“For living in Brooklyn?” It was true that the splendid brownstones of Park Slope had become rundown in the fifties, and most of the respectable folk had moved out. But in the sixties, a renewal had been under way. All kinds of people had moved into the area, many of them people who wanted to restore the houses for their own sake. The private-school kids probably didn’t live there, but all the same … “I was brought up on Staten Island,” Gorham said.

“Nice place. Brooklyn wasn’t the problem, though.”

“You were on scholarship? They were mean to you because you weren’t rich? That’s despicable.”

“No—as a matter of fact, we weren’t short of money at all. My father began his life as a bricklayer, and my mother’s family ran a delicatessen. But then my father received a legacy from his uncle and became a developer. Small-time stuff—he bought up Brooklyn houses, restored them and sold them—but he did pretty well.” Dr. Caruso paused. “No, the problem was nothing subtle. It was because I was Italian. Simple as that. Italian name. Dirt.” He shrugged. “Now I’m their obstetrician.”

“I hope you charge them top dollar,” said Gorham drily.

“I live well. Actually, my son just started at private school, and he has no trouble at all.”

Ethnic was fashionable nowadays, Gorham thought, and he was glad of it. He’d heard of Jewish families, for instance, people who’d anglicized their East European names a generation ago, recently deciding to return to the original ones. Attitudes were changing. His own blue-blood name only gave him pleasure because it was honestly derived, from historical roots. At least, that’s what he told himself. “My view of ancestry is strictly postmodern,” he liked to pronounce at dinner parties. “A harmless ornament, to be shared with one’s friends.” That was pretty good, he thought.

And was Caruso any relation of the famous tenor? he’d asked. The obstetrician’s intelligent face was not unlike pictures of the great singer.

“Who knows?” said Dr. Caruso. “Way back, perhaps. My family knew him—they were very proud of that—and he always told them we were related.” He smiled. “Caruso was a man of great kindness, you understand.”

Gorham Master was glad that Dr. Caruso would be delivering his son.

He grabbed Maggie’s bag, told Bella to stay in the apartment in case they had to call her for anything, and took the elevator down to the lobby. The doorman hailed a taxi.

It wasn’t a long journey. Across to Madison, then straight up to 101st, over to Fifth Avenue and you were at Mount Sinai Hospital. Dr. Caruso would meet them there.

The taxi driver went three blocks up Park before turning left. Only a block to Madison. Then he stopped.

“Is there a problem?”

“Yes. Problem.” A heavy Russian accent. “Truck. He don’t move.”