The Broken Window

her beloved, and very expensive, bicycle, and heads out to cruise the streets of her city.
    The routes vary. Central Park might figure, as does Riverside Park and Prospect Park in Brooklyn. But whatever the path, Myra 9834 makes one particular stop without fail toward the end of her journey: Hudson’s Gourmet Deli on Broadway. And then, food and shower beckoning, she takes the fastest bike route home—which, owing to the madness of downtown traffic, is right past the very spot where I’m standing at the moment.
    I’m in front of a courtyard leading to a ground-floorloft, owned by Maury and Stella Griszinski (imagine—buying ten years ago for $278,000). The Griszin-skis aren’t home, though, because they’re enjoying a springtime cruise in Scandinavia. They’ve stopped the mail and have hired no plant waterers or pet sitters. And there’s no alarm system.
    No sign of her yet. Hm. Has something intervened? I might be wrong.
    But I rarely am.
    Five agonizing minutes pass. I pull images of the Harvey Prescott painting out of my mental collection. I enjoy them for a time and tuck them back. I glance around and I resist a salivating urge to go through the fat trash bin here to see what treasures it might hold.
    Stay in the shadows. . . . Stay off the grid. Especially at times like this. And avoid the windows at all costs. You’d be amazed at the lure of voyeurism and how many people are watching you from the other side of the glass, which, to you, is only a reflection or glare.
    Where is she? Where?
    If I don’t get my transaction soon—
    And then, ah, I feel the slam within me as I see her: Myra 9834.
    Moving slowly, low gear, beautiful legs pumping away. A $1,020 bike. More than my first car cost.
    Ah, the bicycle outfit is tight. My breath is fast. I need her so badly.
    A glance up and down the street. Empty, except for the approaching woman, who’s now getting close, thirty feet away. Cell phone off but flipped open and up to my ear, Food Emporium bag dangling. I glance at her once. Stepping to the curb, as I carry on an animatedand entirely fictitious conversation. I pause to let her pass. Frowning, looking up. Then smiling. “Myra?”
    She slows. Biking outfit so tight. Control it, control it. Act casual.
    Nobody in the empty windows facing the street. No traffic.
    “Myra Weinburg?”
    The squeal of bike brakes. “Hi.” The greeting and attempted flash of recognition are due solely to the fact that people would rather do almost anything than be embarrassed.
    I’m totally in the role of the mature businessman as I walk toward her, telling my invisible friend I’ll call back and close the phone.
    She replies, “I’m sorry.” A smiling frown. “You’re . . . ?”
    “Mike. I’m the AE from Ogilvy? I think we met at . . . yeah, that’s it. The National Foods shoot at David’s. We were in the second studio. I came by and met you and—what’s his name? Richie. You guys had a better caterer than we did.”
    Now a hearty smile. “Oh, sure.” She remembers David and National Foods and Richie and the photo studio’s caterer. But she can’t remember me because I was never there. And nobody named Mike was there either but she won’t focus on that because it happens to be the name of her dead father.
    “Good seeing you,” I say, giving her my best how’s-this-for-a-coincidence grin. “You live around here?”
    “Village. You?”
    A nod to the Griszinskis. “There.”
    “Wow, a loft. Sweet.”
    I ask about her job, she asks about mine. Then I wince. “Better get inside. I just ran out for lemons.” Holding up the citrus prop. “Got some people over.” My voice fades as a brilliant idea comes to mind. “Hey, I don’t know if you have plans but we’re having a late brunch. You want to join us?”
    “Oh, thanks, but I’m a mess.”
    “Please . . . we were out all day on a Walk for the Cure, my partner and me.” Nice touch, I think. And wholly improvised. “We’re sweatier than you, believe me. This is way casual. It’ll be fun. There’s a senior AE from Thompson there. And a couple guys from Burston. Cute but straight.” I shrug mournfully. “And we’ve got a surprise actor too. I won’t tell you who.”
    “Well . . .”
    “Oh, come on. You look like you need a Cosmo. . . . At the photo shoot, didn’t we both decide that was our favorite drink?”

Chapter Six
    The Tombs.
    Okay, it wasn’t the Tombs any longer, the original one from the 1800s. That