streets.
Bourque placed that evening’s effort onto one of the tables. He moved some of the existing ones to make way for the new one. He viewed his work from various angles. Some of the boxes soared as tall as four feet, others only a foot or so. Many were recognizable. There were crude interpretations of the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, the Flatiron Building, 30 Rockefeller Plaza, the Waldorf Astoria Hotel.
The model city was in no way exact. The landmark structures he was re-creating were, in his version, within steps of each other, rather than scattered across the city. This was more an appreciation of the city, not a replica.
Bourque leaned up against one wall and crossed his arms, admiring his handiwork. At first, his gaze took in the project as a whole, but then his focus narrowed on one spot near the edge.
He stepped away from the wall, knelt down so that his eye was at the model’s street level. He studied the street in front of his recreation of the Waldorf Astoria.
His airway began to constrict.
If only I hadn’t moved. If only I hadn’t dived out of the way.
The drops.
He breathed in, then out, heard the wheeze.
He wasn’t expecting it to happen now. Here, at home, working on his project. Away from people with bashed-in faces and missing fingertips. But then he had to look at the sidewalk in front of the Waldorf Astoria.
Bourque immediately thought of grabbing the inhaler from his sport jacket in the other room, but then remembered what his doctor had suggested.
“Okay, Bert, we’ll give it a try.” He closed his eyes and concentrated.
Find a category.
Got it. The city’s tallest structures, starting with the highest.
Aloud, he said, “One World Trade Center. Top of the Park. 432 Park Avenue. 30 Hudson Yards. Empire State Building.” He stopped himself.
Could he include Top of the Park? The luxury apartment building on Central Park North, the subject of his new book, didn’t officially open until later this week. Erected between Malcolm X Boulevard, otherwise known as Lenox Avenue, and Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard, or Seventh Avenue, the building came in at ninety-eight stories, making it two floors taller than the astonishing, and relatively recent, 432 Park Avenue, which towered over Central Park looking like some monolithic, vertical heat grate.
Did it really matter for the purposes of this exercise? He was still wheezing. He continued with his list.
“Uh, Bank of America Tower. 3 World Trade Center, uh, 53 West Fifty-Third. New York Times. No, wait. Chrysler Building, then the New York Times Building.”
The tightening in his chest was not easing off.
“Fuck it,” he said.
He went into the other bedroom, picked up his jacket, and reached into the left inside pocket.
The inhaler was not there.
“What the …”
He always tucked it into the left pocket. But maybe, just once …
The inhaler was not in the right pocket, either. Nor was it in either of the outside pockets.
Bourque felt his lungs struggling harder for air. The wheezing became more pronounced.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he whispered.
Had he taken the inhaler out of his jacket when he first got home? He went back to the kitchen to check. It wasn’t on the kitchen table or on the counter by the sink. Bourque returned to the bedroom, wondering if the inhaler had slipped out of his coat when he had thrown it onto the bed.
He got down on his hands and knees, patting beneath the bed where he could not see.
“Come on,” he wheezed.
He found nothing.
In his head, he had an image of a snake coiling itself around his windpipe. Like that cobra tattoo on the deceased.
It was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. If he didn’t find his inhaler soon, he was going to have to use his last breaths talking to a 911 operator.
And that would be if he could find his phone. Where the hell had he left his phone? He hadn’t noticed it in his jacket pockets as he searched for the inhaler. Had he left it in the kitchen?
He started to stand, and as his eyes were level with the top of the bed, he spotted something. Something small and dark, just under the edge of the pillow.
He grabbed the inhaler, uncapped it. He exhaled, weakly, then put the device into his mouth and, at the moment he squeezed it, drew in a breath. Held it for ten seconds. He breathed out, then prepared for a second hit.
He wrapped his mouth around the inhaler again. Squeezed. Started counting.
His cell phone rang. Out in the kitchen. He got to his feet, had the phone in his hand by the time he’d counted to four.
The name DELGADO came up on the screen. Lois Delgado.
Five, six, seven …
Delgado had not given up on him yet. Bourque had his finger ready to take the call.
Eight, nine, ten.
Bourque exhaled, tapped the screen. “Yeah, hey,” he said, holding the phone with one hand and gripping the inhaler with the other.
“It’s me,” Delgado said. “You okay? Can barely hear you.”
He got some more air into his lungs. “I’m fine.”
“Okay. Anyway, sorry to call so late.”
“It’s okay. What’s up?”
“I’ve got a tip for you.”
He sighed mentally. “Go ahead. I’m all about self-improvement.”
“Not that kind. A fingertip. Our guy dropped one.”
Bucky had heard about the Boston bombing even before he saw the item on TV that night from his cheap hotel room. Mr. Clement had filled him in, and he sounded less than impressed when they had spoken late that afternoon about how that event had gone down.
Four injured, one seriously.
“It’s a wonder it even made the news,” Mr. Clement said when they had their brief meeting, standing almost shoulder to shoulder, feigning interest at the Central Park Zoo’s penguin exhibit. They spoke softly, careful not to turn and face each other during their chat, as the penguins swam and splashed and waddled.
