Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4)

Maglia’s wife was in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the chest down from a skiing accident eight years ago. Rona had married Brian to try to end the relationship, but it had only intensified.
    The clock said six-thirty, which gave her a momentary jolt until she remembered that the Transit Authority was notoriously negligent about adjusting station clocks to the twice-a-year time change. A train was just pulling out, leaving a fairly empty platform that began to fill up almost immediately. The pure, almost ethereal, strains of a Bach saraband rose live from the midst of a small crowd semicircled around a violinist. The acoustics in the New York subway system were better than in most concert halls. On the uptown platform across four or more tracks, people stood listening as if time had stopped and this were not a filthy, airless subway platform at rush hour in the heart of New York. After the young musician played the final notes with a dramatic flourish, the audience on both platforms applauded. Everyone smiled at one another.
    Wetzon found four quarters in her change purse and dropped them into his violin case just as the N train pulled in.
    At once the accumulated crowd reverted to type and pushed ahead of Wetzon onto the train, scrambling for the few remaining seats. A huge man wearing a red knit hat pulled down over his forehead was holding a racing bike against the side of four empty seats. People milled around, but no one dared to suggest he move his bike. He gave off dangerous vibes, and everyone was giving him space.
    Threading her way to the rear of the car, Wetzon found a spot on the standing pole where she could put her hand.
    Dangerous vibes. She was musing on that as she climbed out of the subway at Union Square and crossed the street to the Union Square Cafe on Sixteenth Street. It was still light and the air was mellow, even a bit balmy, for late October.
    Dangerous. Barbie Gordon reeked dangerous. Rona did not. Maglia did, Dr. Jerry did not. Smith did, Wetzon did not. Richard Hartmann did, Twoey did not. Look at Penny Ann and her late husband. He probably did, she certainly did not.
    Silvestri did, Alton did not.
    Did a successful relationship between two people require one of them to be dangerous? And could a pussy become dangerous if pushed far enough? What if Brian had been having an affair with Barbara, and Jerry’d found out about it? Possibly. Then what about Tabitha? Did the girl know something that she shouldn’t have known? What if she’d testified against her mother at the arbitration for revenge or to please Brian, then wanted to take it back? That would put Maglia’s ass on the line. She smiled. She’d like to see Maglia’s ass on the line.
    Wetzon opened the door and went in past the smoky tables near the bar, the only place in the restaurant smoking was allowed. She gave her name and Alton’s to the man with the reservation book, abandoned her coat and briefcase, then was ushered down the steps to her left to a table for four. The two extra place settings were immediately removed.
    She sat with her back to the wall. This was her favorite room in any restaurant in New York. Bright with a warm light, it had no bitty candles in bitty glasses. The floors were wood, tablecloths white, and although it was early, about half of the tables were occupied.
    Hungry, she dug into the dish of olives the waiter had left when he asked what she was drinking. After Saturday night, she was off beer, off booze entirely till the memory of how rotten she’d felt disappeared.
    She was picking up on the intriguing conversation among the foursome at the next table about what was politically correct when Alton, distinguished in a dark-blue suit, his gray hair trimmed, arrived. He turned heads, because he was a minor celebrity in the City and people recognized him. A man in a business suit stopped him and shook his hand; a red-haired woman blew a kiss.
    When he got to Wetzon, she found she was having an unanticipated buzz. She was really glad to see him. He bent and unexpectedly kissed her on her forehead, and she thought, My forehead’s probably a grease pit, and why hadn’t she fussed with her makeup, dusted her face with powder, like Smith?
    “You make me very happy,” he said, seating himself opposite her. “Now what’s the matter? What did I say?”
    He was picking up every nuance. She felt naked. “Alton, you make me very nervous. I keep thinking, what does he want, what am I