Free City of Dreams by William Martin

Hudson mudflats, and . . .
    Enough with the history. Turn up the radio .
    “Dow futures are lower on the heels of China’s announcement that they will be sitting out Thursday’s auction of U.S. Treasuries. Secretary Robert Lappen says there is no correlation between this announcement and the growing crisis over Taiwan, but . . .”
    Peter turned at Seventy-ninth and headed straight for a parking garage. He had long ago learned that when driving into the city, the best thing to do was to get rid of the car as quickly as possible. And the further from Midtown you parked, the cheaper.
    E VANGELINE C ARRINGTON SPENT half of her time in New England, but she considered herself a New Yorker. And why not, with a two-bedroom co-op on the corner of Columbus and Seventy-eighth, a prewar building, twelve stories, big rooms, and that favorite real estate phrase, good bones? She also had a view over the Museum of Natural History and across Central Park.
    That was like having good bones and a pretty face, too.
    Peter stopped at the desk in the foyer: a marble podium with brass trim, glass apron, and Art Deco flourishes.
    “No need to sign, Mr. Fallon,” said Jackie Ryan, the desk man. “With you two gettin’ married and all . . . it’ll be like you live here, even if you are from Boston.”
    “Thanks.” Peter put his pen back into his pocket. “Is Miz Carrington in?”
    “You mean the future Mrs . Fallon?”
    “Jackie”—Peter looked over the tops of his sunglasses—“you’ve been around her long enough to know that even if we were married by the Cardinal in St. Patrick’s on Easter Sunday, she’d always be Miz Carrington.”
    Jackie chuckled. “Yeah, you got that right. And no, I haven’t seen her go out.”
    Peter pressed the elevator button. “How’s the left hook?”
    “Haven’t used it since I decked Marvin Hagler.”
    In his younger days, Jackie had been a club fighter and a club bouncer. When he couldn’t take the punches anymore, he took a job at the night desk in an East Village flophouse, then he worked his way uptown. But his uniform jacket still looked like a display case for his thick fists and broken nose.
    “You fought Hagler?” said Peter. “I’m impressed.”
    Jackie let out a loud “Pah” at a joke on the guy from Boston. “If I did, I wouldn’t be sittin’ here. I’d be rich or dead.”
    “Dead, most likely.” Peter got onto the elevator. As the doors closed, he said, “Go Red Sox!” and heard another “Pah.”
    On the eighth floor he gave a little tap, the chain lock rattled, the door opened, and Evangeline peered out. “So you decided I’m not crazy after all?”
    “Not crazy,” he said. “Just misguided.”
    “Misguided to be marrying you.”
    Her eyes were puffy. Her hair was tousled. She was wearing a blue terry cloth bathrobe and silk pajamas. She looked just fine to Peter.
    He followed her into the large living and dining area.
    The morning sunlight poured through the front windows. The traffic hummed eight stories below. The coffeemaker burbled in the little kitchen.
    “Are you all right?” he asked.
    “Aside from being scared to death last night, I’m fine.”
    “But if you’re scared, it means you might be onto something.”
    “So that’s why you came down? Because I’m onto something? I thought you came down because you wanted to protect me.”
    “I came down because if you want us to live in New York, I should see if I can stand the commute.”
    “That’s an argument for another day.”
    “Oh . . . and you asked me to come down.”
    “Coffee’s almost done. Toast some English muffins while I shower.” She reached into her bathrobe pocket and pulled out the crown finial. “And have a look at this. See if you can figure out what it is.”
    E VANGELINE SAID THAT the best way to get around Manhattan was on foot or the subway. So they rode downtown, got off at Wall Street, and walked the rest of the way because it was a nice day.
    A charging bronze