Read Gotham for Free Online Page A

metaphors. He makes listening, soothing noises. She has plenty more to tell. He is kerbside elsewhere, useless, but making the best sounds of unequivocalsupport and deep engagement that he can. We are all—fathers, husbands, partners—always precisely where we should be in spirit, even when the facts of our days and nights take us down stupid side streets like this one. Even when we should own our choices a little more than we do.
    When the call’s over, he looks my way half-heartedly and says, ‘She’s okay.’
    â€˜Sure. It’s quite a time.’ I have been in a labour ward once, and seen the female body defy logic and deliver something as bulky, wriggling and life-changing as a baby.
    â€˜It is.’ He smiles, for the first time in a while.
    A wrapper blows along the sidewalk, skittering end over end. My Krug is warm in the bottle. A car drives past us slowly, beats thumping behind its closed windows.
    Smokey takes another look at the building, perhaps hoping it will reveal something new.
    â€˜Sometimes there’s a girl there,’ he says, still craning his neck. ‘A particular girl.’
    He finds another number on his phone. This time it’s the restaurant and he tells them we’re going to be late. He estimates twenty minutes. Every call he makes is a new promise about time, and he sits there in his designer suit with his polished shoes and buffed nails but no say over his next five minutes.
    â€˜There’s a place,’ he says, leaning forward. ‘They do a beef Wellington. Best in New York. Best anywhere, maybe. So LyDell says, and he sees himself as an aficionado. He prefers it served as soon as he arrives, so…’
    â€˜How do they get that right?’ Beef Wellington takes time. It’s a multi-step process.
    â€˜They set one up to be ready on time and there’s another fifteen minutes behind it.’ He watches for my reaction.
    â€˜They make two in case he’s late?’
    â€˜They make three maybe. I don’t know.’
    The wind makes a shhhh sound as it skids across the open door. The driver is still standing in the exact same spot, his hands clasped behind his back, fingers clenching and unclenching. More isometrics.
    â€˜And what happens to the others?’ I do what I can to pull all the judgment out of my voice. I’m picturing a production line, one plate after another of the world’s best beef Wellington dropping from the end of a conveyor belt and crashing onto the mess that’s already there.
    There’s a pause before Smokey says, ‘I don’t know.’ He clears his throat. ‘This is not for the article, right? You and me talking about beef Wellington? That’s just you and me talking, yeah?’
    A message comes through to his phone. He checks it and flinches. He shows me the text part of it, his hand over an image. There’s only oneword. ‘Puy.’ He doesn’t have to tell me who it’s from.
    â€˜At least I didn’t show you the photo.’ He puts the phone on the seat, face down.
    There’s another squall of wind, this time with rain scattering across the roof of the van. Smokey grabs for the Little Brown Bag as the rain comes in. The driver shuts the door, but the bag tips over. The plum-coloured purse slides onto the seat. Smokey picks it up—it’s small in his hands—clicks the flap shut, folds the strap with care and slips it back into the bag.
    â€˜The clothes are for him, I guess, but…’ It’s my best chance. The purse isn’t for Nati’s candy store girl, but it’s for someone.
    â€˜This?’ Smokey sets the bag next to his thigh and keeps his hand on it. ‘I can’t say for sure. It’s not my place, and I also…I tell you this. His mom always said, ‘I don’t want no son who’s injail. I want a son who’ll buy me something nice at Bloomingdale’s.’’
    It’s