Invasion of Privacy

other colors. She’d since died, and a couple of years ago Bostongas tore the tank down, pleading obsolescence. There was enough cultural outcry that the company let another artist painstakingly recreate the pattern on a new tank, which from the highway looks pretty good, especially compared to the skeletons of grandiose office and residential towers that ran out of development money before anything but the structural steel got erected.
    Back in the city, I double-parked by a one-hour photo place long enough to drop off the film I’d shot at Plymouth Willows, asking in advance for a dozen copies of the fourth frame on the roll, which I figured to be the best one of Andrew Dees. Leaving the car in the slanted space near the dumpster behind my office’s building, I went upstairs and dialed the district attorney’s office. A secretary said Ms. Meagher was “on trial.” Probably the attempted murder case she’d told me about the night before. I asked the secretary to let Nancy know I’d called.
    Then I tried Olga Evorova’s number at the bank to bring her up to date on how little I’d found out and to ask her how far she wanted me to push an already upset Andrew Dees. I drew a very formal secretary who advised me that Ms. Evorova was attending a meeting out of the office. I left basically the same message with her that I had at the DA’s.
    After organizing the questionnaires from Plymouth Willows into a simple file, I did some other paperwork for an hour or so, involuntarily thinking of Nancy and glancing at the telephone from time to time. Following that, I signed my name to reports a nice woman at the accountants’ office down the corridor word processes “under the desk” for ten bucks a throw. Then I looked at the Plymouth Willows file again. I was about to start counting the turning leaves on the Common’s trees when the phone finally did ring. “John Cuddy.”
    “John, it’s Nancy .”
    Just hearing her voice made my heart settle when I hadn’t been aware it was stuck too high in the chest. “You got my message?”
    “At the office, but I’m calling from a bar thing.”
    Her voice sounded stilted. “ ‘Bar thing’?”
    “You know, a Bar Association event, cocktails and then dinner. Boring, but appropriate for a lawyer of my acumen.”
    More stilted. “Nance, is everything all right?”
    “Fine. I guess I forgot to mention the bar thing, huh?” Now over-casual. “Yeah, I think you must have.”
    “Well, I’m sorry. I’ve got this trial still tomorrow, so I’m just going to head home tonight.”
    “Right.”
    A silence between us.
    Then Nancy said, “John, are you okay?”
    “Only if you are.”
    Another silence. “You mean, did I call the doctor?”
    “That’s what I mean.”
    “I called her but didn’t get a chance to speak with her. I have an appointment for tomorrow morning.”
    “What time?”
    “John, it’s nothing. Don’t worry.”
    “I do worry, Nance. What time?”
    “The appointment?”
    “Yes.”
    “Ten o’clock.”
    “That won’t foul up your trial?”
    “The judge will let me work around it.”
    “I’ll drive you.”
    “Where?”
    “To the doctor’s.”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    Her voice became a little sharp. “Because I’m a big girl, and I can make it to the doctor for a simple checkup on my own.”
    “Nance, do me a favor. Don’t turn my concern for you into some kind of insult to you, okay?”
    “John, I’m not in a position where I can discuss this very well.”
    “Call me tomorrow, then, after the doctor’s.”
    “If I can. I’ve got to be back on trial for the afternoon.”
    “I love you, Nancy.”
    A softening. “Same here, squared.”
    Then she rang off.
    I hung up the phone with a bad feeling. I tried to shake it off, then thought about burning it off at the Nautilus club back near the condo. Downstairs, the traffic on Tremont Street was gridlocked, so I walked to the photo place before getting my car. The pictures were ready, and the dozen extras of Andrew Dees at the driver’s door came out beautifully. Small triumph.
    Putting the envelope of prints and negatives in a jacket pocket, I walked back toward the office, my mind on Nancy and whether I should have pressed more or less in talking with her. Coming around the corner of my building to the parking area, I registered only the forearm coming up, clotheslining me just under the throat.
    I went down backwards, a pair of strong hands on each of my arms as soon as I