The Anniversary Man Read Online Free Page A

opened his bedroom door a handful of inches to let his father know he was up.
    Bread to make. Bacon to fry, sausage, pancakes, hash browns; and bucketfuls of coffee beans to grind.
    Could hear the run of water from the bathroom. Erskine Costello still used a straight razor, gave it an edge on a leather strop, whipped that thing back and forth without a second thought and then shaved with cold water and a froth of coal tar. Old school. A regular guy.
    The day ran as any other. Breakfast eased seamlessly into lunch, from there into mid-afternoon sandwiches, flasks of coffee and slices of apple pie to ferry over to the lumber crew in McKinnon′s Yard. Darkness started somewhere around four, and it was less than an hour until it filled up the spaces between things and hung shadows around the lights.
    He saw her as she crossed Delancey Street. It was something past seven. She had on a pair of jeans, a red flower embroidered on the hip, flat shoes, a suede windbreaker. Her hair was tied up on one side, and she wore a diamante barrette like a butterfly.
    He opened the door and went out onto the sidewalk.
    ′Hey,′ she said. Reached out her hand, touched his arm.
    ′Hey.′ Wanted to kiss her but there were customers.
    ′Time you done?′
    ′Nine, maybe nine-thirty.′
    ′Meet me down on Carlisle at nine-thirty. Have something to tell you.′
    ′What?′
    Nadia McGowan glanced at her watch. ′Two hours . . . you can wait two hours.′
    ′Tell me now.′
    She shook her head, kind of laughed. ′Nine-thirty, the bench on the corner of Carlisle, okay?′
    ′You hungry?′
    ′No . . . why?′
    ′Got some cinnamon Danish . . . made it myself.′
    ′I′m good, Johnny, I′m good.′
    She reached out, touched his cheek with the back of her hand, and then she turned and walked away, reached the corner before she looked back over her shoulder once more.
    He raised his hand and he saw her smile . . .
     
    ′And you saw no-one?′
    John Costello shook his head without opening his eyes.
    ′And the people in the diner?′
    ′Were just the same people that were always in the diner. No-one different.′
    ′And in the street—′
    ′No-one in the street,′ he interjected. ′Like I said before, there was no-one . . .′
    ′Okay,′ Detective Frank Gorman said. ′Go on.′
    ′So I watched her cross the junction, and then she went around the corner . . .′
     
    And then she was gone.
    Used up two hours waiting. Dragged like a heavy thing, and John forever glancing at the clock by the mirror, the hands weighted, running slow.
    Erskine was back and forth, saw the frustration in his son′s face. ′Get away early why don′t you?′ he asked.
    ′Not meeting her ′til after nine,′ John replied.
    ′So go out back and clean the enamels. Time′ll fly if you′re doing something.′
    He did as his father asked, hosing down pots and pans, a box of salt on the side with which to scrub them.
    Eight-thirty came and went in a heartbeat. John cleaned himself up, changed his shirt, combed his hair.
    Carlisle Street was no more than a five-minute walk, but he left The Connemara at ten past nine.
     
    ′And you saw no-one then either . . . as you left?′
    John shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak, but felt there was nothing to say.
    Frank Gorman stared at him for a little while, possibly no more than seconds, but those seconds were well disguised as minutes, even hours. It felt that way in the confines of the room. Tense. A little claustrophobic.
    Gorman′s right eye was not centered. Gave him a curious look. John wondered if such a physiological idiosyncrasy enabled him to see angles that others could not.
    ′And so you walked from the restaurant to Carlisle Street?′
    ′Yes,′ John said.
    ′And you saw no-one on the way?′
    ′No, I saw no-one.′
    ′And when you reached the corner of Carlisle Street . . . ?′
     
    He sat down on the bench, and pulled his windbreaker around him. He looked out toward Machin, the