43

LATER THAT EVENING, Tom was banging on a door in a fleabag hotel just off the Bowery, where the rumble of the El was enough to stir a cup of coffee and the two-legged tenants were badly outnumbered by the four-and six-legged varieties. His driver, Pete Riordan, had told him about the man he’d seen with Ginny at the Triangle factory, a man he recognized from his days on the force, a pimp he’d arrested years before and whose name finally came to him.

“Go away,” a man’s voice called from somewhere inside.

“Police, Carl. Open up! I need to ask you a couple questions!” Tom shouted through the door.

“Fer da love o’ Christ, I answered all da goddamn questions—” Carl opened the door at midsentence and never got to finish. The heel of Tom’s hand shot through the gap and broke his nose. He stumbled back and fell at the foot of the bed, where one of his whores lay. She sat up when Tom came in. She was naked, but made no attempt to cover up and she didn’t shout like Carl, who was holding his nose as if it might fall off.

“Hands where I can see ’em if you don’t mind, ma’am.”

The whore gave a little smile and put her hands on her breasts, massaging the nipples. “This okay?”

Tom grinned. “Just fine. Keep ’em there.” Carl tried to get up, but Tom stomped on one leg and he stayed put.

“You broke my fucking nose!”

“Could be worse, Carl,” Tom said. “Hell, I ain’t even mad at you yet.” He glanced at the whore, who hadn’t stopped kneading her breasts and seemed to be enjoying the show. “You listening?” he asked Carl, who’d started moaning. “Virginia Caldwell, was she working for you?”

“No! Okay? She wasn’t workin’ fer me. Would’ve if I had more time ta work on ’er. But I ain’t no grabber, see, no white slaver or nothin’. My girls love me. I don’ need ta work ’em over or nothin.”

“Okay. I get the picture. Where’d you meet Miss Caldwell?”

“Triangle factory,” Carl said. “Place is full o’ girls workin’ like dogs. Lots o’ mugs work da place, steerers, grabbers, you name it. Me, I like da easy way. Everybody happy, makin’ money.”

“Yeah, you’re a real prince, Carl,” Tom said, making the woman giggle. “You okay, ma’am?” he said to her in such a way as to make it clear that she could leave with him and escape Carl if she chose.

Her eyes clouded for an instant before she picked up her chin and said, “Carl’s good to me.”

*   *   *

Ginny visited Esther that evening after leaving Mike. She’d promised to visit as soon as she left Mike. Esther had talked about her children so often that Ginny almost felt she knew them. They were every bit as endearing as Esther’s words had made them out to be. Esther’s children, Emily and Josh, came running into the room and hugged her. They’d been playing and doing homework in their bedroom. Emily was a bright and cheerful child of eleven. Josh, who was just finishing kindergarten, seemed to spend most of his time knocking things over and running into walls.

“How you feelin,’ Ginny,” Esther said. “You look like a million bucks! Toin aroun’ fer me,” she commanded, admiring her new dress. Esther clucked her admiration, but noticed something off in Ginny. Maybe it was her smile or perhaps the way she’d held her hand to her waist as she turned. “But you’re down a bit honey, right? Somethin’ not right?”

Ginny shrugged off Esther’s question and launched into how Mike was making amazing progress, how he’d started walking stairs, and by that night had actually run up a flight just to show her he could. But Esther could see there was worry in Ginny’s voice.

“Ain’t that something?” she said. “Ain’t it wonderful what that modern medicine can do? But you gotta not worry so,” Esther said with a look of concern. Esther bustled about the kitchen, lighting the stove and putting a kettle of water on top. Ginny let her buzz without moving. An inexplicable worry had crept into her consciousness earlier in the day and would not let her go. Like a leech, it sucked at her happiness, feeding her doubts. Ginny was so consumed by it that she could hardly put her fears into words, but Esther had no such trouble.

“This thing, it’s about the best thing ever ain’t it, sweetie? I mean dreamin’ about this is all you’ve been doin’ an’ now when you got it, it’s like maybe it’s too real to last, huh?” Ginny shrugged. That was close to how she felt, but not quite it. “Afraid of losin’ him? Afraid when he’s better he won’t need ya?”

“Maybe,” Ginny allowed. Everything had been so good, so perfect these last days; Mike recovering so quickly, Mary treating her like a daughter. It couldn’t last she reasoned. Nothing that good could.

“Maybe,” Esther said with a cluck of her tongue. “Da woild is full o’ maybes, sweetie. Every day ya got a ton of ’em, an’ ya neva know which way they’ll go. Your Mike, I got a feelin’ he’s no maybe.”