Beyond Eden

12

Taylor / Eden

Lindsay always shopped at the Challed grocery market on the corner. Taylor had her write out a list for him. They’d taken enough risks today.

“It’s a habit,” he said. “Habits we break, all of them. We either go together, which isn’t smart, or I go alone.”

She gave him a list and he whistled as he added cookies, wine, beer, chips, and cold cuts to the grocery cart. He felt like hardening a few arteries. Maybe he could even talk her into eating a Frito.

She ate a sandwich with no mayo, no butter, and one slice of nearly fat-free honey ham and a glass of Diet Coke. He felt like a junk-food pig, his plate loaded with chips and two salami-and-ham sandwiches, mustard oozing over the sides, a cold Amstel close to his hand.

“You want to see that movie tonight—Black Prince?”

She was delighted and again he marveled at the simple joyousness his suggestion brought her. He wanted to tell her it was just a movie, nothing more, but her obvious pleasure kept him silent.

Having been a cop, Taylor found the movie unbelievable, downright silly in places, but nevertheless he enjoyed himself. Eden was finally relaxing with him. They came out, he looking about methodically at the crowd of people pressing near them, at people’s hands mainly, and she talking a blue streak about the male lead and how he couldn’t be blamed for believing his brother had betrayed him to the drug lords, how he had really been working undercover for the DEA.

Yeah, right, Taylor thought. He made appropriate noises, keeping her close, keeping her to the inside, his place always slightly ahead of hers. If she was aware of his actions, she gave no sign of it.

It took a while to get a taxi and it made him nervous. It would have been brighter not to have brought her out tonight. But no one followed, he was certain, and he breathed easier. When they got to her apartment, Taylor checked every room thoroughly, gave her both his cell phone number and his apartment phone number, and said as he was turning to leave, “Thanks for a fun evening, Eden. I enjoyed it, job or not. Remember everything I told you.”

After he’d gone, after she had herself double-checked all her locks, Lindsay made herself a cup of tea and adjourned to her living room. She nestled in among her cushions on the sofa. She wasn’t at all tired. In fact, she felt wired, restless, bedeviled by a fit of nerves, as her grandmother was wont to say. She picked up a historical romance but couldn’t get herself settled into the novel. She prowled a bit, frowning at herself. Some ten minutes later, as she was showering for bed, she realized what was wrong. It wasn’t the threat; it was Taylor. She could see him so clearly, right now, in her mind, smiling at her. She liked him. She’d been sorry to see him leave tonight. She hadn’t wanted him to go. A man, and she actually liked him. More than that, she trusted him. At least she trusted him to keep her safe.

On Sunday night, after a day spent watching professional football games on TV, Taylor left, repeating his same instructions, his same admonitions. Lindsay showered and put on her nightgown, then straightened the devastation in her living room, listening with only half an ear to the ten-o’clock news. She dropped the bowl that had held a gallon of popcorn during the second half of the game between the 49ers and the Giants. She whirled around and stared at the TV. The director of the commercial shot on Friday morning in Central Park, George Hudson, age thirty-six, had been badly beaten and locked in the trunk of his car in a long-term parking lot near the Lincoln Tunnel. He was alive but in guarded condition at St. Vincent’s Hospital. He suffered broken ribs, injuries to his spleen and liver. His face had been severely beaten. He had a concussion. Police were, for the moment, calling it a vicious mugging or a gang attack, although they couldn’t explain why muggers or a gang would leave over two hundred dollars in Hudson’s wallet. Drug dealing was speculated upon. But that sounded farfetched. There were as yet no clues, no suspects. Hudson had been able to tell police just moments ago that he’d been attacked in the parking lot some three hours earlier by two masked assailants. He knew nothing more. They hadn’t said anything, just beaten him senseless.

The moment the newscaster moved on, Lindsay’s phone rang. She lurched up to answer it, then remembered. She waited, her hand out, for the answering machine to kick in. It did, and she heard Taylor’s voice. She picked up the phone immediately. Before she could say a word, he said very calmly, his voice pitched low, “I know. I just saw it. Stay put. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t move, Eden.”

He arrived in eight minutes. Taylor looked at her white face and very slowly put out his arms. Very slowly he drew her against him. “It’s all right. It’s all right. You’re safe.”

The phone rang shrilly.

Taylor motioned her to a chair, noticing for the first time that she was wearing a voluminous white nightgown that covered her from throat to toes, and answered the phone himself. It was Demos and he was terrified and babbling.

“My God! Is that you, Taylor? Did you hear? Oh, my God! You can’t say anything, Taylor, you can’t. You got that? Keep your mouth shut. Oh, my God.”

Taylor let the man’s shock and fear run itself out. He said finally, “I have to talk to the cops, Demos. I have no choice, surely you realize that. I would suggest you pay off these thugs and keep clean after this.”

“Yes, yes, I swear I will, but don’t tell the cops, you can’t!”

Taylor stared at the phone. “Why not?”

“You fool, they’ll kill me, that’s why not! If you tell the cops, they’ll be on my doorstep in no time at all. What the hell would I tell them? Give them names and addresses? Are you out of your fucking skull? God, the moment I spit out one single name, I’m history! I’m dead meat. These guys don’t know I hired you, Taylor—and they still don’t, because they weren’t ever after Eden. They believe it’s just me who knows. You can’t call the cops!”

Taylor sighed. Demos was right. He didn’t want the man killed, no matter how much of an ass he was. “Do you promise me you’ll pay them off?”

“Sweet Jesus, yes, yes!”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes!”

“And you’ll break your own neck before you ever get yourself into a mess like this again?”

There was a brief hesitation. “I mean it, Demos. Damn your eyes, I don’t want Eden in any more danger. If they threatened you, that would be different, but not Eden, not any more innocent people, you got that?”

“Yeah, I got it. I swear, Taylor, I swear. You can trust me.”

Very doubtful, Taylor thought. “Good. Don’t forget, Demos, that I know. If ever you screw up again, I’ll go to the cops and your hide will be on the line. Another thing, if George Hudson dies, it’s a new ball game. No covering up. I have to go to the cops then.”

“He won’t die. Don’t tell the cops. I’ll do anything, I swear.”

“Yeah, right.” Taylor hung up, turned slowly, and said to Lindsay, “It’s over. Demos has promised to pay his debt.”

“That’s good,” she said, her voice as blank as a sheet of paper.

“I hope Hudson hangs on.”

“I do too. I’ll visit him tomorrow. Make sure he’ll be okay.”

He smiled at her. She was getting her balance back. “Good idea. You know something? I still think you need protection. Anyone who prowls in front of the TV biting her nails over an intercepted pass and howling whenever a penalty is called, definitely needs a guard. What it comes down to is this: I want to see you again. A date this time, not a job. How about it, Eden?”

She’d met him two days before. It seemed much longer. He was smiling but she saw the tension in him. He really wanted to see her again. It surprised her and pleased her and made her only mildly wary.

“Yes,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes. “Yes, I’d like that.”

The following Tuesday, the temperature plummeted to the mid-twenties. It had rained during the night and stopped early Tuesday morning, leaving frozen streets and sidewalks. Traffic was a god-awful mess, taxi drivers screaming and cursing, tempers short and foul, and pedestrians extra careful when crossing the streets even with the light. Lindsay was bundled up to her eyebrows. She was walking toward the library on the Columbia campus to search out articles for Gayle on the dangers of gymnastics for preadolescent children. “The most recent articles only,” Gayle had said. She listed out the articles she’d downloaded off the Internet so she wouldn’t duplicate them, and she needed more. “You’re wonderful, Lindsay. I love you and I owe you. Call it my Christmas present. Now you don’t have to spend a dime on me.”

It was so bloody cold that Lindsay had quickly forgotten how wonderful she was. She looked up, but the library still seemed a goodly distance away. She thought of George Hudson and the horror she’d felt when she’d visited him the day before. His face was a battered mess, his nose broken, stitches on his jaw and over his left eye. The bruises made him look a nightmare. He’d been very surprised to see her, but pleased in his way. He was going to live and he would heal. He just didn’t understand why anyone would beat him up. It was a mystery. She felt such guilt she’d left as soon as politely possible. She stopped off and ordered flowers sent to him.

Finally, the Columbia library loomed up, its pale brick facade looking as cold and damp and uninviting as it ever had when she’d been an undergraduate.

She took the deep steps two at a time, stopping when she heard a man’s voice. “Lindsay! Lindsay Foxe! Wait a minute. Stop!”

She wasn’t about to stop. Once she was inside, she unwrapped the scarf around her neck and lower face, not wanting to turn but knowing he would come after her, knowing as she stood there that she’d have to look at him, face him.

There was Dr. Gruska, breathing heavily, his tweeds covered with a Burberry coat, coming toward her.

She forced herself to remain perfectly still. Students were all around. It was warm. She was safe.

He hadn’t changed. Of course it had been only four years, but still, she’d expected him to be sporting more white in his hair, more wrinkles on his neck. He looked just the same, only now he must be in his mid-fifties. Old enough to be her father.

“Lindsay,” he said, smiling, stopping in front of her. He held out his hands to her but she didn’t move. He dropped them. He rushed into hurried, intense speech. “I have tried to find you but you don’t have a listed number. I’ve tried so hard. I even saw your friend Gayle Werth some time ago and she gave me your phone number, but she got it wrong.” The stupid bitch hung in the air, unspoken but well understood by Lindsay. “I was just about ready to try one of those people locator services on the Internet.”

He stood there, now in front of her, looking for the world like a hopeful aging puppy. He pulled the expensive fox fur hat from his head and stripped off his expensive leather gloves.

“How are you, Dr. Gruska?”

“Oh, things go along here, but there are changes, horrible changes. Now that my profession has debunked Freud, philistine unenlightened fools that they are, I find I must accommodate myself to approaches of which I do not approve. Can you imagine—it is expected now that a psychologist deal not with the root causes of an illness but only with the aberrant symptoms! The idiots call it eclectic therapy or survival therapy or reality therapy to make it sound legitimate. It’s absurd, and then there’s all this drug nonsense to control people but not understand them. I am considering private practice since my colleagues are so shallow, but what I have always preferred is dealing with bright students. They, I have always found, grasp the truth of things, and Freud is unvarnished truth.”

Jerk.

“How unfortunate for you, Dr. Gruska. I trust your father is well?” Old Dr. Gruska, from what Lindsay had heard about him, was reminiscent of the robber barons of the last century. He was still chairman of the board of the Northwestern New York Bank and ruled all with his iron hand, including his only son, Dr. Gruska the Younger. His “ doctor” handle had been conferred in the late seventies by Northwestern University. On that day he had become Dr. Gruska the Elder to all and sundry.

“Oh, yes, my dear father, Dr. Gruska, is in top form. He’s nearly eighty, you know, but a man of great stamina and fortitude. I still cherish his guidance. If Dr. Gruska knew you, he would send his love, I know. I’ve spoken of you so often to him. Please, let me buy you a cup of coffee. It’s so cold today and I didn’t want to come in, but I’m so glad I did. Come, Lindsay, I want to speak to you, I must speak to you. There is so much for us to discuss, for me to share with you.”

She forced herself to look at him with clear unafraid eyes. She remembered her father and her heels. She’d won then. No intimidation. Never again. And she said, smiling slightly, “No, thank you, Dr. Gruska. I’m in a rush right now. It was nice to see you again.”

“No! Wait, you must give me your address, your phone number!”

There were at least six Columbia students within three feet of them. Lindsay shook her head. “I don’t think so, Dr. Gruska. Why would you want my phone number anyway?” She wished immediately that she hadn’t asked, for his show of uncertainty was replaced by a confidence that startled her with its arrogance. “So,” he said slowly, stroking his jaw, “you are still afraid of men, I see.”

She felt the deep corrosive fear. She held herself steady, still smiling at him. “It’s none of your business, Dr. Gruska.”

He leaned toward her, touching her arm. “Oh, but it is, Miss Foxe. I see now that you’re a model, that you’re known only as Eden. My dear father, Dr. Gruska, finds you immensely attractive. As I said, I’ve told him all about you. I’ve enjoyed seeing all the photos of you as well, but I know what they hide. They change you and you are willing to be changed, to be concealed, to be viewed as another woman, one who is not real. Even your name, Eden—ah, the beginning, the innocence, the purity—it is not you, but just another device to hide you from the world, from yourself. You must let me—” He broke off, as if realizing his words weren’t achieving the effect he wished, for her face was pale and set. Oddly, there was rage in her eyes, not fear. He continued, his voice gentle now, “I do not mean to distress you. It has been a very long time since your brother-in-law—well, since that traumatic time in Paris. So very long ago. If only you would let me help you. I can, you know, professionally as a doctor, and as a friend, a friend who is also a man who would take care of you, protect you, understand you.”

A student bumped against her and absently apologized. Lindsay said, her voice as cold as the air just beyond the library doors, “You’re an old man, Dr. Gruska. I don’t like you. I didn’t like you when I was a senior and forced to take your class. I think Freud is full of shit and I think you’re contemptible to remind me of a time that was very painful for me.”

He didn’t move. He smiled and Lindsay felt sick to her stomach. “I know it is painful, my sweet girl. Sometimes we must suffer pain to be cured of our illnesses. Come with me, Lindsay. Come with me now.”

He held out his hand to her. She stared down at his hand, then back to his face.

She wanted to strike him. She wanted to pound him into pulp. He was soft; he was old. She could grind him down easily. She wanted to run. She could taste her fear, raw and nasty in her mouth. She continued to look at him, hoping he couldn’t see the fear, hoping he didn’t know how scared she was. “Perhaps you can become a behavioral scientist and try to intimidate rats. Good-bye, sir.” She was out of the library and skipping quickly down the wide stairs.

He called her name out twice before she was lost in a congested mass of students.

“What’s the matter, Eden? Dammit, talk to me.”

Taylor took her upper arms in his hands and lightly shook her. “Something happened today. Don’t you know I can see every emotion that streaks through you? Talk to me.”

He’d caught her so soon after the run-in with Dr. Gruska. Just two hours, and she still felt threatened, wanting to hunker down in the corner of her living room and come to grips with what had happened. Deep inside her, pressing against the fear, was her elation at how she’d responded to Gruska. She’d faced him down. Still, there was all the darkness, the pounding emptiness. She wanted no one to see her like this, but here he was.

“No, don’t shake your head at me. It’s been four days since I met you but I can tell something is very wrong.” He frowned, released her, and said easily, changing his tone, his expression, his approach, “Can I brew you a cup of tea?”

“Yes, I’d like that.”

He’d verified a very useful fact, he thought as he put on her red potbellied kettle to boil. She responded to lightness, to matter-of-fact calm. Threats made her draw away even more. A raised voice sent her scurrying away, at least her mind, her attention.

“What kind of tea? Good old Lipton?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Lemon? Milk?”

“Just lemon.”

Two words at a time, he thought a few minutes later as he poured the boiling water over the tea bag. Go easy, very easy, and slowly. What the devil had happened?

He carried her tea into the living room, Lindsay trailing behind him. He set it down on the coffee table, scooting aside several of her novels to clear a space. One book fell onto the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice.

He sat down in one of the easy chairs opposite her and said nothing.

Lindsay sipped the tea. She looked at him over the rim of her cup. He wasn’t pushing now. He wasn’t doing anything.

She was immensely reassured, she could handle things now, and said, “I was at Columbia today, at the library. I was going to look up some articles for a friend of mine. I ran into this professor I’d had in my senior year, four years ago. I didn’t ever like him, in fact I wanted to drop his course, but I couldn’t because I needed it to graduate. My degree is in psychology. Anyway, he wanted to see me, like a date or something. I told him off, that’s all, and then I left, well, very quickly.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you leave very quickly? You’d told him off, what else was there to do? Why did you have to run away?”

“I didn’t want him to see that I was afraid of him. No! I didn’t mean that exactly—He’s a jerk and a pompous, arrogant creep. Maybe I should have punched his ticket.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“I wanted to be reasonable, to stand up to him, to handle him like an adult should.”

“Were you alone?”

“Oh, no. It was in the Columbia library. There were tons of students around.”

“You weren’t alone and you also know karate. I bet you could take him with one arm. You wouldn’t even need any help. Why are you afraid of him?”

“It’s not that—it’s his mind, the way he thinks, what he’s found out, what he now knows, what he threatens with his words.”

That was about as clear as a fog bank, Taylor thought.

Lindsay was appalled at what had come out of her mouth, all because of Taylor and the way he was and that he’d showed up here before she could get a good hold on herself again. She smiled now, a social smile, all bland and empty. “It’s the middle of the day. Why are you here? Don’t you have people to guard and computers to fix?”

“Yeah,” he said easily, sitting back. “Actually I was on my way downtown to Wall Street to a brokerage house. They’ve got screws loose in their computer brain and called me to fix it. I thought about you and that’s why I came.”

Truth be told, he’d gotten this feeling that something was wrong. It wasn’t unusual; he wasn’t psychic, for God’s sake, but sometimes, rarely, he’d just get these feelings, nibbling feelings, that wouldn’t go away. When he was much younger, he’d forced himself to ignore them. But not after an old woman had gotten mugged on his very street corner. He listened now, and even if the feeling turned out to be nothing at all, he still listened and still acted. This time his feeling had been right on the button. It was just that Eden wasn’t going to say anything more. She didn’t trust him. Well, it hadn’t been all that long. It would take time. With her, he was fully prepared to be patient. But he could also be cunning as hell.

“Well, I’m fine now, really. Thank you, Taylor. This professor—”

“No problem.”

“Thank you for making the tea. It’s wonderful.”

“I’m glad you like it. I don’t like any sugar in mine either. Just real hot and strong. No bark shavings. What’s his name?”

“Gruska—no, no, that is, no, forget it, all right?”

“Sure, no problem. I’ve got to go now. Are we still on for tonight?”

She nodded, feeling like a fool, but he seemed not to notice that she’d spit out the name. Still, after Taylor had left, she fastened all the locks on her front door.

Taylor left the Wayfarer Insurance Company on Water Street at four o’clock, the problem diagnosed and fixed. The problem wasn’t uncommon, but it was still a pain in the butt. The mail server was incorrectly configured on the insurance company’s end. Since in this case the clients’ end was also misconfigured, all the e-mail was being sent out into the ether. He’d gotten it straightened out in record time—lucky for both him and the insurance company. Taylor had come off as a genius, which was a nice feeling. He was good, but luck was never to be discounted. It was a good thing too that over the past four years he’d developed a network of computer friends across the country, and when each discovered something not run across before, the information was duly shared.

Mr. Phiffe, vice-president of operations, at least seventy, white-haired, an aristocrat of insurance, was appalled when Taylor presented his bill.

“Five thousand dollars! But you fixed the problem in ten minutes, Jackson told me so.”

“Yes. I also told Jackson what my fixed charge would be up front, regardless of the time I spent here.”

“But he didn’t think it would take just ten minutes.”

Taylor smiled. “Mr. Phiffe, you hired me to fix your problem. You are back in business, and in record time, I might add.”

Phiffe smiled slowly. “You’re right, of course. It was just a shock. One gets what one pays for, eh? I pay for expertise and I get it. Time isn’t the issue.” He buzzed his secretary. Taylor shook hands with him and picked up his check on the way out.

Taylor’s next stop was Columbia. Dr. Gruska was a professor of psychology and he was in the Adams Building, second floor, room 223. He asked the woman in administration what Dr. Gruska’s psychological roots were, so to speak. “Give him a chandelier and he’d swing by his Oedipus complex,” she’d said, and laughed. “The thing is, though, he hasn’t got a mother. Just this old curmudgeon father who’s run his life. Funny how moms always get blamed, isn’t it?”

Taylor agreed that it was.

The day was blistering cold. It was very nearly dark now and getting colder by the minute. He really wasn’t expecting Gruska to be in his office and it was with some surprise that his knock was answered with a full-voiced call.

“Come!”

He went in, gently closed the door behind him, and surveyed the man who terrified Eden. Harmless-looking gent, tweedy, smoked a pipe, slender, long narrow face, and had a long nose that was now twitching at the sight of him, a complete stranger, fifties, rather pallid complexion, out-of-shape. Yeah, Eden could have taken him to the floor with only one arm.

“What can I do for you? It’s late. I was just getting ready to leave.”

“Just a minute of your time, Dr. Gruska.” Taylor stuck out his gloved hand. “My name’s Oliver Winston, Dr. Winston, psychoanalyst. I’ve heard a lot about you and wanted to meet you. I’m in town visiting friends and family. A Dr. Graham in my hometown of Columbus said to look you up if I had a chance. He said you were the tops.”

Dr. Gruska glowed. Taylor was motioned quickly to a chair facing the good doctor.

“Ah, Dr. Graham. Er, which Dr. Graham?”

“Joseph Graham of Columbus.”

“Ah, yes, Joe. Nice, solid fellow. Good background. How is he?”

“The arthritis is getting worse, but otherwise he’s fine. As I said, he speaks of you with high praise.”

“I assume that you are embroiled in our very survival, Dr. Winston?”

Taylor had no idea what he was talking about, but he knew enough from Gruska’s body language and voice tone to nod with great sincerity. “Yes, indeed. I don’t know what to do about it.”

Taylor watched, fascinated, the myriad shifting expressions on Gruska’s face. Rage, surprise, pleasure, more rage, more pleasure, conspiracy. He sat forward, his hands clasped in front of him. His pipe sent up lazy smoke into the air, its scent pleasant, like a pine forest.

Gruska’s voice was warm, low, intense. “Ah, my dear fellow, then you’re suffering as I am suffering, as all of us are suffering. The idea of boiling everything down to chemicals! It’s preposterous! Certainly those ridiculous MD’s who pretend to understand the human mind can, in a very few cases, administer their drugs and make the patient function.”

Taylor made an assenting noise and fanned his hands in despair.

“No doubt your friend sent you to see me because he knew I’d understand and sympathize. I will remain a psychoanalyst despite all the opposition, all the absurdities that abound and proliferate now, for what we have is the truth, and this truth explains what makes all of humanity behave in the ways we behave.”

Again Taylor looked struck by Gruska’s fluency, his tone and manner. He said slowly, feeling his way, “I have found that women in particular are so well-explained by Freud.”

“Oh, my, yes, not to say that any of us worship like disciples at any one man’s feet, but Freud pointed out the basic truths for us to build upon, which we have done superbly. And women, they are the most easily understood, the more easily explained, for the way they think leads them to act in very bizarre ways, and all of it is tied to overpowering and dictated subconscious intuition, and then cognition. Children know and adults suppress, particularly women. It’s true, ah yes.”

It sounded like hash to Taylor, but he nodded, saying, “I have this one patient, a rather young woman, who’s terrified of men. She will not confide in me though I’ve tried and tried to gain her trust. I have tried to take her back to those formative years, but she resists, she refuses to allow hypnotism, which would unblock her. I ask, Dr. Gruska, what do you think I should do?”

Dr. Gruska paused, pondered, ran his long fingers up and down his pipe stem. He looked uncertain. He looked pleased to be asked.

Taylor quickly rose, fanning his hands in front of him in apology. “Oh, goodness. It’s dark outside and I’ve kept you far too long. Forgive me, Dr. Gruska, but listening to you, hearing the depth of your feelings and knowledge, well—”

“Sit down, Dr. Winston, sit down! You can’t go yet.”

Taylor sat, relieved.

“This young woman, is she beautiful?”

“Very.”

“Does she seem outwardly well-adjusted?”

“Yes, until a man gets close to her.”

“Is she one of those bitch professional women or a gentle, traditional, unencumbered woman?”

“Professional, unmarried, but not a bitch.”

“Ah, yes, classic, for the most part, certainly close enough to the paradigm. I would probe gently, Doctor, ask her about her teenage years—not her childhood, avoid that for the time being. Ask her about the sexual urges she suppressed, the guilt she felt when she experienced these urges. Get her to admit to masturbation, have her relive the feelings she experienced when she masturbated. Find out how she masturbated, that’s very important—manual stimulation or using devices, such as dildos. It is possible that she seduced a relative—even a father—when she was eighteen or so, and now has closed it away deep in her mind. She has rewritten the event, so to speak, to ease her guilt, to justify what she did then and to justify why she is as she is now.”

“My God,” Taylor said, and meant it. “Your advice is much more than I had ever expected, Dr. Gruska. Have you had, perhaps, a similar patient?”

“Oh, I’ve seen many girls like the one you describe. All that suppressed guilt and sexual tension, waiting to be released, demanding to be released, but they can’t allow it, because to allow it would mean to admit these feelings. There is one girl in particular who desperately needs this release, who needs my help to gain this release, but there is still the lack of trust, her fear of herself and these feelings, her blindness to her own needs—Ah, well, it is late, isn’t it? My dear fellow, I am delighted you dropped by. By all means give my regards to Joe. I hope his arthritis gets better.” Gruska rose and extended his hand. Taylor obligingly took it and gave it a healthy shake.

He returned to Eden’s apartment two hours later.