Mario had a cell phone. He finally managed to call our boss, who called my wife. We both walked (about half an hour apart) to W. 71st street to a hotel at which our travel agent had supposedly reserved rooms for us. The hotel turned out to be a $60 dollar per night flophouse with no telephones or televisions. Shared bathrooms. Loitering homosexuals--that sort of thing. It came almost as a relief to learn that they had never heard of me or Mario. We had no reservations.
My wife had given me Mario's cell phone number, but I had taken it down incorrectly, I guess. I tried the bogus number repeatedly without success. I ended up in a room at the Roosevelt on 45th at Madison. Mario lucked out, I learned later, by benefitting from a cancellation at the Comfort Inn at W. 71st Street near Central Park. I still have blisters on my blisters.
My wife made sure I got the number right when I spoke to her that night. Mario and I had a subdued reunion at about 7:30 the next morning in front of the public library at 42nd and Fifth Avenue.
While waiting at that intersection I couldn't help but watch a beat cop who was stioned there. The look on his face reminded me vaguely of the face that had stared back at me in the mirror the day my mother died, but his was much grimmer. This guy had steel in his spine, I could see, but his expression suggested he'd just lost many brothers. I felt bad for him.