Fatal Reaction

though with what I now knew about PAFI was even less inclined to suspect Hiroshi of any involvement.
    “We’re still working on that. But he travels to the U.S. a couple times a month, usually to New York, and always with his private secretary.”
    “Really? Has she been with him for a long time?”
    “You mean him. The secretary is a man. I called the house detective at the St. Regis, which is where he always stays when he’s in New York. It seems he always travels with a personal secretary, always a young man in his twenties, but...”
    “But what?”
    “But never the same one twice.”
    The minister who officiated at Danny’s funeral was a downy-faced probationer who offered up a generic service filled with platitudes about eternity and redemption while a plump woman in a green dress played the piano and exuded the humid scent of alcohol.
    There were perhaps two dozen people. Stephen and I sat alone together in the front row, and when I turned around, I saw mostly familiar faces. Tom Galloway sat between a representative of Azor’s bank and its firm of accountants. Carl Woodruff came, as did Lou Remminger, who, dressed entirely in black, actually managed to pass for just another mourner.
    Stephen’s assistant, Rachel, looked terribly smart in a black suit from Ann Taylor. I was surprised to see her sitting in the last row beside Elliott Abelman, their heads close together in whispered conversation. Other than that there were perhaps five or six other people, all men, all young, none of whom I recognized. Later Elliott told me that one of them was Danny’s neighbor from across the hall. These were the people whom Elliott had come for, hoping one of them would lead him into Danny’s other, private life.
    The lawyer in me still waited for some long-lost relative to come forward and make a claim on Danny’s estate, but so far none had materialized. Apparently Danny’s grandmother had been his only relative. The casket was a handsome one of burnished copper—the most expensive one they had.
    Stephen delivered the eulogy. He talked feelingly about his long friendship with Danny and their early struggles. He recalled Danny’s judgment and his wit, but it was his obvious grief at his friend’s passing that provided the most eloquent tribute.
    When he sat down, a young man with auburn hair rose and took his place beside the coffin. He was a soloist from the Chicago Gay Men’s Chorus. He stood for a moment, silent and perfectly still. Then simply, without accompaniment, he sang the old ballad “Danny Boy.” His voice was a gorgeous, lyrical tenor that rolled out of him effortlessly and filled the dim chapel like a warm light. Until I heard it, I had not realized that it was possible for music to actually pierce the heart.
     
    I did not go to the cemetery. I told myself that Danny would understand. Instead I took a cab straight from the funeral home to the airport for my flight to New York. Because Azor was paying for my ticket I’d had Cheryl book me to New York in coach. When I got on the plane I was rewarded for my virtue with half a soggy turkey sandwich in a Styrofoam container and a seat beside a three-hundred-pound man.
    However, once I arrived at LaGuardia I found that Bud Hellman had arranged the full visiting-partner treatment. A driver met me at the gate holding a sign with my name on it—correctly spelled. He relieved me of my briefcase, inquired whether I’d had a pleasant flight, and ushered me to the black limousine that was waiting at the curb.
    There was a time, in law school, when I had just assumed I would live and work in Manhattan. New York, after all, is where the big leagues of corporate law are played. Indeed, I spent the summer after my first year of law school clerking at Cravath Swain. Besides the obvious attraction of being asked to be a summer associate at one of the most prestigious law firms in the country, there was also the undeniable charm of living in a different time zone than my parents.
    But while I’d found the work at Cravath intermittently interesting I’d ended the summer with a renewed appreciation of the Second City. Arriving in New York in June, I’d been thrilled by the hustle of the city that never sleeps, the sea of taxicabs rushing up Sixth Avenue like the tide. But by July Manhattan seemed hot and dirty, filled with people who, from the senior partners at Cravath to the addled beggars on the street, seemed to feel it was okay to yell at people