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teardrop pendant.
Thank you, Frank.
Hey, he said, hugging her to him, then letting her go as she pushed away.
I m not just a great father, you know.
Lexis forced a smile.
The band began to play and the room soon filled up. Other big men in tuxedos
with red ties and cummerbunds. Women with screechy voices, Brooklyn accents,
high hair, and high heels. Frank s business associates. Low-level politicians.
Bookies. Judges. Some of Lexis s friends from the board of the Guggenheim.
Lexis turned from her friend Marge to hear Frank greeting his old friend Bob
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Rangle. Rangle wore a perfectly tailored black suit with a gray silk tie. His
long hands were clutched together and carefully manicured. He d grown a neat
thin mustache, maybe to make up for the gleaming baldness that shone through
the long strands of hair swept over the top of his head. His frame was still
straight, tall, and angular, and he seemed to have become infected with the
same disease that caused his wife to walk with an arch in her back and her
chin in the air.
Sorry Dani couldn t be here, Rangle said, referring to his twelve-year-old
daughter. She had a sleepover. It s hard enough to get Katie to a function on
Sunday afternoon, but when I told her the governor was coming . . .
Beside him stood Katie Vanderhorn, his tall wife. Old-money New York. Still
pretty with her long auburn hair despite the heavy makeup, crow s feet, and a
nose that was so straight surgery wasn t even a question.
I just read his book, she said, otherwise, I promise you I wouldn t be that
interested.
Is that friend of yours from Merrill Lynch, Michael Blum, coming, do you
know? Frank asked.
He said he d try, Frank, Rangle said, looking at his gold Piaget Emperador.
You d think having the governor here says something, Frank said.
In the world of finance, relationships are important, Rangle said, squinting
his close-set dark eyes at two loud men hugging and slapping each other s
back.
There s Joe Namath over there, Frank said, pointing.
The Rangles faces went blank.
You should try the cold lobster, Lexis said, motioning toward the ice
sculpture of a football player rising up in the middle of the hors d oeuvre
table.
Thank you, dear, Katie said, and off they went.
God, he s a flaming asshole, Frank said. But if I can get that financing .
. .
Where is he? he continued, looking at his watch and then the door.
Isn t he always late? Lexis asked.
The troopers should be here by now, though, Frank said, looking around.
Some of his people.
Just then, a tall, professorial-looking man with gray hair and gold-rimmed
glasses walked in wearing a blue suit and yellow tie. His name was Cornell
Ricks, the deputy director of the Thruway Authority and Frank s liaison to the
governor s office. Ricks saw Frank and approached him with open arms, giving
Frank an awkward hug and a stiff pat on the back.
Frank, congratulations, he said. Lexis, you too. I know you re both very
proud. I m sorry the governor can t make it. He sends his deepest regrets, but
his wife isn t feeling well at all.
Ricks took Frank by the arm, lowered his voice, and said, He s very
concerned, and he was glad that a family man like you would understand.
Frank s mouth was clamped tight and his face began to turn color. Finally, he
took a deep breath and let it out through a small space between his lips.
Lexis stepped back and said, I ll go tell them we can sit down.
She turned quickly away so she didn t have to hear. The waiters had already
filled the glasses at each table with red wine. Lexis stopped at a place by
the wall and looked around before she picked up a glass and emptied it.
It warmed her empty stomach and she felt it quickly run up her center and calm
her brain. She felt better already, and then she saw her boy across the room.
The day she had him it looked like neither of them would make it, but now the
photographer was lining him up next to Joe Namath, the two of them with their
hands on the same football. Allen s face was radiant. She sighed and emptied
another wineglass. Her life wasn t so bad.
Really, it wasn t.
19
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WHEN I WAKE, a thin light is seeping in from the dirty window across from my
cell. A new start. As soon as I don t cooperate, they ll cover the front of my
cell with a steel partition and I ll live again in the darkness. I listen to
the sound of my own breathing. In a way, the darkness is better. Then I can t
see how small my world really is. I will wait until tonight, though, before I
do anything bad. Bluebeard is on the three to eleven shift and I will save my
spit, a thick wad of flaxen goo, for his face especially.
Food comes. Soggy carrots with most of the color boiled out of them. A stiff
slice of bread. A cup of powdered milk and an oblong hunk of gray meat origin
unknown. I eat, then push the tray out into the walkway. My calluses don t fit
the grooves above this door. I ll need new ones, and chin-ups leave my hands
dripping with blood. Katas are next. Now I m breathing hard, sweat mingling
with the blood. Tiny scarlet dots spatter the powder blue section of the bars.
My own decor.
I do sit-ups and math, talking quietly out loud to hear the sound of a human
voice. Numbers turn to history lessons. I recount as much as I can about
Auburn. The Seward House, home to the U.S. secretary of state who purchased
Alaska. States and capitals. I know a song and I sing it low. Time passes.
Rec time, says a guard I can t see.
My cell door rattles and hums open.
Step out.
I do, along with the old man and a brown-skinned young man with a long black
ponytail and a thin mustache. We are led up a set of stairs to the roof. A
square of concrete caged in by a ten-foot-high honeycomb of rusted metal bars.
Recreation. The guard stands outside and locks us in.
The old man gives me a curious look with those magnified orbs, then he begins
to shuffle around the perimeter. He is a small man and stooped, and his
gnarled hands, like the broad bald spot on his head, are covered with the
spots of age. The young punk stuffs his hands into his pants pockets and
begins to kick at the walls of the cage. I can only see up. The walls of the
roof block any view of the surrounding city.
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