Paul couldn't tear away his eyes from Dave: each instant stood alone
and almost still.
"Ten seconds," Dave said. And he turned around--facing nothing--to jump.
A great cry escaped Paul.
He toppled on the terrace--and passed out.
Dave about-faced and stepped down lightly.
11
It was twenty-one o'clock, which is to say, nine that evening.
Dave had eaten dinner with me and gone off to another meeting of his
maestros. To look, he said, for the silver lining of the silver screen.
Not even mentioning Paul.
Not seeming to be affected....
Paul was in a hospital.
A private hospital. The cops had wanted to send him to Bellevue for
observation. But Dave had persuaded them and arranged to have my nephew
taken on a stretcher down the service elevator and transported by
ambulance to a safe place.
I'd called Ricky and told her about it. Told her again that I'd be back
in Buffalo by the following evening, in all likelihood.
And I'd called Karen, my daughter, and warned her of what she would
see and read when the morning papers reached her country doorstep in
Connecticut.
Nine o'clock.
The next day would be Monday.