“Do you think it’s safe to turn on this lamp?” Michael asked, and snapped on the gooseneck desk lamp. Connie sat in the swivel chair behind the desk, and he dragged over another chair and sat beside her. Their knees touched. The calendar was of the Day At-A Glance type. She flipped it open to the page for Tuesday, December 24, and then automatically looked at her watch.
“Still the twenty-fourth,” she said.
“Ten minutes to midnight,” he said.
“Ten minutes to Christmas,” she said.
There were several handwritten reminders on the page:
Call Mama
“Dutiful son,” Michael said.
Send roses to Albetha
“Who’s Albetha?” he asked.
“Who knows?” Connie said.
Mama at Benny’s
8:00 PM
“Mama again,” Michael said. “But who’s Benny?”
“Who knows?” Connie said, and flipped the calendar back to the page for Monday, December 23.
There were three entries for that date:
Bank at 2:30
“Deposit?” Connie asked. “Withdrawal?”
Charlie at 3:30
“Another Charlie,” Michael said.
“Huh?” Connie said.
“There are a lot of Charlies in this city.”
“Yes,” Connie said. “Now that you mention it.”
“But not too many Albethas, I’ll bet.”
Christmas party
4:00-7:00 PM
“Let’s find out why he went to the bank,” Connie said.
“How?”
“His checkbook. If we can find it.”
They began searching through the desk drawers again. In the bottom drawer, Michael found two large, ledger-type checkbooks, one with a blue cover, the other with a black one. The blue checkbook had yellow checks in it. Each check was headed with the names ALBETHA AND ARTHUR CRANDALL and an address on West Tenth Street.
“There’s Albetha,” Connie said.
“His wife.”
“The roses.”
“Nice.”
“Yes.”
“I wonder if she knows he’s dead.”
The black checkbook had pink checks in it. Each check was headed with the name CRANDALL PRODUCTIONS, LTD. and the address here on Bowery. Michael flipped through the business checkbook and found the stubs for the last several checks written, all dated December 23.
There was a check to Sylvia Horowitz for a $200 Christmas bonus …
“His secretary?” Connie asked.
“Could be.”
And a check to Celebrity Catering for $1,217.21 …
“The party, must be,” Michael said.
“Some party,” Connie said.
And a check to Mission Liquors for $314.78.
“More party,” Connie said.
“Some party,” Michael said.
No checks beyond the twenty-third. They leafed backward through the stubs. The last payroll checks had been made out on December 20, the ones before that on December 6. The firm paid its employees—apparently only Crandall and the woman named Sylvia Horowitz—on a biweekly basis.
“Let’s try the personal checkbook,” Connie said.
In the personal book, they found only one stub for a check written on Monday, December 23.
It was made out to cash. For $9,000.
They both fell silent.
Outside, there was only the keening of the wind. Snow broke off from the telephone wires, fell soundlessly to the backyards below.
“It’s almost Christmas, you know,” Connie whispered.
Michael looked at his watch.
“Two minutes to Christmas,” Connie whispered.
His digital watch blinked away time, tossed time into the past.
“I want to give you a present,” she whispered.
It was one minute and twenty-two seconds to Christmas.
“Because you really do have a very nice face,” she whispered. “And also, I like kissing you.” She cupped his face in her hands. “You don’t have anything communicable, do you?” she asked.
“No, I …”
“I don’t mean like a common cold,” she said.
“I mean like anything dread.”
“Nothing dread at all,” he said.
“Good,” she said.
He told himself that when this was all over and done with, if ever it was over and done with, he would remember this last minute before Christmas more than anything that could possibly happen afterward. Because in that slow-motion moment, Connie kissed him and murmured, “Merry Christmas, Michael,” and moved in so close to him that he could feel her heart beating, or at least his own, and then he heard bells going off and he thought he’d died and gone to heaven until he realized it was only the telephone.
The telephone kept ringing into the otherwise blinking stillness of the room.
Michael picked up the receiver.
“Crandall Productions, Limited,” he said.
“Arthur?” a woman’s voice said.
“Who’s this?” he said.
“Is that you, Arthur?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“You sound funny,” she said.
“Who’s this?” he said again.
“This is Albetha,” the woman said.
“Uh-huh,” he said.
“Arthur?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Arthur, your children are waiting for Santa Claus, what are you doing at the office? It’s Christmas morning already, do you know that? It’s already five minutes past Christmas, do you know that? Now when do you plan on coming home, Arthur?”
Michael gathered she did not know he was dead. “Did you get the roses?” he asked.
“Yes, I got the roses,” she said. “Thank you very much for the roses, Arthur, but I’m still getting a divorce.”
“Now, now, Albetha,” he said.