Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

A WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS, I TOOK MARGO OUT FOR DINNER. THERE was a Vietnamese place in Tribeca that she had been wanting to try. The menu confounded her with so many options that I finally called the waiter over and asked him to bring us six or seven of their most popular appetizers and a main course of fish.

“The biggest fish you’ve got. Preferably with the head still on.”

Margo made a face. “Oooh.”

She loved everything the waiter brought. She had so much fun with the octopus that I asked for a second helping. When the fish arrived, she remarked, “He looks like you.”

“How do you know it’s a he?”

She planted her chin in her palms and smiled at me across the crowded table. “Because he looks like you.”

We had ginger-and-green-tea ice cream for dessert. Margo declared the whole meal “heavenly.”

“What we did to that country, and now look. I actually feel a little guilty.”

It was a cool evening, bordering on downright chilly. The temperature had dropped noticeably while we’d been in the restaurant, and we could see our breath. There’d been a prediction of flurries. I asked Margo if she was up for a little walk. She thought I was taking her to the Hudson River Promenade, but instead I turned east at Murray Street. Her eyes widened with mock delight. “You’re taking me to the Dollhouse?”

“Sorry. No strip clubs tonight.”

“Shoot.” She tried to snap her fingers, but they were too cold.

We skirted City Hall Park and made our way down Fulton Street to the South Street Seaport. Margo darkened as we crossed onto the cobbled market area. “Scene of the crime. How romantic.”

The sound of singing was drifting our way. In the middle of the cobbled area, a green metal structure had been erected, reaching some thirty or more feet high. The shape of the structure-like the color-was intended to resemble a Christmas tree. There was a red-and-green chain running around the base of the structure, within which were several wrapped “Christmas presents” about the size of hay bales.

A sign hanging from the chain identified the structure as “The Chorus Tree.” We didn’t need the sign to tell us. Perched on small platforms running in increasingly shorter rows all the way up to the top of the tree were the carolers. They were singing a cappella, their frosty breath swirling up into the blackness. They were dressed in identical green coats and caps and were holding red flashlights made to look like candles. None of the carolers looked to be older than sixteen. A standing sign identified them as students of La Guardia High School for the Performing Arts. A person I assumed was their teacher stood facing them, conducting them through the range of holiday standards. As we watched, they segued from “Joy to the World” to “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” Margo tugged on my sleeve.

“ ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas,’ ” she said in a low voice. “The path to madness.”

I scanned the faces. There were thirteen girls and seven boys. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a folded newspaper clipping. It was from the Post . It was the lead story from the day after Margaret King’s body had been found by the jogger in Prospect Park.

SISTER SUICIDE

Nun Ends Life in P’spect Park

The story included the photograph taken of Margaret King when she was in her early twenties. Dirty-blond hair. Slightly upturned nose. Large, dark eyes.

“There,” I said, indicating a caroler about halfway up the tree. She was one in from the end. Margo looked back and forth between the newspaper photo and the caroler.

“That’s her.”

I nodded. “Grace Maynard.”

“How did you find out?”

“How do you think? I’m not a shoe salesman, remember?”

“Right. Of course.” She took the clipping from me and looked at it once more. “Margaret was already a mother when this picture was taken.”

“Grace would have been around three at that point.”

She handed the clipping back to me, and I put it back in my pocket. She looped her arm through mine and shivered. We rode out the rest of “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” five golden rings and all. It turned out to be the final carol. At the conclusion, the small gathering of onlookers applauded. The conductor thanked us, and the carolers began coming down from the tree.

“She doesn’t know a thing, does she?” Margo asked.

“About her mother?”

“Or about her father.”

“If you were her parents, what would you do?”

Margo was silent a moment. Finally, she said, “I’m thinking I’m glad I don’t have to figure that out.”

Grace Maynard was goofing with the boy who had been standing next to her. They wielded their flashlights like sabers and were engaged in a mock swordfight. In his enthusiasm, the boy stumbled and nearly fell from his perch. A man in a huge fur hat standing next to me called out, “Come on, Lucius! Be more careful, will ya?”

Grace Maynard shined her little flashlight over at him. “It was my fault, Mr. Tuck! I’m sorry.”

“Let’s go,” I said.

I looked back just once as Margo and I headed for the street. Grace Maynard was chattering excitedly to a man and a woman. Her breath was popping from her mouth in bursts. Margo and I paused at the corner as a string of available taxis went by.

Margo looked up at me. “None of them good enough for you?”

“I thought maybe we’d walk some more. It’s starting to snow.”

I hadn’t even noticed it until I’d said it. It was a very light snow. It could have almost been mistaken for ash.

“Where do you want to walk, big guy?” Margo asked. “Just around and around in circles?”

I thought about it. I couldn’t say it sounded like a bad idea.

Word on the street is that it’s tedious to hear writers or actors or other such types giving gushing thanks to their agents. Well… too bad, this guy’s earned it. My great thanks to Richard Pine of Inkwell Management-Mr. Cool-for his steadfast confidence in my work, his aplomb under fire, and his wise counsel and assistance while I was working on this book.

In addition, I want to thank Jonathan Karp for taking Richard’s calls in the first place and for championing my book so powerfully at Random House. Likewise Gina Centrello (she of the astonishingly good taste) for all her enthusiastic support. And of course my shrewd and skillful editor, Mark Tavani, for bossing me around just the right amount in the name of getting it as right as right can be.

I’ve also received immeasurable support and guidance before, during, and after the writing of this book from Kadam Morten and the great loving crew at the Chakrasambara Buddhist Center in Chelsea. Everyone should be so fortunate.

RH

Richard Hawke resides in New York City. This is his first novel. Visit his website at www.RHawke.com.