IT WAS NEARLY ONE WHEN SHE FINALLY GOT BACK TO HER room. She was relieved to find that Pep wasn’t there since she was determined to pack up and leave this place. She took her suitcase out of the closet and quickly began to pack.

She felt unclean, humiliated, degraded. Despite all her efforts to put her mind elsewhere as Albert abused her, she could not ignore the images of her degradation. Worse, she had performed her indignities by acting as if she was enjoying them. Such weakness in herself disgusted her. But she was genuinely frightened, terrorized by the thought of being maimed, or worse, if she didn’t comply to his wishes.

Whatever illusions she had had concerning the type of man Pep was, they were shattered by this experience. His looks belied his true self. Inside the handsome package of a man was a ruthless maniac. There was no way to rationalize her predicament. She had made her own bed out of false fantasies and hollow dreams. She was a fool and she deserved her punishment.

“You take good care a Albert, Mutzie,” he told her. “You do dat fuh ole Pep.”

She had nodded consent, even forced a smile, then Albert had taken her arm and brought her to his room. Once inside, she tried to imagine that she was elsewhere, that she wasn’t the real Mutzie. The woman in this room was someone else, a robot wearing her clothes. Unfortunately, her imagination couldn’t stretch that far. This was simply an act of self-preservation, of survival. She had no illusions about what would happen to her if she disobeyed Pep. It was too horrible to contemplate. She steeled herself to get it over with as quickly as possible. Make believe it’s a movie, she told herself.

Unfortunately, Albert’s sexual appetite was not easily appeased. She had hoped to get it over quickly, but his reactions were slower than Pep’s. It was awful, the most awful thing she had ever experienced in her life. She felt like a piece of dirt.

After a couple of hours, Albert had dozed and she had risen from the bed to get dressed. She had barely stood up when he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back.

“Where da fuck ya tink ya going?” he shouted.

She started to answer, but he silenced her by pushing her face on his semi-erect penis.

“We ain’t finished yet.”

When he was finally satiated, he told her she was free to go and put a hundred dollars in her hand.

“Getchaself a nice dress, Mutz,” he told her. “Ya been a good fuck. I’m gonna tell Pep.”

Suddenly, as if a bell had wrung in her head, she decided that it was time to go, to escape. She would run, whatever the consequences. She had reached rock bottom, some netherworld run by the devil, a sick, primitive place. She vowed to fight her way back to civilization.

When Albert left, she went back to her room and packed some clothes, leaving everything in the closet that Pep had given her. She hated the sight of those things. There was no point in crying, she told herself defiantly. Then she illustrated this defiance by taking the hundred dollars that Albert had given her and flushing it down the toilet.

What she needed most now was strength, determination and courage. And speed. She had to get out of here and she knew it wasn’t going to be as simple as it sounded. Where could she go at this hour? Back to Brownsville? Running out on Pep offered a very unhealthy prospect. Suddenly she thought of Mickey. He had tried to help her and nearly gotten himself hurt for doing so.

Suddenly the issue became moot. She heard Pep’s voice in the corridor. He was saying goodbye to Reles. Both men were laughing. She closed the suitcase and put it in the closet, then removed her clothes and got into bed, pretending to be asleep.

“All ovah oily,” Pep said, putting on the light. She kept her eyes closed. Sitting down on the bed beside her he slapped her face to wake her. It was pointless to keep her eyes closed after that.

“Albert like what he got?” Pep asked.

“He didn’t complain.”

“Ya did good, Mutzie,” Pep said patting her arm. “I got real big plans faw you.”

“What sort of plans?” Mutzie asked.

“We gonna see Gloria tomorrow.”

“Gloria?” She had met Gloria briefly and knew what she did. A stab of fear shot through her.

“Hell, Mutzie. What ya got ya can sell. You wanna be a schleper all ya life?”

She sat up in bed. Under the covers, her body trembled.

“How can you do this to me, Pep?” she asked, feeling the tremor in her throat. She seemed barely able to get the words out.

“Cheez. I’m given ya a chance ta make some real moolah. Ya should be grateful ta ole Pep. I give ya a vacation here in da mountains. I buy ya tings. I treat ya like a fuckin princess. What I do ta ya, Mutzie?” His anger seemed to be accelerating. “Hell, I give ya an opportunity, ya spit in Pep’s face.” He got up off the bed and went to the bathroom.

“I can’t do it, Pep,” she whispered when he came back. No matter what, she had decided, there was no way she could do “that.”

“Ye did it wid Albert. Dat hoitcha?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “It did.”

The remark triggered his anger and he ripped away the covers. She was naked. She felt deceived and vulnerable.

“I don see no scars,” he said, grabbing her by the neck just under the chin and lifting her. She gasped, unable to breathe. “But if you wanna see scars, I can make em.” Suddenly a knife had materialized in his hand. He pressed the point against her breast. “Maybe we chop off a nipple. Give ya a little remembrance from ole Pep.”

She felt the cold steel against her breast. A nausea seemed to take hold of her and she gagged.

“Please, Pep. I’ve got to throw up.”

His sense of fastidiousness made him jump away and she ran to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet. She felt totally dehumanized and helpless, like a caged animal whose rear legs had been tied together. Flushing the toilet, she watched the swirling water and wondered if she could drown herself in it. There seemed no point to living. If this was real life, she hated it, hated herself for allowing this to happen. Most of all she hated Pep and wished he would die. She searched her heart for the full impact of her hatred. She longed for the courage to kill him.

She stayed in the bathroom a long time and when she came out he was asleep. He lay on his back, his lips slightly parted. Even in sleep he was handsome. He looked so peaceful, so benign. Seeing him this way, it was incredible that he could be so cruel. Beside him on the night table was the knife he had threatened her with. All it would take was to find the courage to pick it up and plunge it into his heart.

But she couldn’t. Even if it meant survival. It was too foreign to her nature. Violence, she supposed, was not a woman’s thing. A pity, she thought. Pep deserved to die. He was corrupt, evil. If the situation was reversed, he would kill her without batting an eye.

Of one thing she was certain. She had to get away from him. But how? Where would she go? They had informers, contacts. Where could she hide? And if they found her? She moved to the window and looked out over the expanse of lawn to the peaceful lake, moonlight spangling its surface.

The sight calmed her. Above all, she needed to think this through. Perhaps, after awhile, they would forget about her, lose interest. What was she, anyway? Just one of Pep’s whores, a silly romantic who had become entwined, like a fool, in their net.

As she stood there a chill swept her body and her teeth began to chatter. They had seen her as a fly on the wall, unimportant, a nonentity, and they had talked in front of her, said things, although it was difficult now to recall specifics. But they would remember that and wonder what they had said that might incriminate them in some way. It would worry them. They hated loose ends.

Her knees felt weak. She had to think this through without hysteria, without panic. But under no circumstances would she yield to Pep’s wishes, join Gloria’s troop of prostitutes. Oh my God. The idea of it was making her sick again. She turned from the window and tamped down her nausea.

Tomorrow she would find a way out. She had to. There was no choice. She crept into bed beside Pep, her back to him, hoping he would not reach out for her. His touch, she knew, would make her skin crawl.

She slept the dreamless sleep of exhaustion and when she awoke the low rain clouds hung in the air, adding to her sense of gloom. Thankfully, Pep still slept and she was able to crawl out of bed without waking him.

When she thought about her plight in the light of day, she found that a vague plan had surfaced in her mind. One thing was certain. She did not wish to spend another moment with these people, especially Pep. Remembering that she had flushed the hundred dollars bill that Albert had given her, she rebuked herself for her lack of foresight. Emotion was one thing. Survival another.

Dressing in slacks and a sweater with extra underwear stuffed in her pocketbook, she put a brush through her hair and let herself out of the room. She wished to take nothing that would provide her any memories of this episode in her life. At that point, she told herself, she sincerely hoped she had a life.

There were a few people in the corridor, mostly chambermaids. The Reles boy ran up and down the back stairs bouncing a ball. He was a miniature version of his father with the same cruel, burning agate eyes and shuffling walk.

“Pep’s coorva. Pep’s coorva,” the boy chanted as he stopped to look at her.

The derisive phrase triggered a burst of anger and she grabbed the boy and twisted an ear. He cried out in pain.

“You’re a little snot-nose like your stinking father,” she hissed. The boy looked at her with hatred.

“I tell my mudder and fadder on you, coorva.”

She let go of him and hurried down the back stairs. Now that was dumb, she told herself.

When she arrived in the lobby the dining room had just opened and the breakfast smells of freshly baked bread and cake wafted through the air. She knew where Mickey would be at this hour. He would be conducting the obligatory pre-breakfast Simon Sez routine on the lawn to those intrepid early risers who enjoyed the bracing morning air.

Owing to the threatening weather, there were only ten people in the group when she arrived and Mickey was just getting started. It would be fatal, she knew, to show or accept any sign of confidentiality between them. Mickey’s face brightened when he saw her slip into the back row.

“Simon Sez do this,” Mickey said raising his arms skyward. The group followed. The object of the game was to ape the leaders actions only when he said “Simon Sez.” Mickey watched her, his eyes locking into hers. Help me, she said with her eyes, hoping he would understand her plea.

“Simon Sez hands on hips,” Mickey said. The group followed. “Simon Sez hands on heads. Simon Sez hands on shoulders. And straight out.”

“You, you, you,” Mickey said, pointing to three people who had moved to the wrong command. Mutzie had hesitated, then executed the correct action.

The group fell away by half, then by a quarter more. Then there were only three players left. She was concentrating, determined to stay until the end. Those disqualified from the game meandered toward the dining room, perhaps thinking that they had done their healthful daily dozen for the day.

“Simon Sez do this,” Mickey said. “Do this.” She moved slightly but he did not cite her as disqualified. Had he sensed her plea? She wasn’t sure. “Simon Sez do this.” He did a jumping windmill maneuver. “And this.” He did a scissors maneuver which eliminated everyone but Mutzie. A good omen, she decided, as she moved toward the lake.

“Winner and new champion,” he said. Those who remained as spectators applauded and he went over to give her the traditional winner’s hug.

“Got to see you privately,” she whispered.

“The boathouse,” he replied.

She moved toward the boathouse and Mickey followed at a distance.

When she got to the boathouse, which was deserted at this hour, she quickly ducked through the door and stood waiting for him on one of the planks that served as the storage dock for the sailboats.

“I got troubles, Mickey,” Mutzie whispered.

“I know,” he nodded.

“No, you don’t,” she responded, thinking that he couldn’t possibly know the extent of her problems. Suddenly, she felt afflicted by the idea that she was taking advantage of what she sensed were his feelings for her.

“That was me last night on the porch. I heard. I knew what was happening.”

Suddenly, she was ashamed. She looked into his eyes, saw their devotion and it frightened her.

“I can’t be here any more, Mickey. I don’t know where to turn. I need help.”

“Try me,” Mickey said.

“I have no right to get you involved.”

“I already am, Mutzie,” he said, his eyes searching her face.

“You don’t know what they can do,”

“Yes, I do,” he said. It puzzled her. “Trust me. Let me help.”

She hesitated, wondering how much he really knew and how much she needed to tell him.

“I have to get away from him,” she said. The words came out like a confession.

“I could never understand how you got involved with that man in the first place,” Mickey said. He spoke the words gently, but they still came out as a rebuke. “He’s …” He seemed to stop short as if he were waiting to complete the sentence.

“I know what he is, Mickey,” Mutzie sighed. “And I know what he can do to me.” Images of her potential fate filled her mind, increasing the trembling. She saw her face and body puckered with acid burns. She saw herself moving slowly on crutches, her legs broken and useless. She saw herself garroted, flung into a lake, her legs encased in cement. Then she saw herself with her throat cut, the blood soaking her clothes, her eyes open in a fixed death stare.

“What is it?” Mickey said.

She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She was petrified with her own fear.

“I don’t know what to do,” she sobbed, leaning against him, feeling herself enveloped in his arms. “He wants to …” She swallowed with difficulty, then suddenly the words rushed out and she told him about Pep’s plans for her, about Gloria. It was a full confession and it calmed her, although it did not fully chase away her fear.

“I’d rather die than have that happen to me,” Mutzie said. “And I feel ashamed and disgraced.”

“You aren’t in my eyes, Mutzie,” Mickey said.

“I don’t even know if it’s possible to hide from them. I’m sure I can’t go home. That’s the first place they’ll look. So where could I go? Who can I trust? I’m just a sad, dumb, gullible girl.” She thought suddenly of her fantasy life, her making herself over to look like Jean Harlow. Did Jean Harlow confront such horror in real life? She doubted that.

“But why would they want to harm you?” Mickey asked.

“Pep said he would, said that he had done it to other girls who didn’t do what he said.”

“Maybe he was just scaring you,” Mickey said.

“Well, he certainly succeeded. Besides, you don’t know them like I do. They do harm people, Mickey. They really do.”

“I know,” Mickey sighed. He paused, looked deeply into her eyes and patted her hair. “But please, Mutzie. Be strong. We’ll find a way …” His voice trailed off.

“A way?” she asked eagerly, finding a ray of hope in his words.

“To get them,” Mickey said. His tentative look belittled his pose of determination.

“Get them?” Mutzie said. “That’s impossible. They control things. They have politicians and cops on their payroll. Nobody gets them. Except maybe …” She paused. “Each other.”

“They worry about certain things,” Mickey said. He nodded as if agreeing with some idea that had just occurred to him. “Yes. Certain things.”

“Like what?” she asked.

“Not what but who.”

“Who?”

“A third party who corroborates a crime,” he said, his voice lowering an octave, as if someone in the empty boathouse might hear. He explained it to her.

“You mean a witness,” she offered, still not understanding what he was talking about. The idea sent a chill through her. They had talked in front of her, described crimes. Some had even criticized her being around. But Pep had vouched for her. It occurred to her suddenly that they might think she knew too much. “Oh my God,” she cried, putting a hand over her mouth.

“What is it?”

“I heard things.”

“What things?”

“I’m not sure. I can’t remember. But if they think I can, then I’m in deeper trouble than I thought. Pep would have to …”

“Please, Mutzie. We have to think things out,” Mickey said. He looked at her but said nothing. She could tell he was trying to come up with a plan, a course of action. She felt a sense of hopelessness and guilt, guilt that she had gotten Mickey involved. After a long silence, he nodded his head in the affirmative as if an idea had occurred to him. For a moment she surrendered to optimism.

“We’re going to witness a killing. You and I,” Mickey said.

“What are you talking about?”

“A killing. I overhead them. They are going to kill a man by the name of Gage Monday night.”

“Gagie? Him? He runs Sullivan County for them. Not Gagie. I know him.”

Suddenly the idea of death, of killing, took on an even more sinister aspect, underlining her fear. They were going to kill a man who they considered a friend. If they could do that without a qualm, then surely they could do the same to a her without giving it a second thought.

“I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” Mickey told her. “I remember what they said. Swan Lake. Bernstein’s Apple Orchard. I know where they’re going to dump the body. Monday. Tomorrow night.” He paused and she felt his gaze biting into her. “We’re gonna watch it.”

She felt a bubble of hysteria start somewhere deep inside of her. She seemed to track it in her mind as it grew and spread and burst into a kind of joyous laughter.

“Are you crazy, Mickey?”

“All tumlers are crazy,” he said.

“You think they’ll let us walk around if we tell the police that we saw them do that?” She hoped that he would interpret it as ridicule.

“They’ll have to protect us, won’t they?” Mickey said. He didn’t seem particularly sure on that point.

“I told you. They own the police,” Mutzie said.

“Maybe not all of them,” Mickey shrugged.

She watched him for a long moment.

“This is a tumler’s joke, right?” she said.

“I gotta believe there are some good people out there, Mutzie,” Mickey said.

“Worse yet.” She looked to the far end of the boathouse as if talking to someone. “Is this one an idealist or just a cooney lemel, an idiot?”

“That I can answer someday,” Mickey shot back. She could tell it was a tumler line. “Not like the question that can never be answered with a yes.”

“Like what?” she asked, playing her role.

“Are you asleep?”

“Not so funny,” she said. “But funnier than your suggestion.”

“You came to me for help,” Mickey said. “So that’s my help. This way maybe you’ve got a chance. Otherwise, if they’re as powerful as you say they are, you’ll spend your life running. That’s a life?”

Of course, from her point of view, there was some logic in his argument. But from when she looked at it from his point of view, there was no logic in it at all. He would be jeopardizing his life for a perfect stranger. It was unfair and foolhardy. Maybe, of all the alternatives for her, the best would be go back to Pep, become one of Gloria’s girls. What difference did it make? Her dignity had all but been destroyed, her dreams and illusions exploded, her body corrupted. In a few short months she had taken a roller coaster ride from elation to despair. Her mother was right. She should have married Henry, lived a safe, normal, conventional life. Her eyes filled with tears and Mickey embraced her.

“I’m not going to let you do this, Mickey,” she said when she had calmed down.

“You got a better idea?”

“I’m going back.”

She extricated herself from his arms and started to move along the indoor dock to the boathouse entrance.

“You want to throw your life away,” Mickey shouted. “Okay by me.”

“It’s not your business,” she said, turning to face him. He had not come after her, but stood instead beside one of the sailboats listing slightly in the lake’s gentle swell.

“It is now,” he called. “You came to me.”

“It was a mistake,” she cried back at him.

“Not for me,” Mickey said. “I’m doing this for me.”

“That’s because you’re stupid. A strange girl … a gun moll, that’s what I am. Let’s call a spade a spade. She bats her eyes at you and suddenly you’re a regular Romeo. Well, I’m no Juliet.”

“Let me be the judge,” he said.

His response was oddly comforting.

“You’re a schmo. Not a Romeo.”

He laughed. “A regular rhymer. You want my job. The first girl tumler in the Catskills.”

“Believe me, they see you with me, you won’t have your job long anyway.”

Yet she knew that her actions belied her intentions. He was right. It was no life. She would rather die than follow such a path. She started to move again, then stopped and called back to him. They traded glances for a long moment.

“You would be wasting your time with me,” she said.

“So,” he replied. “It’s my funeral.”

“For once you’re right, tumler,” she said, moving toward him again. Hers, too, she thought.