was nearly ten minutes before she came down dressed in a pearl-gray bolero and a fitted skirt that matched it. He looked up at her slowly from his chair and said, “Who is he, Susan? Anybody I know?”
“No, Chris, nobody you know.”
“Somebody at work?”
She hesitated. She was a travel agent, Benson Tours. “Yes,” she said, “somebody at work.”
“A nice guy?”
“Yes, a nice guy.”
He said, “I suppose I could stick around and meet him. It would be the civilized thing to do.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary, Chris.”
He lifted himself from the chair, working hard to keep his emotions hidden. “I have something for you,” he said and gave her a check he had written out while he was waiting. “It’s for the kids’ schooling next year.”
Her eyes widened when she read the amount, and then she looked at him suspiciously. “Where did you get this much all at once?”
He shrugged his shoulders and gave her a story he knew she found difficult to believe. Had she the time she would have sought a further explanation. Instead she again shot a look at her watch.
“Should I deposit it, or wait?”
“Deposit it,” he said.
• • •
He drove back to the Howard Johnson’s hotel and left the car in the underground garage and then, tightening his overcoat, walked the few blocks to the Combat Zone, where he jockeyed his way through the motley crowd on narrow Washington Street and eyed the gaudy arcades, movie houses, smut shops, and girlie joints. Despite the cold, the air was carnival. Bare-legged prostitutes, some underage, all insensible to the weather, tossed out smiles like peanuts to pigeons. A small band of pimps, tall fur or felt hats a part of their regalia, filed into a lounge as if for a meeting; the last to enter gave Wade a curt glance. Wade went farther up the street and entered a joint he knew Anthony Gardella had a piece of.
It was one of the busiest, perhaps the loudest, with a succession of three circular bars, each with a miniature stage where a young woman gyrated to music too electronic for Wade, too ear-shattering, too crushing to his nerves. Yet he stayed. He found a seat at the second bar and wedged himself in between two black men, who gave him furtive looks without moving their heads. The stripper noticed his arrival and welcomed it with a sudden thrust. She had milk-white skin and a smattering of stretch marks on an otherwise fine belly. Wade drank bottled beer.
He was on his second bottle when the man on his right picked up his cigarettes and left, which gave him room to relax his shoulders. Twice, from the corner of his eye, he spotted someone from the Gardella organization. Their pictures were among those in a file Thurston had given him. Mostly they were watching the tills, occasionally the strippers. He retracted an elbow when a young black woman perched herself on the vacated chair and smiled at him through gilded eyelids and dangling cornrow braids. She said something he couldn’t hear over the music. Then suddenly her breath was in his ear. “Hey, you a cop? People here saying you’re a cop.”
He leaned toward her. “Yes, I’m a cop, but don’t worry about it. I’m here to relax. Buy you a drink?”
“Sure,” she said and touched his hand by way of thanks, her nails sparkling. “But we can’t hear each other here. Why don’t we go to a booth?”
His beer bottle was only half-empty, and he took it with him. She led the way into almost total darkness. Though it was impossible to see, the booths all seemed occupied, but she found one free down at the end and stepped aside for him to slip in first. Then she crowded in on the same side as he sat at an angle, his back to the wall. He could not see her face, only her eyes and teeth.
“We’ll wait a second, okay?”
“Wait for what?” he asked as someone leaned into the booth. A full bottle was deposited near his half-empty one. He knew it was there by touching it, and he knew something was
“No, Chris, nobody you know.”
“Somebody at work?”
She hesitated. She was a travel agent, Benson Tours. “Yes,” she said, “somebody at work.”
“A nice guy?”
“Yes, a nice guy.”
He said, “I suppose I could stick around and meet him. It would be the civilized thing to do.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary, Chris.”
He lifted himself from the chair, working hard to keep his emotions hidden. “I have something for you,” he said and gave her a check he had written out while he was waiting. “It’s for the kids’ schooling next year.”
Her eyes widened when she read the amount, and then she looked at him suspiciously. “Where did you get this much all at once?”
He shrugged his shoulders and gave her a story he knew she found difficult to believe. Had she the time she would have sought a further explanation. Instead she again shot a look at her watch.
“Should I deposit it, or wait?”
“Deposit it,” he said.
• • •
He drove back to the Howard Johnson’s hotel and left the car in the underground garage and then, tightening his overcoat, walked the few blocks to the Combat Zone, where he jockeyed his way through the motley crowd on narrow Washington Street and eyed the gaudy arcades, movie houses, smut shops, and girlie joints. Despite the cold, the air was carnival. Bare-legged prostitutes, some underage, all insensible to the weather, tossed out smiles like peanuts to pigeons. A small band of pimps, tall fur or felt hats a part of their regalia, filed into a lounge as if for a meeting; the last to enter gave Wade a curt glance. Wade went farther up the street and entered a joint he knew Anthony Gardella had a piece of.
It was one of the busiest, perhaps the loudest, with a succession of three circular bars, each with a miniature stage where a young woman gyrated to music too electronic for Wade, too ear-shattering, too crushing to his nerves. Yet he stayed. He found a seat at the second bar and wedged himself in between two black men, who gave him furtive looks without moving their heads. The stripper noticed his arrival and welcomed it with a sudden thrust. She had milk-white skin and a smattering of stretch marks on an otherwise fine belly. Wade drank bottled beer.
He was on his second bottle when the man on his right picked up his cigarettes and left, which gave him room to relax his shoulders. Twice, from the corner of his eye, he spotted someone from the Gardella organization. Their pictures were among those in a file Thurston had given him. Mostly they were watching the tills, occasionally the strippers. He retracted an elbow when a young black woman perched herself on the vacated chair and smiled at him through gilded eyelids and dangling cornrow braids. She said something he couldn’t hear over the music. Then suddenly her breath was in his ear. “Hey, you a cop? People here saying you’re a cop.”
He leaned toward her. “Yes, I’m a cop, but don’t worry about it. I’m here to relax. Buy you a drink?”
“Sure,” she said and touched his hand by way of thanks, her nails sparkling. “But we can’t hear each other here. Why don’t we go to a booth?”
His beer bottle was only half-empty, and he took it with him. She led the way into almost total darkness. Though it was impossible to see, the booths all seemed occupied, but she found one free down at the end and stepped aside for him to slip in first. Then she crowded in on the same side as he sat at an angle, his back to the wall. He could not see her face, only her eyes and teeth.
“We’ll wait a second, okay?”
“Wait for what?” he asked as someone leaned into the booth. A full bottle was deposited near his half-empty one. He knew it was there by touching it, and he knew something was
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