New York Dead

you and give you the camera.”
    “Looking forward to it, lad,” Teddy said.
    “And, Teddy, no booze that night, all right?”
    “Lad,” Teddy replied, sounding hurt, “I only drink
after
work.”
    Stone hung up the phone feeling a certain order in his life. There was money in the bank, and he had handled his first assignments for Woodman & Weld in a way that was earning their confidence.
    He allowed himself to be troubled for a moment about the ethics of what he was doing, but he brushed the thought aside. An errant wife deserved whatever came her way. Stone was on the side of the angels — or, at least, on the side of the wronged party, his client.
    He put the last coat of varnish on the library shelves that night, then slept the sleep of the righteous.

Chapter
37

    Late Friday morning it started to snow. The big flakes floated straight down, with no wind to blow them into drifts, and, gradually, the city grew silent as traffic decreased and the noise of what was left was muffled by the carpet of white.
    As delighted as a child, Stone forgot working on the house and trudged up to Central Park, where he watched children sledding and building snowmen. As it started to get dark, he hiked down Park Avenue, watching the lights come on and the taxis and buses struggle through the deepening snow. By the time he got home, twelve inches had fallen on the city, and it seemed to be getting heavier. Then it occurred to him that Teddy O’Bannion lived in Brooklyn. He grabbed the telephone.
    “Don’t worry, Stone” — Teddy chuckled — “the subway is just down at the corner, and I can get a cab from your place. I’ll start early, so I’ll be sure to be on time.”
    Stone hung up relieved. The thought that he might have to replace Teddy on this mission had never occurred to him, and even the possibility made his knees tremble.
    In the study, he pulled the drop cloths off the crates holding his books — his and his great-aunt’s and his father’s and his mother’s. He estimated there were more than two thousand of them. He took them from their boxes and began arranging them carefully on the shelves. This was a job he would not want to do again. He arranged them by category — art books, fiction, philosophy, politics, biography — and alphabetically by author. It was slow going, and he often had to shift books to keep them in order.
    At eight o’clock, he fixed himself some dinner and ate it at the kitchen table, watching the news on CNN.
    When he had finished his dinner, he returned to the arranging of the books and became so absorbed in the job that it was nine forty before he realized that Teddy O’Bannion had not arrived.
    Worried, he called Teddy’s number. It was busy, and it remained busy during his next ten attempts. He called the operator and had the number checked: out of order, she would report it. What was going on?
    At ten thirty, he began to face the reality that he was going to have to walk into Apartment 9-A and take videotapes of a strange woman and man in bed together. The thought made his bowels weak. He wished he had not eaten such a large dinner. Teddy’s phone number still would not ring.
    At a quarter to eleven, Stone realized that he would have to shower and change, so that he would be presentable to the doorman at the apartment building. He hoped to God it would be a different doorman; he couldn’t afford to be seen twice by the same man.
    In the shower he ran over what might go wrong. The couple wouldn’t be there — that was the best thing that could happen. The man would overpower him and call the police — that would end his relationship with Woodman & Weld, and he would end up in court, if not in jail. The man would produce a pistol from a bedside drawer and…
    The doorbell rang as he stepped out of the shower. He got into a terry-cloth robe and raced down the stairs. Teddy O’Bannion stood, knee deep in snow, on the front stoop.
    “Jesus, I’m sorry, Stone,” he began. “There was a fire in the subway station at the corner, and it knocked out not only the trains but every phone in the neighborhood, including mine.”
    “Come on in, Teddy,” Stone said, nearly trembling with relief.
    “I’m double-parked out there,” Teddy said, brushing snow from his coat. “I had to come in the wife’s Jeepster. Good thing I had something with four-wheel drive, but it still took me an hour and a half from the Brooklyn Bridge.” Stone pointed him at the camera case.