Monday, October 7
 

     The young man in the purple stocking cap expertly slipped the metal strip through the window crack and jiggled the lock up.  Now he was inside and working on the steering column.  In a few seconds the car started up, and the silver Buick crept out of its parking spot outside the furniture store whose immense sign promised ¡CREDITO, CREDITO Y MAS CREDITO!
     Cassandra Lopez snorted and turned the tripod-mounted Celestron 20x80 field binoculars a bit to the left.  On the corner, partially hidden by an abandoned, cannibalized van, two kids, about 14, traded cash for little plastic packages.  A tall, nervous-looking young man took the bills and scanned the area.
     "One grand theft auto and two drug sales to minors," said Cassandra, adjusting the left eyepiece.  "Good morning, Newark."  She stepped back, found her coffee cup and drank the rest of the now-cold brew, wondering if the car thief she'd seen was the one who'd stolen her car that summer.  She'd be damned if she'd give them another opportunity.  She took the bus now.
     She went into the still-steamy bathroom, gave her short straight black hair another quick toweling and brushed it back.   She reentered the bedroom and started to shed the terry cloth robe, but stopped and closed the drapes.  She wondered again why most people who live high up never think to close their drapes.
     Hector, as she still called her brother, had bought the binoculars for her two Christmases ago. Whenever he came over, he busied himself behind the eyepieces, looking into the private lives behind the big windows.  Visitors invariably went right to them and spent a while scanning downtown Newark and, on a clear day, Jersey City and, beyond, Manhattan.  On the most golden of days, a bit of Brooklyn appeared on the horizon.
     She had grown accustomed to her view, such as it was: the mean acreage of lower Broadway and the nearby public housing projects, where she'd witnessed a stabbing; the weathered factories along the Passaic River and, on the other side, middle-class Harrison, also staggering under the weight of changing populations; the constant creep of dirty  trains through nearby Broad Street station; the long, articulated buses lurching through the careless traffic.  And then the welcome patches of green that appeared from out of the gray every March to make the tired old city almost young again.
     Drapes closed, she dropped the bathrobe and looked at herself in the full- length mirror on the closet door.  At 37, after a rotten marriage and affairs of varying quality, she had aged well.  Her tan, slim 5'6" body showed lighter patches from the bathing suit she'd worn that summer.  Her legs — her best feature, she thought — still looked long and well shaped.  Her hips could lose a couple pounds, though the guys at work seemed to like the view.  Her waist was holding at 24, and her smallish breasts still stood firmly at attention.  In a silent prayer she begged not to wind up looking like her mother, whose bosom resembled 10 pounds of grapefruit in a five-pound bag.
     Her deepest-brown eyes, ever so slightly crossed,  gave her an eccentric beauty supported by a pretty, straight nose and wide, full lips, the kind women pay plastic surgeons for.  Only a hint of a smile line showed here and there, and serious wrinkles were still in her future.  She could pass for 27 but had never lied about her age.
     She stretched slowly, then reached into the dresser for some underwear.  She was in no rush; an editor at Travel Set, a trade magazine, she had an airline press luncheon in Manhattan at noon — almost three hours away — and she was enjoying the lazy, rainy Monday morning.  As she pulled on a pair of blue cotton panties the telephone chirped.  She could hear the answering machine in the hall click on, then her message: "Hello, you've reached the Lopez residence.  Maybe I'm home, maybe I'm not.  You know the drill."
     After the beep came a pause, then the sound of a man clearing his throat.  "Cassandra?  I guess you're at work.  This is Rom Soriano.  Remember me?  I'm, uh, down the Shore but I'll be passing through Newark, and I thought I'd call."
     Cassandra felt her entire body blush.  She covered her breasts with one arm and reached for the receiver.