She was home.
She leaned back in the tub lazily, a delicious languor seeping through her. The water was covered with sparkling exploding bubbles, and their perfume hung heavily in the air. Slowly she stirred, running her hands down over her body. She could feel the sting of the cheap soap they had used in the Home. Somehow she had never felt clean after using it. It seemed to leave a coarse layer over her skin. But this was different. She could feel her flesh soften in the water.
She pulled a towel from the rack beside the tub and wadded it into a small pillow. Carefully she placed it on the edge of the tub and leaned back on it. It would keep her hair from getting wet, and it made it easier for her to rest. She closed her eyes. It was so good. So good. She was warm and comfortable and safe. No one could tell her what to do. She began to doze slightly. It wasn’t like the time in the Home.
Not at all like the time when the baby was born.
The pains had been intense through most of the morning. At last the nurse had taken her down to the infirmary. The doctor examined her quickly. He nodded to the nurse. “Get her ready. It won’t be long now.”
She stretched out, gasping, on a hard white bed. The nurse began to prepare her for delivery. Finished at last, the nurse covered her with a white sheet and left the room.
She closed her eyes, breathing heavily. She was glad it was almost over. It had seemed so long to carry a sense of shame and violation inside her. There was a rustling sound at the side of the bed and she turned toward it.
The superintendent was standing there, her grey-black hair frosty over her glasses. She held a sheet of paper in her hand. “How are you, Mary?”
She nodded. “Okay, Mrs. Foster.”
“You haven’t told me yet about the baby, Mary.”
She managed a wan smile. There was nothing to tell. In a little while it would be here. She didn’t answer.
“The father, Mary,” Mrs. Foster insisted. “He should be made to pay for the child’s care.”
A pain wrenched through her and she closed her eyes against it. A moment later she turned to the woman. “It doesn’t matter,” she said in a shaking voice. “It never mattered.”
Mrs. Foster shrugged her shoulders and looked down at the sheet of paper. “Okay, Mary. According to this, you want the child placed for adoption.”
Mary nodded.
“You know what it means,” Mrs. Foster said in a cold voice. “You give up all rights to the child. You may never see it or even know who has it. It will be as if it had never been born, as far as you are concerned.”
The girl was silent.
“Did you hear me, Mary?” Mrs. Foster asked.
She nodded.
“You won’t know anything about the child,” the woman said implacably.
Pain turned into anger in Mary’s voice. “I heard you!” she screamed. “I heard you the first time! What do you think I could do about it? Could I take care of it here? Would you let me keep it here?”
“If we knew the father,” Mrs. Foster said stolidly, “we could make him contribute to its care. Then we could keep it in a home for you until you are in a position to claim it.”
“And when will that be?” Mary’s voice was trembling.
“When you have proved that you can support it morally and financially,” the woman answered.
“Who decides that?”
“The courts,” Mrs. Foster replied.
“Then I can’t have it until they say okay. It stays in an orphanage. Right?” Mary said quietly.
Mrs. Foster nodded.
“But this way it gets adopted? It gets home right away?”
Mrs. Foster’s voice was low. “Yes.”
Mary took a deep breath. “That’s the way I want it.” There was a tone of finality in her voice.
“But—” Mrs. Foster’s voice was shaking now.
Pain tore through the girl. It forced her into a half-sitting position on the bed. “That’s the way I want it!” she screamed. “Don’t you see that’s the only chance I can give it?”
The woman turned and left the room and Mary didn’t see her again until three hours later. It was all over then. Mrs. Foster stood near the bed again and looked down at her.
Mary’s face was white and drawn and there were faint beads of perspiriation on her upper lip. Her eyes were shut tight.
“Mary,” Mrs. Foster whispered.
She didn’t move.
“Mary,” the woman said again. “Marja.”
Mary’s eyes opened slowly and the woman could see she hadn’t been asleep.
“You’re all right, Marja,” Mrs. Foster whispered. “And the baby is fine—”
“Don’t tell me!” The girl’s voice was a fierce, harsh sound. “I don’t want to know!”
“But—” The woman hesitated.
Mary’s voice was suddenly weary. She turned her face into the pillow. “Let it go,” she whispered. “It’s bad enough the way it is.”
Mrs. Foster didn’t speak. The common bondage of their sex brought them together. Her hand sought the girl’s hand beneath the thin cover.
Mary turned her face to the woman, her eyes all pupil, deep and black. A faint sense of shock came to the woman. It was as if she were gazing into the bottomless wells of time. She felt the slight pressure of the girl’s fingers as she began to speak.
“It hurt me,” Mary whispered, an echo of pain in her voice. “It hurt me coming out.”
“I know, child,” the woman said gently. “It always hurts.”
“Do yuh, Mrs. Foster?” Mary asked in a wondering voice. And with the next words the woman realised that she didn’t know at all. “It didn’t hurt the way its father hurt me, but the way it hurts you to gain something you know you can’t keep.”
Suddenly the woman understood. The memory of why the girl had come here came into her mind. Her eyes deepened with sympathy behind her glasses. Now she could see all the pain behind the shadows in the girl’s eyes.
They looked deep into each other for a moment, then Mary spoke again. Her voice was very gentle. “Let it go.”
Almost without realisation the woman nodded her acceptance. “Yes, Mary.”
Silently the tears sprang full born to the girl’s eyes and began to roll down her cheeks. She made no sound of crying. There were only the tears chasing each other inexorably to the pillow beneath.
Chapter Three
THE DETECTIVE WAS a slim, polite man. He held the chair for her as she sat down opposite his desk. He studied her for a moment before he walked around the desk to his own seat. This one was born for trouble. There was something about her.
It wasn’t the way she looked. There was no coarseness in her. Even the white-blond hair, which cheapened so many of them because of its artificiality, became her. Probably because it was her own. But her face, her body, the way she walked—everything told you this was a woman. The kind that was made for man.
He glanced at the card before him. Mary Flood. His eyes widened. Now he understood. He looked up at her. “Where are you staying, Miss Flood?”
“Hotel Astor.” Her voice was husky. She took out a cigarette.
Quickly he struck a match and held it for her. He thought he saw a glint of a smile in her dark-brown eyes as she looked over the flame at him. But he could have been wrong. No kid could be that sure of herself on the first visit to the police. It was probably the reflection of the light. “Pretty expensive,” he said.
She drew deeply on the cigarette. “It’s a treat I promised myself,” she answered, as if that explained everything.
He looked down at the card. “Got a job?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’ve only been out two days. I haven’t even looked yet.”
“Don’t you think you should?” he asked gently. “They’re pretty hard to find.”
“I will,” she said.
“You can’t have much money left,” he continued. “I see you bought yourself some new clothes.”
For th
e first time a note of challenge crept into her voice. “It’s my dough. There’s no law against my doin’ what I want with it, is there?”
He shook his head. “No, Miss Flood. We just want to be sure you don’t get into trouble, that’s all. People get into trouble quicker when they’re broke.”
“I’m not broke yet,” she said quickly.
He didn’t answer. He sat there quietly studying her while he lit a cigarette. This girl would have no trouble getting money; her trouble would come from finding too many men willing to give it to her. He waited for her to speak. The one thing they couldn’t stand was the silent treatment.
This one was different. She just sat there watching him, her eyes fixed on his face. After a while he began to feel uncomfortable. It was as if he were the probationer and she the reporting officer. He cleared his throat.
“You know the regulations, Miss Flood,” he said. “They were explained to you up there.”
She nodded.
He repeated them anyway. “You’re to report here once each month. You’re not to consort or associate with anyone with a criminal record. You’re to inform me of any change in your address. You’re to let me know where you’re working when you get a job. You’re not to leave the state unless we give you permission. You’re not allowed to possess firearms or other dangerous weapons—” He stopped in surprise. She was smiling. “Why the amusement, Miss Flood?” he asked.
She got to her feet, a half-smile on her lips, and let the coat fall from her shoulders back onto the chair. It seemed to him as if she had disrobed. “Do you think I need any?” she asked.
He felt his face flush. The laws were damned foolish sometimes. “I’m just reiterating them for your benefit, Miss Flood,” he said testily.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” she said, sitting down again.
“What kind of a job are you looking for, Miss Flood?” he asked. “Maybe we can help you find one.”
She stared at him quizzically. “Do you Know of any?”
He nodded. “Waitress or clerk in some of the larger chain stores.”
“What do they pay?”
“Twelve to fifteen a week.”
“No thanks,” she said dryly.
“What’s the matter with them?” he asked, his annoyance showing plainly in his voice.
She smiled suddenly. “It won’t even pay my rent. I need a job that pays me a lot of money.”
“Not everybody has to live at the Astor,” he said sarcastically.
“I like it,” she said, still smiling. “I spent enough of my life livin’ in dumps. No more.”
“Where you going to get that kind of money?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
“Whoring?” His voice was flat and cold.
Her eyes were wide on his. The smile disappeared from her lips. “Does it pay that well, lieutenant?”
His voice became threatening again. “You’ll get into trouble. Real trouble, not kid stuff. Woman’s prison is a lot different than the Home. You’ll find out.”
“Don’t be too sure, lieutenant,” she said quietly. “I haven’t done anything—yet.”
He got to his feet. “Just make sure you don’t do anything you’ll be sorry for.” He pushed the card across the desk toward her and handed her his fountain pen. “Sign the card.”
She signed it and he picked it up and looked at her signature. “Okay,” he said. “You can go now. But remember what I told you.”
She got to her feet, slipped into her coat, and went to the door. When she had opened it, she looked back at him. There was a teasing smile on her lips. “Thanks for the encouragement, lieutenant.”
He looked at her coldly. “For your information, I’m not a lieutenant. Just keep in touch with us, that’s all.”
“I will,” she said, still smiling. She looked around the small room slowly, then at him. “Maybe some afternoon when things are dull around here, Lieutenant, you’ll feel like killing a little time. Drop in on me. We can talk it up awhile.”
His mouth dropped open, but he couldn’t find any words. His face began to flush.
Her smile grew broader. “You know where I live, lieutenant. Room twelve-oh-four. Just ask the desk clerk to send you on up.”
The door closed behind her before he could find an answer. He stared at the closed door thoughtfully. After a minute he picked up his pencil and made a few notes on her card, then reached for the telephone.
“Get Joker Martin for me,” he said to the answering voice.
A few seconds later the receiver crackled. “Joker?”
The earphone buzzed.
“This is Egan at the 54th Street station. That girl you were lookin’ for just checked in … Yeah … She calls herself Mary now, not Marja … Yeah, same girl … Blond and built … But real poison, she’s not afraid or anything on God’s earth … Thanks, Joker … Glad to do you the favour.”
Chapter Four
JOKER MARTIN LEANED back in his chair and held a match to his cigar. There was a quiet satisfaction in him. The breaks had been right. He had been smart. He had known a year and a half ago that syndication had to come someday. There had been too many killings.
He remembered the time Mike Rafferty had come back to the clubhouse fuming. “Who does that punk think he is?” Iron Mike had growled.
“What punk?” Joker asked.
“Kane. Frank Kane. He calls a meeting up in the hotel. We’re all there. He says from now on we all got territories and nobody jumps the line.”
Martin turned the name over in his mind. He looked up at Mike. “You mean Fenelli’s boy? Where does Silk fit in? Top dog?”
Rafferty shook his head. “No. Kane took over. That’s when I walked out. No punk is goin’ to tell me what to do.”
“How about the others?” Joker asked. “They stay?”
“The chicken-livered bastards!” Iron Mike swore. “They stayed.”
Joker hesitated. “Maybe you should’ve stayed too, Mike.”
“I’ll burn in hell first!” Rafferty swore. “I always run me own business. Nobody’s movin’ in on me.”
“Okay, Mike,” Joker answered.
“I’m goin’ home for dinner,” Mike said. “I’ll see yuh afterwards. We’ll rigger out what to do next.” He turned and stamped out of the room.
Joker waited until the door had closed behind him, then reached for the ’phone. Just as the operator spoke, he heard what sounded like the muffled explosion of a backfiring automobile. He put the telephone down quickly and ran to the window.
A crowd was gathering in the street in front of the clubhouse. He couldn’t see who was lying on the sidewalk because of the people, but he could see the trail of blood running toward the gutter.
Slowly he walked back to the telephone and picked it up. Iron Mike had been right. He would burn in hell first. Joker wondered whether he liked it. He whispered a number to the operator. A voice answered.
“Mr. Kane,” he said in a low, unhurried voice, “this is Joker Martin. No, Iron Mike hasn’t changed his mind. It’s too late. But I just want yuh to know I’m with yuh. A thousand per cent …”
The breaks had been right and he had prospered. It was a long haul from the dance hall and backroom gambling that Iron Mike had first allotted him. And now Kane had given him this territory and no one could move in on him. He was home now, for Kane kept the peace.
But things were going big and he needed help. Not hood help, but brains help, class help. Along with the new division of territory he had picked up Park Avenue all the way up to 81st Street. That was when he had first thought of Ross Drego.
The kid was young and wild, but he was bright. He had gambling sense. Good thing his father had cut him off after the last piece of trouble he had been in. It was six months now since Ross had come to Joker, but the kid was worth all the dough he got. He knew all the Park Avenue and big business trade by their first names. He had grown up with them.
The one thing Joker had to watch was the
kid’s ambition. There were times when it ran away with him. He was in too much of a hurry, he wanted a piece of everything. Joker smiled thoughtfully as he drew on his cigar. He could control Ross, especially now with that new deal that Kane had brought up to the syndicate. It would give Ross something to shoot at and would keep him content until it happened.
He picked up the telephone. His secretary answered. “Is Ross here yet?” he asked.
“He’s on his way in now, Mr. Martin,” she answered.
He put down the ’phone as the door opened and Ross came in. He looked down for a moment at the sheet of paper on the desk, then back at Ross. “Got the dough?” he asked.
Ross nodded. He threw a package on the desk. “Ten grand, Joker. Everything I got.”
Joker opened a desk drawer and dropped the package into it. He took out a stock certificate from the drawer and pushed it back to Ross.
Ross picked it up and looked at it. Angrily he threw it back on the desk. “What the hell are you pulling, Joker?” This is only one share. I thought it was a big deal.”
Joker smiled. “It is.”
“Crap!” Ross exploded. “What the hell is this Blue Sky Development Corporation? I never heard of it!”
“That’s Las Vegas,” Joker answered.
“Las Vegas? Where the hell is that?”
“Nevada,” Joker answered. “It’s goin’ to be the biggest money town in the country. Hotels, gambling, nightclubs. And everything legit.”
“Give me back my dough,” Ross snapped. “If you want me to buy somethin’, sell me a piece of Miami or Reno or—”
“Don’t be a shmuck,” Joker said. “Miami’s wrapped up by the Chicago mobs and the stink is climbing up to the heavens. How long do you think that’ll last? They gotta wrap up. Reno’s a heartbreak city. People won’t go there for a ball. Dandy Phil and Big Frank have locked up New Orleans and that’ll have to close in time. Sun Valley, Palm Springs, n.g. for gambling.”
“So what?” Ross asked. “I know what I’m gettin’ there. Real dough.”
“Yuh’re doin’ better here,” Joker said. “Yuh’re in on the ground floor. We’re buyin’ the town. Real estate an’ all. We’ll make the laws. There’ll be no stink. Everything’ll be legal.”
79 Park Avenue Page 16