at me as he closed the gap between the two of us and I felt two spots of pink in my cheeks. He leaned down and whispered in my ear. “I don’t know whether to wring your neck or handcuff you to your bed and have my way with you.”
I swallowed hard. “I don’t know either.”
He stared at me for a few seconds, apparently deciding.
“Are you done being mad at me?” I asked.
His reverie interrupted, he looked at his watch. “Have you eaten?”
I shook my head.
He walked back to the front door and called in, “Gorman! Lost time!” He walked back to me and held his hand out. “Give me your keys,” he commanded, and instead of arguing with him, I complied. “Please,” he added, the gentleman returning. He walked around to the passenger’s side and opened the door for me.
He jackknifed himself into the driver’s seat and fiddled around with the seat controls until he was practically sitting in the back seat. He pulled the car out of the spot and headed south. After a few minutes, he pulled up in front of a deli and wedged the car into a spot right in front. I got out and waited for him on the sidewalk.
The deli was warm and smelled like garlic. I was sure my next class of students would appreciate that when I began my lecture on Kerouac. The counter was on the right side of the deli, behind it the kitchen, and on the left side, a bank of booths. Crawford asked me what I wanted.
“What do they have?” I asked, my mind-reading skills not what they used to be.
He shrugged, still unsure of whether or not he was mad at me. “Food. Drinks.”
“That narrows it down,” I said. “Then get me some food. And a drink.” I turned on my heel and sat in a black Naugahyde booth, wrestling myself out of my leather jacket. I didn’t know if he was being oblique just to bug me, if he really didn’t have a clue, or if low blood sugar made him disoriented.
He returned a short time later with two Cokes and a couple of sandwiches. He put them on the table. “Chicken salad or ham and cheese?”
“What do you want?” I asked politely.
“I don’t care.” He looked at me expectantly.
I took the chicken salad.
“Whew. I wanted the ham and cheese,” he said sarcastically.
I took a long drink of soda and picked at the crust of the sandwich. After just a few minutes in the Fiftieth, I was unable to eat, having seen human flotsam and jetsam go by while I was talking to Arthur Moran. Watching Crawford eat his sandwich, I marveled at how inured you could become to such unpleasantness. He wolfed down half of his ham and cheese before coming up for air. He looked at me. “What?”
“You were hungry,” I remarked.
“I’m always hungry,” he said. “I never get to eat at regular intervals so I’m always a meal or two behind. You know that.”
If I was supposed to feel sorry for him, I did. I stopped short of inviting him over for dinner because I knew what that would lead to: a burned pot roast and missing underpants. “I have to tell you something.”
He started on the second half of the sandwich. “Go.”
I didn’t go for the preamble. “I took a ride with Peter Miceli yesterday.”
He maintained his grip on his sandwich but looked up at me. “What?”
“Peter Miceli. I saw him again yesterday,” I said.
His face turned hard again; boy, was he in a bad mood today. “He picked you up again? Jesus, Alison, you have got to stop getting in that guy’s car!” he exclaimed, a little too loudly for the surroundings. A couple of diners looked up from the food to see what the commotion was about.
“What do you suggest I should have done?” I whispered, leaning in close to his face.
He looked around. “I don’t know…run?” he asked, his tone patronizing. “You’re tall, you have long legs. Hit the pavement and don’t stop until you can’t see him anymore. And if you happen to run into a cop, tell him that you’re being harassed and have him shoot the bastard’s nuts off.” He looked chagrined, having lost his cool for a moment.
I ignored that comment and gave him the details of my conversation with Peter. “He told me that Kathy was pregnant.”
“What?” He seemed surprised that I knew this detail.
I looked down at the table. “He thinks Ray