The October List

have a drink or two at Limoncello’s and take his boat out for a sunset ride in New York Harbor.
    After that some Indian or Thai food and back home, where he’d summon one of the girls from the outcall service he used. Whom to pick? he wondered. Daniel was in a particular mood after the shooting – he found himself picturing the outstretched bloody body of the target’s daughter. This memory was persistent and alluring.
    He decided he’d ask for one of the girls who allowed her customers to practice rough trade. Still, he reminded himself that he’d have to exercise a bit more restraint than several weeks ago when Alice – or was it Alina? – ended up in the emergency room.

CHAPTER
3
     

12:20 p.m., Friday
1 hour, 10 minutes earlier
     



 
     
    ‘Gabby!’
    She turned to see the pudgy redheaded man approaching through the aisles of the electronics superstore, near City Hall.
    She thought again of her initial impression from a month or so ago, when they’d met. The round thirty-something had farm boy written all over him. A look you didn’t see much in Manhattan. Not that there was anything wrong with this image intrinsically (anything but the hipster look, Gabriela felt); the problem was just that it was too easy to picture him in overalls.
    She smiled. ‘Hi!’
    ‘What’re you doing here?’ Frank Walsh asked her, as he beamed, smiling.
    He wore a tan Polo shirt, which matched everybody else’s here. His name tag reported, F. Walsh, Computer Fix-It Dept. Manager .
    She took his hand, which he turned into a hug.
    Gabriela said, ‘Have a meeting downtown. Thought I’d say hi.’
    His face seemed to glow. ‘No kidding! I was just thinking about you. Wow, Tiffany’s.’
    She glanced down at the bag. ‘Just my comfy shoes.’
    ‘I like the ones you’re wearing,’ he whispered, noting the spiky high heels, which elevated her to his height. Stuart Weitzmans. They cost the same as one of the computers on sale at a nearby end cap.
    ‘Try walking to work in them sometime,’ she said with a laugh.
    On the far wall scores of the same Geico commercial flickered from TV screens large and small.
    Frank glanced at his watch. ‘You free for lunch?’
    ‘No, I have to get back to that meeting. Got time for coffee, though.’
    ‘Deal.’
    They went to a Starbucks next door, collected their drinks – she a black coffee, Frank a frothy latte. They sat and chatted, amid the muted grind of blenders and the hiss of the steam device.
    Despite appearances, Frank was about as far removed from the farm as could be. ‘Nerd’ was a better descriptive, a word that she would have avoided but he’d said it about himself once or twice so maybe it was politically correct. Computers consumed him. His job here, of course. And he seemed to be an avid participant in online role-playing games; she deduced this from the way he had coyly asked her if she knew certain titles (she’d never played one in her life). Then, looking a bit disappointed, he’d changed the subject and didn’t bring the topic up again, probably embarrassed.
    Frank Walsh was a film buff, too; he went to the movies twice a week. This they had in common.
    They sipped coffee and chatted. Then he confided with a grimace, ‘I’ve got the weekend off … but I’ve got to visit my mother.’
    ‘Congratulations. And all my sympathies.’
    He laughed.
    ‘She’s on Long Island?’ Gabriela recalled.
    ‘Syosset. But I’m back about noon Sunday. There’s a noir festival at the SoHo that starts then. You interested? Sterling Hayden, Ida Lupino, Dan Duryea. The best of the best.’
    ‘Oh, sorry, Frank. Have plans Sunday.’
    ‘Sure.’ He didn’t seem particularly disappointed. ‘Hey, I’m making a mix tape with those songs you liked. Well, mix download . Mention “tape” to a new clerk here and they’re like, “Huh?”’
    ‘Wow, thanks, Frank.’ Though she wondered: Which songs were those? She didn’t listen to much modern music, no pop at all. A lot of classical and jazz. Many old-time crooners and cabaret singers. Sinatra, Count Basie, Nat King Cole, Rosemary Clooney, Denise Darcel. She’d inherited a massive collection of marvelous albums. Hundreds of them, embraced by their beautiful, rich-smelling cardboard jackets. She’d bought a Michell Gyro Dec turntable a few years ago, a beautiful machine. When she cranked up the volume in her apartment, the sounds it sent to the amplifier were completely pure. Arresting. They stole your