He spoke briefly; the doorman smiled at him, then hailed a taxi. Martin flagged a second cab and followed Carey to the hospital. Carey went through a door on the side of the sprawling complex running along East 76th Street. Martin waited across the street. He knew that Carey would not see him. Like most New Yorkers, Carey sensed the closeness of strange bodies; Martin kept thirty yards away. He decided not to smoke for one hour. Restless, Martin reflected; he guessed from the small man’s tone that this visit would be the catalyst of his drama, although he did not yet know the reason. In his mind he followed Peter Carey to the doorway of his father’s friend. Levy’s blond young secretary cracked open his door. “Mr. Carey’s here.” “Step in for a moment.” Levy glanced up from his desk. “Tell me, what does young Mr. Carey look like?” She shot him a curious glance. “Why?” “Just that he’s the son of an old friend, and I’ve never really seen him.” “He’s beautiful,”
