Hardscrabble Road(6)
“That would be interesting in a story,” Tibor said. “A science fiction story, a kind of disaster movie. What happens to the world when Hell freezes over.”
Gregor gave a little shove to the back of Tibor’s coat and propelled him inside to the warm. Along with having apocalyptic thoughts about politics, Tibor seemed to be having a problem getting through doors this morning. Gregor went to the window booth with its long low cushions and slipped inside.
“I’ll get you coffee in a minute,” Linda said. “I’ve got to put out a few more sugar racks before I can say I’m ready.”
Through the big windows that made up the outside wall of the booth, Gregor could see people beginning to appear on the street, wrapped up in coats with the collars pulled high and their faces out of sight under scarves. Most of them had had the sense to wear hats and gloves. All of them were heading for the Ararat, although a few of them stopped to buy the papers at Ohanian’s first. Gregor tried to count up how many mornings he had spent having breakfast in this same booth in the Ararat, but it wasn’t the kind of calculation he was good at. It suddenly occurred to him what was making him so nervous at home: the building was deserted. Grace was away in New York giving concerts with the group she played harpsichord for. Bennis was away on her book tour. Old George Tekemanian was out on the Main Line staying with Martin and Angela, who thought he’d do better if they could be sure he wasn’t going out in this cold at his age, which he would be if he stayed here, because he’d come to breakfast. The building was deserted, and he was surrounded by silence.
“Krekor?” Tibor said. “Are you all right? Linda brought the coffee and you didn’t even say thank you.”
“I’m fine,” Gregor said. Linda had certainly brought the coffee. It was sitting right there in front of him. “I was just thinking. I got a phone call this morning.”
“From Bennis?”
“No, not from Bennis. And don’t nag. She doesn’t call much. And I have no idea if that’s normal or not. This is the first time she’s been away for any significant amount of time since, ah, you know.”
“Yes, Krekor, I know. What was the phone call?”
Gregor took an enormous sip of coffee and looked out the window one more time, just as Lida Arkmanian came out of the front door of her town house to meet Sheila and Hannah on the street. Lida and Sheila had fur coats. Hannah had a cloth coat in red so bright it almost seemed to be pulsing like the bubble on top of a police car. A few doors closer, the Very Old Ladies came out of their building in a tight little knot. They were older than Old George, but they weren’t about to miss their morning at Neighborhood Gossip Central.
“Let me tell you about Chickie George,” Gregor said.
TWO
1
It was exactly seven thirty-one when Chickie George walked through the door of the Ararat, and Gregor Demarkian didn’t recognize him. That was odder than it seemed. Very few people came into the Ararat from out of the neighborhood during breakfast hours. Cavanaugh Street was reasonably central in the sense that it was easy to get from it to where most people had to work, without being actually central, meaning in the middle of the city. People who came from outside the neighborhood to eat at the Ararat almost always came because of restaurant reviews in the Inquirer or profiles of Gregor Demarkian, who had once been caught eating there by a reporter from CNN. The profiles had to be constructed from available sources, since Gregor never gave interviews. Consulting for police departments was the kind of work that was likely to dry up if you spent too much time in front of the cameras. Having worked in the FBI of J. Edgar Hoover, Gregor was used to letting other people get credit for what he had done. On a lot of levels, he even preferred it. There was something to be said for living outside the modern unholy circle of fuss.
Gregor did pay attention when the man he didn’t recognize walked into the Ararat, because a stranger at seven thirty-one was a phenomenon. Then he went back to listening to Tibor moaning on again about politics, or the lack of civility in politics, or something. The stranger in the doorway looked like a partner at one of Philadelphia’s better law firms. He was wearing a black coat over a black suit. Gregor could tell because the coat was open. Tibor was complaining about same-sex marriage.
“Both sides are being very dishonest,” he was saying. “If the side that says it only cares that not every state be required to honor gay marriages, all it needs to do is call for a constitutional amendment saying that no state has to recognize any other state’s same-sex marriages, and that gets rid of the problem with the full faith and credit clause.”