Knight Life Read Free Page A

refrained from comment.
    Â Â Â Â  “She’s shouting about some damned thing or other,” he muttered as he came to sit next to her on the couch. “Usually she’s just regular drunk. I don’t know what she’s on tonight, but it must be a beaut.”
    Â Â Â Â  “Bet she’s from New York,” mumbled his wife.
    Â Â Â Â  “What?” he asked.
    Â Â Â Â  She repeated it, adding, “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”
    Â Â Â Â  “No?” His eyebrows puckered across his open and unimpressive face, thick with lines that had come from worrying that Beverly would learn he was having it off with Mrs. Findelman down the street.
    Â Â Â Â  “No,” affirmed Beverly. “Because New Yorkers are all crazy. They know it. The government knows it. The whole country knows it. In New York everyone acts like that,” and she chucked a thumb across the street in Morgan’s direction. “You never know what’s going to happen.”
    Â Â Â Â  “Yeah,” said Harry, who didn’t mind an element of danger in his life (hence Mrs. Findelman.) “That’s why I like it.”
    Â Â Â Â  “Well, I hate it,” Beverly said firmly, as if she’d just turned down the option to buy Manhattan. “All the crazy people there—they all deserve each other. Why, I hear tell it’s not safe to walk the streets at night there. You never know what weird thing you’ll run into next.”

C HAPTRE
    THE S ECOND

    G WEN WAS NOT having a good day.
    Â Â Â Â  For what seemed the twentieth time during the relatively brief phone conversation, she ran her fingers through her strawberry blonde hair, and when she spoke that Southern twang that she had tried so hard to lose came faintly through. She was wearing the powder blue dress that was her best outfit, her interviewing outfit. The coat she had draped over it was somewhat threadbare, but she couldn’t afford to buy another, so she always made sure to remove it before any job interviewers actually saw the shabby state it was in.
    Â Â Â Â  She was standing at a payphone stall on the corner of Sixtieth Street and Central Park West, trying to hear and make herself be heard over the roaring of the trucks and incessant police car sirens that were fairly typical for the streets of New York. At least it wasn’t raining on her, although the way things were going, she half-expected the cloudless sky to suddenly darken and a downpour to descend upon her. In fact, it would probably center upon her, leaving everyone else unscathed, including the bulkyand annoying woman who was standing directly behind her waiting to use the phone. Because of course, God forbid, the woman should think about walking half a block to find a different phone.
    Â Â Â Â  “Helloooo? Is anybody there?” she said in desperation, trying not to let the scowl of the woman behind her get to her. She knew she was on hold; she knew no one was listening. She shouted into the emptiness of the phone wires for the same reason that people push elevator buttons repeatedly: In the vain hope that existence will be acknowledged.
    Â Â Â Â  Miraculously, in this case it seemed to work. The aggravating hold music—a medley of Andrew Lloyd Webber tunes—abruptly cut off and she heard a voice. Unfortunately, it was not the voice she was hoping for. “Lyons and Herzog,” it said briskly.
    Â Â Â Â  “Oh, God, I’m back at the switchboard,” she moaned.
    Â Â Â Â  “Lyons and Herzog,” repeated the voice, sounding slightly irritated.
    Â Â Â Â  “Yeah, I know, I know,” said Gwen urgently. “Look, I’m trying to get through to Mr. Herzog’s office. I’m calling in regards to the job interview for a secretary. I’m running late. The subway broke down, and I was stuck,