“Good night, Ida.”
Good night already, Dominick thought.
“Good night, Lewis,” the woman said.
Click, the room lights going out, the narrow ribbon of light at the bottom of the closet door disappearing. The sound of the bedroom door easing shut. Silence. Dominick waited in the darkness thinking he could’ve been home in bed screwing Virginia, instead of standing here with his neck all cramped up against a shelf. Still, the watch might be worth something.
He waited in the darkness for at least a half hour, hoping the kid would fall asleep fast. At last, he eased the closet door open a crack and listened. He heard the sounds of even breathing from the bed. He opened the door a bit wider, listened for another five minutes, and then decided to chance it. Tiptoeing across the room, he felt along the dresser top and picked up the watch without even looking at it. He was out the window in a wink, laundry bag slung over his left shoulder, burglar’s tools clutched tightly in his right hand, the watch safely tucked into one pocket of his blue jeans. He did not look at the watch until he got back to his own apartment at ten minutes to midnight.
Dominick yawned, put the watch back in his pocket, and went to sleep.
12: Freddie
Mario Azzecca’s messenger was a man named Freddie Corriere. He had been summoned to the Sutton Place apartment at nine-thirty, had received his instructions from the lawyer, and had proceeded immediately and promptly to Benny Napkins’ place on Twenty-fourth Street. Neither Benny nor Jeanette Kay was home, so Freddie went downstairs and made a phone call from the booth on the corner, advising Azzecca of the situation and asking for further instructions. Azzecca told him to keep trying even if it took all night.
By twelve-thirty, Freddie had been back to the apartment a total of four additional times. Benny lived on the fifth floor in a building that didn’t have an elevator. Climbing five flights of stairs, up and down, five times in the course of two and a half hours could cause severe thirst in a person. Fortunately, there was a bar on Twenty-fifth Street, so that Freddie could rest in a nice sociable atmosphere between his visits to Benny’s building. By twelve-thirty, he had consumed six scotches plus one bottle of beer. He had ordered another beer, and had promised himself that he would go back to the apartment again at one A.M., as soon as he finished the second beer.
That was when Sarah came into the bar.
Freddie knew Sarah from when she used to work for Bobby Mezzano up on Forty-ninth Street. She was a big tall black girl with a bushy head of hair and bright white teeth, and also very nice breasts. She was wearing a tight-fitting silk jersey dress and, because it was summertime, and also because of the nature of her profession, she didn’t have anything on under the dress. Freddie noticed this at once.
“Hello there, Sarah,” he said, “what brings you here to this part of town?”
“Who’s that?” Sarah asked, and peered into the darkness toward the end of the bar where Freddie sat nursing his beer.
“Me,” he said, “Freddie Corriere.”
“Freddie, hey there,” she said, and walked over. “Buy a girl a drink?”
“Sure,” Freddie said, and snapped his fingers at the bartender. “What’s your pleasure?”
“That’s what I’m supposed to ask,” Sarah said, and laughed.
“Oh,” Freddie said. “Yeah.” He laughed with her. He hadn’t quite caught her little joke, but what the hell. “Anyway,” he said, “what would you like to drink?”
“A vermouth cassis,” Sarah said.
“Yeah?” Freddie said.
“What are you having?” the bartender said, walking over.
“A vermouth cassis,” Sarah repeated.
The bartender looked at her malevolently for a moment, shook his head, and walked away to mix the drink.
“I never had one of those, those vermouth cassises,” Freddie said.
“They’re very nice. You should try one,” Sarah said. “I’ll give you a little sip of mine when it comes. Would you like a little sip of mine?”
“Yeah,” Freddie said, and looked up at the wall clock. It was twenty minutes to one. “Anyway,” he said, “what are you doing down around here? I thought you worked uptown.”
“Where there’s occupation, I occupy myself,” Sarah said.
“Yeah?” Freddie said.
“Yeah,” Sarah said.
“One vermouth cassis,” the bartender said. “Only we ain’t got no cassis, so it’s only vermouth.”
“What’s that, that cassis?” Freddie asked.
“It’s a liqueur,” Sarah said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” the bartender said, “only we ain’t got none.” He looked at Sarah malevolently again, and then went to the other end of the bar to watch television.
“Guess nothing’s gonna go right tonight,” Sarah said, and lifted her glass. “Cheers,” she said.
“Salute,” Freddie said. It was one of the two Italian words he knew. The other one was “Vanapoli,” which was three words in itself, but Freddie didn’t realize that. “Anyway, what else went wrong tonight?” he asked.
“Everything,” Sarah said, and swallowed a gulp of vermouth, and then put down the glass and lighted a cigarette. “I was supposed to meet a guy down here at midnight. He never showed.”
“Yeah?” Freddie said,
“Yeah. Got the room and everything.”
“Yeah?” Freddie said.
“Yeah,” Sarah said.
“I don’t see why nobody would stand you up, Sarah,” he said. “Good-looking girl like you.”
“Well, honey, somebody just did,” Sarah said, and blew out a stream of smoke, and lifted her glass. “It’s a shame, too, because I already paid for the room and all.”
“Yeah?” Freddie said, and looked up at the wall clock again. It was ten minutes to one.
“Yeah,” Sarah said. “Oh well,” she said, and swallowed another gulp of vermouth. “What gets me is the room going to waste all night, that’s what gets me.”
“Where is that room?” Freddie asked.
“On Twenty-first.”
“Yeah?” Freddie said.
“Yeah.”
“That ain’t too far from here.”
“It’s practically around the corner,” Sarah said, and crossed her legs.
“I have to make a delivery on Twenty-fourth and Third,” Freddie said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. But after that, I’m free the rest of the night,” Freddie said. “If I wanted to lay you,” he said subtly, “how much would it cost?”
“Well, I already paid for the room, you know.”
“Yeah, how much is that?”
“Twelve dollars.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“And how much are you?”
“I’m twenty-five.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Sarah said.
“So that comes to an even thirty-eight dollars.”
“Thirty-seven dollars,” Sarah said.
“Twelve and twenty-five,” Freddie said, and added silently in his head. “Right, thirty-seven. That’s not so bad.”
“No, that’s not so bad. Some of the girls are getting a lot more.”
“Yeah?” Freddie said.
“Yeah.”
“Well, listen, would you like to walk me over to Twenty-fourth while I make this delivery, and then we can go over to that room, okay?”
“Sounds good to me,” Sarah said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she said.
Freddie paid for the drinks, and they walked to Twenty-fourth Street, where Sarah waited downstairs for him, and where he again climbed the five flights to Benny Napkins’ apartment. Nobody was home. He went downstairs again, puffing hard. Sarah was leaning against the building, smoking.