Chapter

16

As we strode through the terminal toward the taxi stations outside, Mathews warned me of the cabbies. “They like scenic routes, especially if they think you’re a tourist. Let me handle them.”

We hadn’t even made it out of baggage claim, when we were approached by two men and then a woman, all hustling us for the drive into town.

“Scabs,” Mathews said. “Just walk straight for the exit.” With an air of purpose and resolve, qualities second nature to him, he led us through the continuing onslaught of illegal solicitations and outside to the legitimate taxi area. There we were confronted by another impression of the New York’s survival life. A man wearing an authoritative looking hat and supervisor’s badge asked us where we were headed. Mathews quickly answered “Essex House.” The man wrote it down on a form and handed it to the cabby, opening the door for Mathews and shouting simultaneously at some confused Asian travelers, “Hey! That ain’t how we do it over here, buddy. Line forms ‘left to right,’ just like the sign reads, okay?”

His rudeness caused me to pause for just a moment as I was ducking into the cab. “Somethin’ botherin’ you, Mack?” he challenged. I felt Mathews pull me from inside

the cab.

“Nothing’s bothering him, sir,” he said. “You just remind him of a friend of ours. Organized. Altogether, you know. Keep it up.”

A final jerk of my coat and I was in the back seat. The supervisor, humored by the quickness of Mathews, patted the roof and with a knowing and savvy smile toward the doctor, said, “Welcome back to New York.”

The cabby lurched into the flow of traffic and I was through my first ten minutes of New York. “How did he know you were from New York?” I asked.

“Just the right amount of sarcasm. It either makes friends of the natives or alienates the strangers,” Mathews quipped.

The driver shouted through the Plexiglas partition, “59^th’s a bitch tonight. Triboro okay?”

Mathews leaned forward and shouted back through the partition, “I love the 59^th Bridge when it’s a bitch. Thanks.”

“Hey,” the cabby said, “fine with me. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“I usually do get lucky with the bridges that are ‘a bitch.’” Mathews leaned back. “See what I mean.”

As we drove the thirty minutes or so to cross Long Island onto the 59^th Street Bridge - which incidentally, was not a bitch - and over into Manhattan, I peered out the window at the totally different and strange look of another city. There was something about it. I was at a loss as to exactly what I liked. I knew I didn’t like the humidity, the odor in the air, the rudeness of the supervisor, the hustling of the cabby and the crazy drivers we were continually dodging and cursing. For the first half-hour, that didn’t leave much to appreciate. “Why’d you move to Los Angeles?” I asked Mathews.

He looked out the window. “When your life is all about helping people, you go where they need and want help. New York has a neurosis all its own. Many think they don’t need help. Many think it’s normal. Fifteen years was enough. Felt more like thirty.  Los Angelinos love to think their nuts and in need.”

“You mean business was better in LA?” I said. I could tell by his reaction that maybe I’d said that wrong.

“Not a matter of business. You’ll see. We’re going to run into a lot of people that seem exciting and interesting and... “

I waited for him to complete the thought, but he chose to change the subject.

“When we get to Essex House, we’ll freshen up, and I’ll treat you to dinner,” he said. “You can introduce me to that Bordeaux you’ve been bragging about.”

I nodded and turned my gaze back out the window. ‘Exciting and interesting and...’ what other kind of people had he meant?

The bellman, a slight and gray-haired man in his waning years, placed my suitcase on the bed and immediately adjusted the air conditioning to a more comfortable seventy degrees. “Would you care for me to have anything pressed or cleaned, sir?”

“No thank you. This will be fine.” I gave him a ten-dollar bill as he left, which pleased him, and I felt I had experienced my first genuine smile.

He gratefully acknowledged the tip with, “Oh, thank you...thank you very much. My name’s Ernie. If there’s anything more you need, just call the front desk.”

Essex House overlooked Central Park South. I sat down on the bed looking out over the park. The street lamps and the seemingly endless flow of headlights winding through the park gave me a feeling of story land. I had read about New York during the past few weeks, but nothing I had read captured the fairy tale atmosphere of what I was seeing right now. Suddenly, I was missing Sara. I picked up the phone and dialed her home, letting it ring fifteen or twenty times before hanging up. I couldn’t remember if she taught on Monday or not. What if she was out on a date? Suddenly, I felt very alone.

I took a moment to think through the decision to come to New York. I reached in my pocket and took out the phone message that had been here on our arrival. “10 a.m. tomorrow confirmed with Ms. Sobel.” She had been out when I phoned earlier from LA, and left my hotel number.  But her secretary had said she thought 10 a.m. would work, subject to confirmation by Ms. Sobel. Holding the confirmation in my hand, I pondered the thought of once again meeting the person fate seemed to be trying to keep away from me. Once again, I thought back to her previous comments and why she hadn’t mentioned meeting Charlie Stevens in her note to me. Why?

“Mario’s,” the Italian restaurant Mathews chose, was classic-simple, but definitely four-star. The owner, obviously an old friend of Mathews from years past, greeted us at the door.

“Doctor Mathews, how good to see you again. It’s been awhile.”

“Too long, Mario. Los Angeles has yet to import a chef to match, Dom. He’s still with you, I trust.”

Mario leaned in and whispered, “He owns half the place now, but don’t advertise it. Partnership is the only way you can keep a chef nowadays.” He extended his hand to me, “And your friend?”