Every surface of the room was painted battleship gray. No windows, the smell of insecticide. The kind of place where the next place might be nowhere. Outside her door, ruined old men glided past, alert to her presence, uncertain of their opportunity. One poured a handful of pennies from palm to palm, another whistled a broken piece of a forgotten tune. Lingering footfalls and inappropriate smiles. Don't talk to anyone, she reminded herself. Just lay low. She did some sit-ups out of boredom, she read the framed fire escape instructions on the back of the door. She looked for a broom in the closet, found only an empty red bucket with fire stenciled on the side. She made her bed, she listened to a man weeping in the next room, she flossed her teeth, she got her period, a relief to her, then washed her underwear in the tiny sink with a bar of soap. Killing time so they can't kill me. Mostly she slept, and the more she slept, the more tired she felt. Once or twice she ventured outside long enough to buy a bag of food and the newspaper. She tried being interested in the editorials but felt too anxious to concentrate. I am nobody, she told herself, I am alone.
After finding the photo of Rick, she'd hurriedly packed a bag, including the black dress, peeked out the front of her apartment building, seen no one, which meant nothing, since she'd seen no one before. At three in the morning it was hard to see who was sitting in the cars along the block. She'd needed to chance it and she had, running along the street until she came to the avenue and hailed a cab. She'd had the driver drop her at the Jim-Jack, where she knocked frantically on the door until the night porter heard her. She bribed him with twenty dollars to let her spend the rest of the night in the storeroom, where she fashioned a bed out of four fifty-pound bags of sugar and lay down, unable to sleep. The next morning, she quit, collected her back pay in cash, $93.56, and took another cab downtown.
She had enough money to live three more days. Her other valuables included Rahul the Freak's cell phone, which she hadn't yet used, and Charlie's business card. What's my goal here? she asked herself. To reach my mother. But she didn't know when her mother would be home. She needed money, soon. How safe was it to get another waitressing job? She hadn't used her real name since leaving prison, and still Tony Verducci's people had found her. She didn't even have enough money for a one-way bus ticket to Florida. Plus, she didn't know if her mother was home. And anyway, her mother's bungalow would now be the first place Tony's guys would look for her. They could be there already.
I'm going crazy here, she thought. I can't just sit around until I have no money. She found the photo of Rick in her bag and examined it again. He looked terrible, but there may have been a flicker of defiance in his face. That was the thing about Rick-he never gave up, never quit, even when he should have. But maybe they'd killed him. Maybe they thought he knew about the boxes she'd taken off the truck on the last job. But of course he didn't. She'd never told him, she'd never told anyone. She looked at the photo one more time and shuddered at the wetness of the wound, at what it would feel like. If they did that to Rick, what would they do to her?
I need Charlie. She just said it. She didn't want to need him, or anybody, but there it was. He was kind and decent and she'd slept with him once and maybe that counted for something. He'd said he wanted to see her when he returned. If she could hold out until then, perhaps she could explain the situation, or part of it, enough so that he would feel for her. She'd ask him for a little money-a loan-so that she could get out of town for a while. He had more than enough. If it was a matter of sleeping with him again, she'd do it and not think anything of it. I like him, she told herself, I really do.
In the meantime, perhaps she could sell Rahul the Freak's cell phone. She'd thrown it in her bag, forgotten about it. She clicked it open, pushed a button. It worked, it was on. Maybe Rahul had not noticed that the phone was missing. Or he really had gone to Germany. Or didn't care that she had it. Or was hoping she'd call him. It was much more difficult to trace a call from a cell phone than from a regular one, she knew. All you could get was the general location of the last call. She lay on the bed and listened to the dial tone. She called the weather. She called information. She called her mother. Again, no answer-but when the machine beeped, she had an idea and said, "Mom, I'm sorry to miss you again. I met a fantastic guy I want to talk to you about. I'm meeting him for lunch at one o'clock today at the restaurant in the SoHo Grand. That's this really cool hotel downtown. I bought this great green dress. I'm kind of nervous and excited. I'll call back after lunch and tell you how it went."
Two hours later, wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap but not a green dress, she stood at the corner of West Broadway and Grand. The hotel was across the street and down the block. This is just a test, she narrated to herself, a test of the emergency phone-tapping system. If somebody was listening in to her mother's line, maybe this would tell her. It didn't have to be the police; probably wasn't, even. Tony had a way of finding phone repairmen who liked to gamble. A big loan, a bad bet, and they lived in his pocket, performing favors.
She pulled her cap down. If she knew Tony's men, they would arrive ahead of time and lurk near the entrance. At a quarter to one a rather nice Lincoln pulled up and two big guys in suits got out. She watched as one of them slipped the doorman some money and jerked his head toward the car. That could be them. Probably. The two men went inside.
She strolled down the street, walked past the car, memorized its license number, picked up a pay phone on the corner, and dialed 911. When the emergency operator answered, she said, "There's a blue Lincoln sedan parked in front of the SoHo Grand Hotel and some guys got something out of the trunk, and I happened to be standing there and I saw a bunch of automatic rifles." She repeated the license number and heard the operator keying in her report. "Automatic weapons in a late-model blue Lincoln Town Car," said Christina. "You should check it out."
She retreated to the cafe across the street and ordered lunch. In a few minutes a police car nudged up and parked next to the Lincoln, trapping it. Two cops got out, started to examine the car. The doorman, no doubt reconsidering his loyalties, jumped forward, motioned to the hotel. One of the cops said something into his radio. Christina stepped out of the cafe and drifted south, back to her hotel.
Her trick with Tony intrigued her, and back in the crummy room she locked the door and wondered what she might do next. I assume he's looking for me, she thought. I need time to maneuver. Even just a day or two to figure something out. Perhaps there was a way to frustrate Tony or distract him. Put him off balance. She stood at the mirror, brushing her hair and thinking, and when she was done thinking, she picked up Rahul the Freak's phone.
Tony was unlisted on Long Island, which was no surprise. She called the Archdiocese of New York, said she was a long-lost cousin of Mrs. Tony Verducci and their aunt was dying, did the church office have a number? Needed to reach her urgently. They looked up Mrs. Verducci. No number, but here's the address. She called up the local fire department, gave Tony's address, and said she smelled gas, please come immediately. Next she dialed the main office of the region's top three cement companies and asked the president's name, saying she represented a new golf club in Locust Valley seeking to recruit members: May we send him an invitation? Got the three names. Next she called up one of the mob restaurants a few blocks away in Little Italy and made a reservation for each man. Said, Please bill it to Tony Verducci, and hung up. She didn't know who was whose enemy but the restaurant's manager would. Next she called the Staten Island offices of Paul Bocca, CPA. She was relaying a message from Tony, she said. The photos of your brother, Rick, came out great. Very sharp. Please call back right away. Wait, which number should we use? asked the secretary. Do you have the right home number? asked Christina. I don't know, let me check. The secretary consulted her records and repeated a number, which Christina wrote down. One of Tony's "public" numbers, probably. Yes, that's right, she said.