Free The City When It Rains by Thomas H. Cook Page A

stopped himself. “Christ, Dad used to do that.”
    Corman said nothing.
    â€œIt’s weird,” Edgar added. “The stuff we pick up.”
    Lucy and Giselle rushed up to the bench, hand in hand.
    â€œCan we climb the rock?” Lucy asked.
    Edgar looked hesitant. “That’s pretty high.” He cast an evaluating glance at Giselle. “You sure you won’t fall?”
    Lucy squeezed her cousin’s hand. “I’ll watch her.”
    â€œLet Giselle watch after herself,” Corman said.
    Edgar unnecessarily straightened the collar which circled Giselle’s throat. “Just be careful,” he said to her. “And watch for glass.”
    The two girls nodded obediently, then darted toward the immense gray stone which rested at the other side of the playground.
    Edgar turned to Corman, smiled. “So, how you doing these days?”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œStill shooting the city?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œI cover the waterfront,” Edgar said, his standard line for Corman’s work. “Shot anything interesting lately?”
    Corman thought of the woman, the blue blanket, nodded.
    Edgar didn’t go into it. “I’m handling that plane crash outside Las Vegas. It’s a real tangle. Multimillion-dollar damages. Excluding punitive.”
    â€œHow’s Frances?”
    â€œSick,” Edgar said wearily. “Like always.” He shrugged. “The whole thing could be in her head.”
    â€œI doubt it.”
    â€œI’m not so sure,” Edgar admitted. “But what can you do? Nobody can get to the root of it.” He stroked his sleek, clean-shaven chin. “When you get to be our age, things start to break down.”
    â€œShe’s only thirty-seven,” Corman reminded him.
    â€œWith some people, it starts early,” Edgar said casually. He glanced toward the rock. Lucy and Giselle had nearly made it to the top. “If she gets hurt, Frances’ll kill me,” he said.
    Corman’s eyes drifted toward the traffic on Fifth Avenue, for an instant envisioning the carriage parades of the old city, opera singers in their barouches, couples in sleek white phaetons, the elegant black victoria of Madame Restell, the Avenue’s luxuriant abortionist.
    After a moment, Edgar touched his knee gently. “It really is good to see you, David. We should see each other more often.”
    Corman nodded. “Victor, too.”
    Edgar frowned, waved his hand sourly. “Forget Victor. He’s in his own world.”
    â€œYou always say that.”
    Edgar shrugged. “Anyway, as far as we’re concerned, the two of us, we should get together more often.”
    Corman said nothing.
    â€œBut your work,” Edgar added tentatively. “It keeps you busy.”
    â€œYours, too.”
    â€œBut you’re out at night again,” Edgar said. He looked at Corman pointedly. “Or am I wrong about that?”
    â€œSometimes I work at night.”
    â€œSometimes? Or is it pretty much a permanent thing?”
    â€œIt varies.”
    â€œTwo, three nights a week?”
    Corman sat back slightly, stared evenly into his brother’s eyes. “Why all the questions about how often I’m out at night?” he asked.
    Edgar laughed edgily. “You’ve got a good eye,” he said. “You always had a good eye.”
    â€œWhat’s on your mind, Edgar?”
    Edgar cleared his throat sharply, glanced away, then returned his eyes to Corman. “I got a call from Lexie. She’s making noises. Like a couple of years ago.”
    â€œAbout Lucy?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat is it this time?”
    â€œShe wants to talk to you about a few things. She’s a little concerned about how things are working out.”
    â€œThings are fine.”
    â€œShe doesn’t see it that way.”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œI don’t know where she