Free The Pacific and Other Stories by Mark Helprin Page B

fear. “Please sit down,” he asked the officious interrupter. The man from the Hapsburg Fund sat down. Fitch cleared his throat. “We’re going to close without you,” he said.
    “You can’t close without me.”
    Fitch nodded to the lawyers, who laughed.
    “You think it’s funny? I’m going to shut this whole thing down. It’s within my discretion entirely.”
    “It’s not,” said Fitch.
    “You can’t close.”
    “Yes we can.”
    The man from the Hapsburg Fund said, “Guess what? It won’t go through unless I sign off.”
    “Ah,” said Fitch, “that’s where you’re wrong. You see, we’re from another planet, and your law doesn’t apply to us. Isn’t that right, lawyers?” he asked the lawyers, who nodded with certainty.
    “You’re insane,” said the interloper.
    “Sign where there are arrows,” said one of the lawyers, pushing a tide of papers toward Fitch, who signed on page after page.
    A S HE WENT FROM ONE SITE to another, hauled materials, made deliveries, and took measurements, Fitch thought about how she had referred to
her
closing, not
his
, her husband’s, or
ours
. Perhaps this was in the self-centered way many women refer to shared bedrooms as “my bedroom,” something every contractor has observed. But she was not that kind of woman. Nonetheless, while he waited for her on Columbia Heights he was saddened to think that her husband had left her, or that she had left him. Half his renovations, it seemed, were associated with recent or impending divorces, but when he had dealt with this couple he had thought that they were destined for a long life together. It was none of his business, but when they did a job he and his men would discover in many conversations far more than they needed to know about their clients’ lives.
    The building was a brick double-wide with limestone sills and lintels on the street side. Hers were the top two floors and, he assumed, a roof terrace. It had a separate entrance, which was excellent from his point of view—no paying off superintendents, and work at any hour as long as it was quiet. And though it was set back from the Promenade enough to keep it from the roar of the BQE, the building had a magnificent view of the harbor and lower Manhattan. He and his men loved to work with a view. Still, whateverits attractions, he dared not take this job, because he simply couldn’t work it in without the risk of badly disrupting his business. She would be disappointed, but he would give her invaluable advice that would protect her in dealing with whoever would bid for and do the job. He would keep them there until eight, until she and her husband—who, if they were not divorced, would probably show up, since he worked just across the river—were giddy from hunger. And if they remembered every detail, or took notes, it would save them two months’ time, a hundred thousand dollars, and much heartache. Though he couldn’t do the job, Fitch would in this way make up for it, because they had been kind to him. And he hoped that when he saw someone walking with the tense and expectant gait of a person who is rushing to a meeting, whoever was moving toward him on Columbia Heights as the sun was setting would not be moving toward him alone.
    I N THE DUSK the street was briefly empty—with not a single person or car moving along it. Though the wind was blowing and it was twelve degrees, still the lull was otherworldly, because at a quarter of five people should have been returning from work. And though the wind was terribly cold it was clean, having come from the south over the ocean, from the empty parts of the world.
    Three people suddenly appeared near Pierrepont Street and the playground. Given the way they walked, he knew they were coming to meet him, especially when, still two minutes away, a hand went up tentatively from the one in the middle—Lilly—like a semaphore. From the unmoving attitude of their heads he could tell even several blocks distant