult, her visits to a psychiatrist who held a bizarre fascination for her. When she talked about the shrink, her tone took on a strange animation.
There was hardly anybody around on Fifth in the Twenties and Thirties. We passed darkened showrooms and grimy office buildings, some with bums passed out in the doorways. An occasional taxi would slow down as it passed to ask if we wanted a ride, but I waved them on.
There were a few more people on the streets when we hit the Forties. And there were always the Senegalese hawking Rolexes for ten dollars and Hermes scarves. Mostly, I let her do the talking, but I stuck in a question now and then. She was good at sorting out the details and highlighting what she thought were the important parts. When I asked her where Alicia got the coke, she gave me a blank stare. I told her if I could nail the supplier, I’d have a few more answers. That didn’t seem to impress her a hell of a lot.
Fifth Avenue had more people when we reached the Fifties. Some of the stores were open. Mostly electronic rip-off joints that reamed the tourists.
As she spoke, I got a sense that she wanted to help but that she wasn’t opening up completely. And I couldn’t tell if what she was holding back was worth anything.
The streets became deserted again in the Sixties. We crossed Madison and walked north a couple of blocks past small overpriced boutiques and then turned left on Park.
She told me about Chisolm and Stallings, or at least how Alicia had described them. Then she said that Alicia had told her she would never be dependent on a man again and that she was willing to take certain risks to achieve that. How much risk would she have taken? Rachel shook her head. She had no idea. In my experience, some people would risk a lot to be independent.
When we reached Seventy-second, I stopped and turned for a minute and looked South toward my office building some thirty blocks away down Park Avenue. I could see my window still lit up. How many evenings had I sat in that room? Close to ten years worth. Putting pieces together, asking questions, jumping to hasty conclusions, busting chops. I shrugged without moving my shoulders. It all meant very little, after all.
Then Rachel told me she lived at Park and Seventy-third. It was a pre-war building with huge apartments that cost large sums of ill-gotten money.
“You own your apartment?” I asked.
She nodded wordlessly. The girl obviously had some independent means. What I was curious about was how she got it.
“You live alone?”
She nodded again.
“I want to see you tomorrow,” I said. “I need more answers.”
She gave me a look that asked why at the same time that it knew the answer. “Is that all you need?” She laughed a sweet, delicate laugh.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said.
She nodded. But her eyes were tough to read.