You headed home now?he replies.
Gonna run some errands. Back in a couple of hours.
Idohave errands to run. It’s been days since I bought toiletries or hit the gym or had my nails done. But there’s something even more important on my list. I need to finally retrace my steps in the East Village, explore those streets in the hope that something I see will jog a memory, the way the rain on my trench coat did last night.
I shoot my hand up for a passing taxi and give the driver the address for Eastside Eats on Seventh Street.
After zigzagging east, the cabdriver hops on the FDR Drive at Seventy-First Street and zooms south. To my left the East River sparkles in the sun. On any other day, I’d stare out, mesmerized by the comings and goings of the tugs and barges, but I’m too wired to pay any attention.
When I exit the taxi outside Eastside Eats, I see through the glass window that the space inside is sparely decorated, but at the same time inviting. The tables have been constructed from planks of wood and are topped with glass jars full of herbs.
I step inside but don’t bother going to the counter, where half a dozen people are milling around. Nothing about this place feels familiar, and sitting with a coffee at one of the tables probably isn’t going to alter that.
Next, I wander farther east in the direction of Tompkins Square Park, which I apparently walked along last week. Years ago, the East Village was known for its counterculture, bohemian vibe, and it still gives off a hint of that, but less so nowthan when I roamed around here before or after my class at NYU. I pass a hip-looking shop selling clothes on consignment, a gallery, a patisserie, and several well-kept brownstone town houses. A group of art students saunters in front of me, carrying portfolios, the scent of their cigarettes wafting back toward me. Ahead of them is a cluster of Asian tourists snapping photos.
Why did I stop my sojourns down here? I can’t seem to remember. Just because my course ended didn’t mean I couldn’t come back. Maybe once I met Hugh, there seemed no reason to visit here. Hugh’s hardly a boho kind of guy.
When I reach the park, I make my way to the northern end at Tenth Street and flop onto a bench near two men playing chess. Did I come to this bench last week? Did I sit for a while as I’m doing now, with the warmth of the sun on my face? I have no clue.
Finally, I rise and retrace my steps south, but this time I go two blocks farther, turning on Fifth Street in search of Pairings, the other restaurant that showed up on my credit card statement.
It turns out to be a vegetarian place, rustic and charming, with brick walls painted white. There are about twenty wooden tables all nestled very close to one another and a bar/counter running across the back with a dozen stools. And like Eastside Eats, it’s totally and completely unfamiliar to me.
Maybe itwouldmake sense to spend a little time at one of these places and give my memory a chance to adjust. The restaurant is clearly open for dinner already—I spot a man sitting solo at a table—so I enter the hushed interior.
A waitress looks up and smiles. She’s got short black hair, shaved along the sides, and a small silver hoop in her nose.
“I’m sorry, we don’t serve dinner until five thirty,” she says.
I glance over at the man sitting at the table and realize it’s actually a member of the waitstaff, folding black napkins.
She must read distress on my face because she adds, “We’re fully booked tonight, but there should be a seat at the bar if you want to come back right at five thirty. As you know, we serve a full menu there.”
So she remembers me.
“Yes, that’s right,” I say, accepting the card. “I loved the food. It’s... it’s a nice place to come on your own.”
“Isn’t it?” she says. “Feel free to bring a friend next time.”
I was alone, then, on Wednesday.
I exit and walk as fast as I can toward First Avenue, sweating in my coat, and flag down a cab headed uptown. I check my phone for the zillionth time, even though I’ve had the volume on max and would have heard a text or call from Mulroney come through. Nothing.
I place yet another call to him and this time the recording says, “The user’s mailbox is full. Please try again later.”
That makes no sense. An active private investigator would expect plenty of incoming calls and would keep his voice mail cleared to accept them. And even if he was crushed with work, he would at least respond to a paying client with a text.
What if this has all been ascam? And he provided a minimum amount of info simply to keep me happy? What if the blood-type results aren’t even true? Maybe he never really had the tissues tested.
That’d be rich, wouldn’t it?Personal finance “expert” falls prey to con artist.
But hecan’tbe a fraud. He’s a former New York City detective, and my gut told me that he was the real thing.
I rack my brain, turning up the few things I know about him. He mentioned that he lived on West Ninety-Seventh Street. And when we were at the diner, he admitted that he liked to drop by there in the early evenings and mull over his cases.
“Let me off at Ninety-Ninth and Broadway instead,” I call to the driver through the plexiglass barrier.
By the time we finally pull up at Broadway Diner, it’s growing dark outside and I’m ready to crawl out of my skin. I quickly pay the fare and charge across the sidewalk to the restaurant.
