Shallow Graves

phone, huh?“
    “I will.“
    Zuppone said, “It was a good thing you didn’t punch back after Joey landed that left.“
    “He had a right to be upset. Besides, I didn’t want to press my luck.“
    “Luck.“ The half-laugh. “Cuddy, after what I seen tonight, when it comes to luck, you must shit shamrocks.“

- 30 -

    Three days later, a taxi was taking us from New York’s Penn Station uptown. Our cabbie sat on those woven beads that are supposed to allow circulated ah to keep you cooler in summer and warmer in winter. Cooler would be good, the temperature being in the high seventies.
    Around 45th Street, Primo Zuppone leaned forward. Through the Plexiglas he said to the driver, “Go a little farther north, okay? Drop us at Rockefeller Plaza.“
    “Whatever you say, mon.“
    We got out there, the flags of the nations slacking high above our heads as canned music wafted up from below.
    Zuppone said to me, “Come on. Take a look at this.“
    About a hundred people stood around in the heat looking down toward the ice surface. A young woman in leotards and a short skirt, graceful as a ballerina, was doing a figure skating drill. The woman was magic, and she knew it.
    Zuppone said, “One time I’m down here, I remember seeing this. Incredible, ain’t it, this time of year?“
    “We had the ice in Boston, kids’d be playing pick-up hockey on it.“
    Primo started to walk east toward Fifth Avenue. “Cuddy, you got to look for the art in life.“
    We passed a mime in a black scuba wet suit. He wore a Greek mask and was doing his routine to a boombox blaring the theme from The Exorcist.
    I said, “Art is everywhere.“
    We turned south onto Fifth catercorner from St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the two spires striving heavenward above three massive entrances. On the steps, tourists clicked their cameras, construction workers sunned themselves, and the homeless shook large soda cups containing salted change.
    Zuppone and I did a couple of blocks on Fifth. Past a slim Hispanic woman giving some Japanese schoolgirls directions. Past a Korean grocer helping an elderly couple pick out two nectarines. Past a brawny black man driving a delivery van with a pink stuffed animal tied to the grille.
    I found the address I wanted just where I remembered it, between forty-eighth and forty-seventh, in the jewelry district. On the first floors of the surrounding buildings, bunkers with porthole windows displayed all sorts of set gems against felt backgrounds. Despite the heat, grave men in black frock coats and matching hats moved quickly along the sidewalk, heavy sample cases clutched tightly in their hands. Behind them, graver men wore ill-fitting sports jackets, bulges over hips or under arms. The men in black were Orthodox diamond merchants with ringlets of sideburns and shaved necks, the others their bodyguards with short hair and no necks.
    Primo said, “I get tired of what I’m doing, looks like plenty of work down here.“
    We entered the lobby, the directory telling us Empire still had the whole building. Winningham, Bradley K., was listed on fourteen.
    The elevator opened onto a carefully cultivated reception area. Beautiful potted plants, probably professionally maintained, canopied over a beveled desk. The woman behind it held herself like a pre-Hippie Barnard graduate. She asked if she could help us.
    “Brad Winningham, please. I know it’s his first day back, but he said he wanted to see us as soon as possible.“
    Barnard let me finish. “Will Mr. Winningham know what this is regarding?“
    “Just tell him John Cuddy is here with an associate.“
    She looked at Primo, who smiled senilely.
    “Just a moment.“ The receptionist lifted a receiver, tapped a button, and paraphrased my words to someone else.
    A minute later, another woman about the same age came down the hall. “I’m afraid Mr. Winningham’s schedule is full for the day.“ She sounded like the voice I’d heard when I telephoned Winningham’s office the prior week. “Perhaps if you—“
    Zuppone said, “Thanks, we can find him,“ and set off up the corridor she’d come down.
    The second woman said, “Wait! What are you doing?“
    I told her, “Believe me, this won’t take long,“ and followed Primo as the women spoke urgently to each other behind us.
    When I caught up to Zuppone in a branching suite, he was standing outside a door with Winningham’s nameplate next to it.
    I said, “We have maybe three minutes before some kind of