Shit, he’s approaching the bridge and he’s left the ring behind. Should he take that as a sign? Maybe he should wait until the new year. Maybe he should wait until she’s legally divorced. That letter—why didn’t she read it in front of him? He knows Maryland law and he realizes she can’t initiate the divorce, not for a while. If her husband doesn’t file, she has to wait two years for a no-fault.

Two years. June 1997. Where will they be? Who will they be?

He takes the last exit before the bridge and heads back. It will cost him almost ninety minutes, but he can’t stop thinking about it.

*

It is almost nine Thursday night when Adam reaches the High-Ho, but the bar is packed. Business picks up during the holidays. People get giddy from all the socializing, want to keep going, and the High-Ho is one of the few places open after eight. Mr. C has put up decorations that appear to be fifty years old, right out of that Christmas Story movie. Strands of multicolored lights, an illuminated wreath in one window. The air inside the bar feels overheated and smoky after even a few seconds of the cold, crisp air in the parking lot. Adam’s eyes need a moment to adjust.

Mr. C is tending bar.

“Where’s Polly?”

“She wasn’t expecting you tonight, Adam.”

“I wanted to surprise her.”

“Oh, I think we have a gift of the magic here,” says Mr. C, mangling the name of the old O. Henry story. “Polly asked for today off, for a mystery errand. I assume it’s for you. The—the thing she was making for you, it’s not coming out so good. She said there was something she needed to pick up in Baltimore and she took the bus. But you weren’t supposed to be here until early Sunday, I thought.”

“I was trying to surprise her,” Adam mutters, taking a stool. Might as well have a beer or two.

“Like I said, gift of the magic.”

He doesn’t have the heart to correct Mr. C’s repeated malapropism, explain that the story is correctly called “The Gift of the Magi,” and that it’s more than two people trying to surprise each other. It’s the catch-22 of gift-giving. It’s also another one of those Christmas stories that everyone thinks is so nice when it’s depressing as hell. Two desperately poor people try to do something nice for each other as Christmas approaches, sacrificing their most cherished possessions. The woman’s hair may grow back, but it will never be quite the same. Women’s hair never is after they cut it. And what do you do with a watch fob when you don’t have a watch?

What do you do with an engagement ring when you don’t have your girl?

“When did she say she was coming back?” Adam asks.

“She didn’t. Doesn’t matter, because she asked for today and tomorrow off and we’re closed Christmas Eve and Christmas.”

“She didn’t tell me she was off.”

Mr. C clapped a hand to his mouth. “Maybe that’s part of the secret.”

Adam goes to her garage apartment, soon to be theirs. Senseless to expect her as no buses run this late, but he keeps hoping she’ll slide in next to him. But she doesn’t come home that night.

Or the next day.

Or that night.

When Saturday, December 23, dawns, and there’s still no sign of her, Adam can’t stop lying to himself. Something is wrong, terribly wrong, and there’s only one person who can assure him that Polly is okay.

44

“Merry Christmas,” Irving says to Adam over the low partition at city jail.

“Don’t be funny,” Adam says.

“What a sad world this is when even a polite greeting is suspect. I’m glad to see you, if surprised by the timing. I guess it’s a good thing that my lawyer listed you as one of the firm’s employees. Can’t have been easy, getting in here on the Saturday before Christmas.”

“A friendly judge made it happen. Your lawyer’s very well connected.”

“I would hope so,” Irving says. “My legal affairs are not a place to cut corners. I always hire the best. Or try.”

Lowenstein looks terrible, at least ten years older than he did when Adam last saw him face-to-face, which was in June. The orange jumpsuit is unkind to most complexions, but Irving looks particularly haggard. The blood vessels in his face are more prominent, his eyes rheumy like an old dog’s. He has a cold, but no handkerchief, and keeps honking into the crook of his elbow. His cough is syrupy, almost a gurgle.

“You’ve been trying to talk to me since you were arrested. Why?”

“I had information that I thought you should have.”

“About Polly? Is someone still after Polly? Are you still trying to kill her?”

Irving needs a beat. “It’s funny, I still think of her as Pauline. But then, in my head, she still has short blond hair and is a little overweight. Zaftig is the better word. It’s Yiddish, it means—”

“I know what zaftig means.”

“They say almost no one can maintain a significant weight loss. But she has, hasn’t she? Still skinny almost five years out. Maybe prison can be a kind of spa, if you treat it right. I can look forward to that at least. If I’m convicted.”

“You’ll be convicted.”

Adam waits for Irving to contradict him. Does the case against Irving rely on Polly’s testimony? It occurs to Adam that he hasn’t really thought too much about the evidence against Irving, what the cops have. If Polly is the key witness and Polly is missing—