Free The Dismantling by Brian Deleeuw Page B

me where you live,” she said.
    He hesitated, then pointed out Roosevelt Island. He instantly recognized that he’d just crossed another line he’d drawn for himself when he started working for DaSilva.
    â€œReally? Right by the hospital?”
    â€œOn the other end of the island. But, yeah, not too far.”
    â€œWhere in the city did you grow up?”
    â€œWhat makes you think I grew up here?”
    â€œWell, didn’t you?”
    â€œI did. But how can you tell?”
    â€œGood guess.” She dropped her eyes. “So, where?”
    Where indeed? He paused, then pointed out the Rockaways in the far bottom-right corner of the map. “We moved here when I was twelve.”
    She studied the map. “The A train. End of the line.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œThat’s a long ride.”
    â€œDepends where you’re coming from.”
    â€œManhattan.”
    â€œYes. It’s even longer than it looks. This map, it’s not to scale. Manhattan is blown up. Or the other boroughs are shrunk, whichever way you want to think about it.”
    â€œThat doesn’t seem fair.”
    â€œIt’s just the way it is.”
    Outside the lobby of the Royal Crown, he asked about her plans for the night.
    â€œI need to call my sister,” she said. “She’ll put Gabriel on the phone. Other than that . . .” She shrugged. “Room service. Maybe watch some TV then go to sleep early.”
    â€œYour sister,” he said. “What did you tell her you were doing here?”
    â€œI just said I had to go. That I had no choice. She knew I wouldn’t have asked her to look after Gabriel if that wasn’t true.”
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    T HE next afternoon Simon watched from across his desk, picturing the tiny tears and bruises deep in the man’s battered ganglia, as Lenny tried to stitch together the story of his second cousin’s generous gift. Lenny was thirty-nine years old, but Simon guessed that his brain more closely resembled that of somebody twice his age. He spoke slowly, as though testing how each word sounded in his mind before releasing it into the room, and he was sweating again even though the AC unit was running on full blast. In the chair next to him, Howard Crewes frowned, a man worried about the soundness of his investment.
    â€œLet’s start again,” Simon said. “Just relax, okay? Now, what is your relationship to Maria Campos?”
    â€œShe’s my second cousin.”
    â€œHow did Maria learn about your liver condition?”
    â€œLook at me. It isn’t a secret.”
    â€œHow long ago was this?”
    â€œLast year. I was in San Diego with Cheryl and our kids. On vacation. We met Maria for lunch at this Mexican place in San Clemente. She knew already from talk in the family, but she hadn’t seen me herself.”
    â€œDid you discuss your options at that point? With Maria, I mean?”
    â€œNo, not yet. I think she knew Cheryl wasn’t a match though.”
    â€œBut you spoke with her about it afterward.”
    â€œShe called me a few weeks later,” he said. “She wanted to know what I was going to do.” He spoke in a monotone, as though these things were of no concern, as though they’d happened to someone else, which of course in a way they had. “I told her I would get on the list and pray.”
    â€œThe UNOS list?”
    â€œYeah. But I also told her I might never get off that list alive.”
    Simon liked this line. He’d fed it to his second client, a middle-aged corporate executive whose kidney had been annihilated by hepatitis C. He remembered showing up at her mammoth suburban home, where she faced him across the dining room table in a pink cable-knit sweater, and wondering from what incongruous chapter of her past the hepatitis was making such a savage and unwelcome visitation. She never said; he never asked. He could