tightness of the blazer which strained to stay buttoned. Talk about full.
“Yes, of course he was,” she said. “But—would you just mind saying that on-camera? And also what he ate and what he may have said to you or the waitstaff.” She looked around. “I’ll put them all on TV.”
“Candy, I really haven’t time for this,” I said. “I have to earn back the money I paid the last time we—spoke.”
“Time is a so, so precious thing,” she agreed. “But it would be good publicity for your deli.”
“Actually, it would be good bad publicity,” I said. “People would come to gawk. Again.”
“And order,” she added. “Food. Paying customers.”
“Coffee,” I corrected her. “Not worth it. So, sorry, Candy. I can’t help you.”
“Ms. Katz, you know—you really do want me as a friend.”
“No,” I said as I entered my office. “I don’t.”
“Your uncle was very cooperative!”
“Then light a yahrtzeit candle for him, because you’ve got me now.”
I went back to my computer to get the phone number of Professor Sterne’s office. As I looked it up, I tried not to think about the utter strangeness of the morning. Even by our farmisht standards, this was one morning for the scrapbook.
And through it all, I could not help thinking again about poor Lippy Montgomery. I was glad that what turned out to be his last meal was, at least, a happy experience. How had he described it?
Uncommonly tasty.
That was nice; poor guy.
There was a direct line to the archaeology department at the school, and I read up on Professor Sterne before I called. There was a photo beside his biography. He looked, in a word, self-impressed. He was about thirty-five, with long black hair over his ears, thick black eyebrows, square jaw, thin lips set in a half smile. He was wearing a purple turtleneck and tweedy blazer. He looked like the kind of confident, slightly standoffish but charming professor every female student fell for, from which a handful were selected and eventually discarded.
I should know. I had taken that short, dumb, tragic journey myself back at NYU with Professor Levey.
“Okay, Professor Sterne,” I said as I called the number. “Let’s see you sweet-talk me into not giving you a hard time.”
I mentally reviewed the message I would leave on his voice mail. It was a pointless exercise since he picked up on the second ring.
“Ms. Katz,” he said in a surprisingly high but pleasingly southern voice. “How odd! I was just about to call you!”
“And here I am,” I said stupidly.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am this project came to your attention the way it did,” he said. “That had to be quite a surprise.”
“To hear that my finished basement is about to become the American Troy?” I said. “You might call that a little unforeseen. Why were you about to call?”
“There are insurance forms that indemnify the school against certain types of damage—”
“Wait—that indemnify you ?”
“That’s right,” he said. “Some folks try to take advantage of a little jackhammering by claiming vibration damage to electrical circuits or pipes—”
“You’re going to jackhammer my basement?”
“Ms. Katz, we have to, in order to penetrate the concrete slab. I’m sorry, but this was all discussed with your uncle. The room will be double-sealed in polyurethane sheets to contain the dust—”
“This is only during the day, right?” I asked.
“That will depend on the size of the volunteer staff, how many trenches we have to dig, and how many wooden supports we have to insert in those trenches to prevent them from collapsing.”
“So this could go on round the clock,” I said, dumbfounded.
“Which is one reason we urge impacted individuals to relocate,” he said.
“You say that like leaving your home for a year is nothing!”
“It isn’t nothing. But it is necessary.”
“Like a loch in kop ,” I said.
“I’m sorry, a what?”
“A hole in my
“Yes, of course he was,” she said. “But—would you just mind saying that on-camera? And also what he ate and what he may have said to you or the waitstaff.” She looked around. “I’ll put them all on TV.”
“Candy, I really haven’t time for this,” I said. “I have to earn back the money I paid the last time we—spoke.”
“Time is a so, so precious thing,” she agreed. “But it would be good publicity for your deli.”
“Actually, it would be good bad publicity,” I said. “People would come to gawk. Again.”
“And order,” she added. “Food. Paying customers.”
“Coffee,” I corrected her. “Not worth it. So, sorry, Candy. I can’t help you.”
“Ms. Katz, you know—you really do want me as a friend.”
“No,” I said as I entered my office. “I don’t.”
“Your uncle was very cooperative!”
“Then light a yahrtzeit candle for him, because you’ve got me now.”
I went back to my computer to get the phone number of Professor Sterne’s office. As I looked it up, I tried not to think about the utter strangeness of the morning. Even by our farmisht standards, this was one morning for the scrapbook.
And through it all, I could not help thinking again about poor Lippy Montgomery. I was glad that what turned out to be his last meal was, at least, a happy experience. How had he described it?
Uncommonly tasty.
That was nice; poor guy.
There was a direct line to the archaeology department at the school, and I read up on Professor Sterne before I called. There was a photo beside his biography. He looked, in a word, self-impressed. He was about thirty-five, with long black hair over his ears, thick black eyebrows, square jaw, thin lips set in a half smile. He was wearing a purple turtleneck and tweedy blazer. He looked like the kind of confident, slightly standoffish but charming professor every female student fell for, from which a handful were selected and eventually discarded.
I should know. I had taken that short, dumb, tragic journey myself back at NYU with Professor Levey.
“Okay, Professor Sterne,” I said as I called the number. “Let’s see you sweet-talk me into not giving you a hard time.”
I mentally reviewed the message I would leave on his voice mail. It was a pointless exercise since he picked up on the second ring.
“Ms. Katz,” he said in a surprisingly high but pleasingly southern voice. “How odd! I was just about to call you!”
“And here I am,” I said stupidly.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am this project came to your attention the way it did,” he said. “That had to be quite a surprise.”
“To hear that my finished basement is about to become the American Troy?” I said. “You might call that a little unforeseen. Why were you about to call?”
“There are insurance forms that indemnify the school against certain types of damage—”
“Wait—that indemnify you ?”
“That’s right,” he said. “Some folks try to take advantage of a little jackhammering by claiming vibration damage to electrical circuits or pipes—”
“You’re going to jackhammer my basement?”
“Ms. Katz, we have to, in order to penetrate the concrete slab. I’m sorry, but this was all discussed with your uncle. The room will be double-sealed in polyurethane sheets to contain the dust—”
“This is only during the day, right?” I asked.
“That will depend on the size of the volunteer staff, how many trenches we have to dig, and how many wooden supports we have to insert in those trenches to prevent them from collapsing.”
“So this could go on round the clock,” I said, dumbfounded.
“Which is one reason we urge impacted individuals to relocate,” he said.
“You say that like leaving your home for a year is nothing!”
“It isn’t nothing. But it is necessary.”
“Like a loch in kop ,” I said.
“I’m sorry, a what?”
“A hole in my
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