“CHRIST. ARE WE IN CANADA?” The street was dotted by cement planters with no plants and lined with short, plain putty-colored buildings housing 99-cent stores and cheap groceries. Matthew was determined to point out, repeatedly, that the moment they exited the subway station, they had found the precise Euclidean middle of nowhere. Norman knew where to find Leon Reifsnyder. The man had written him a letter, out of nowhere, after Ira’s obituary appeared in the Times. “A condolence letter, if you please,” said Norman. “Full of all these ‘my, that was a time we had’ sort of remarks. You could say I was taken aback. When we were working on the picture, he all but called me a faggot to my face. And the last I heard of Leon, he was fighting real-estate fraud charges out in Arizona.” The letter had been written from the Cadwallader David Colden Home in Queens. She bolted to a pay phone, got the number from information, then scrambled downtown to catch Matthew’s office hours so she could beg him to call.
