Another pause. “Um, where did you hear they were thirty-eights?”
“Gosh, I don’t know. Didn’t they mention it on TV?”
“They were wrong if they did. Twenty-two’s. They thought it was a Mob hit at first. Then everybody’s talking about this little kid. Look, I got to run, Ms. Ciampi. Thanks for your help.”
Marlene mumbled a good-bye. As soon as the phone was down she went to her gun safe. It took her two tries to work the combination. Her vision blurred; her face felt like a bag of blood.
She reached in and pulled out her chromed.22. Oh, you clever child, she thought, stifling the mounting horror. You heard me yelling at Clancy on the phone, you and Hector both, and you put your little heads together, didn’t you? You spied from your window up there and got the combination and then swiped the pistol and gave it to Hector, and then you put your little silver cap pistol in there so it wouldn’t be missed until Hector had a chance to use it. And you remembered what Clancy had said about running on a schedule. He knew just where to find him.
Marlene replaced the cap pistol where she had found it and closed the safe. She took several deep breaths and pinched her cheeks to get the color back into them. Karp and Lucy were at breakfast already, Karp in his ratty plaid bathrobe, unshaven and happy, Lucy neatly got up in her white leather skirt and a shirt with tiny red checks, chatting to her father about something silly. Marlene forced a smile and sat down, poured some coffee.
“I think I’ll take the whole day off,” said Karp. “I think I should get a day off every time I make three quarters of a million dollars.”
Lucy was impressed by the figure. “I could get a pony!”
“Of course, m’dear,” said Karp expansively. “We’ll train it to go down the fire escape, and it can sleep in your bed.”
And more nonsense of the same sort, Marlene dying inside, laughing away.
They stopped at the school. Lucy opened the door to get out, but Marlene stopped her. “Luce, could I ask you something? You tell me the truth, don’t you? I mean, if you did something really bad, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
Lucy did not squirm or avoid Marlene’s gaze, but looked her boldly in the face and replied, “If it was something about you and me, I would. Like if I promised to do something and you asked me did I do it and I didn’t I would tell you.”
“But what if it was, like, a crime? Would you tell me?”
Lucy thought about this for some time. “I would if you asked me and I thought it, well, it wouldn’t hurt anybody.” She hesitated. “But God is the judge of everything, isn’t He? Sister Theresa says, God judges the truth in our hearts.”
Marlene felt a stone rise in her throat; she had made this and would have to live with it. What a rocky path, she thought, and then she said, “Listen! A great man, a priest, said this a long time ago: La falsita non dico mai mai, ma la verita non a ogniuno. It means, I never, never tell a lie, but the truth is not for everyone. Do you understand that?”
Lucy smiled a small Sicilian-Jewish smile. “Of course, Mommy,” she said, and she sang the short Chinese phrase she had used months ago when they had played with the guns. Then Marlene watched her darling little accessory to murder in the first degree run across the pavement into first grade.
And Marlene thought that, yeah, God would judge, judge her and judge Lucy, and she imagined herself arguing at the Throne, probably against a Jesuit, that yeah, it was murder, but here was Clancy, still a hero, instead of a disgraced slimeball, out of a job or in jail, and there’d be an inspector’s funeral and the Emerald Society would play “Flowers of the Forest” on the pipes, and they’d fire a salute and the pale woman would get the flag folded into a blue, starry triangle, plus the pension, plus the insurance, and without a doubt the Department would pass the hat so that little what’s-his-name could stay in the fancy institution, and besides, the son-of-a-bitch deserved it, and let God sort it out, because she, Marlene Ciampi Karp, could not.
“Hector’s back,” said Karp when Marlene returned with Lucy that afternoon. “Really? When?”
“A little past noon. He just walked up the stairs and knocked on the door. I fed him some tuna and he went and sacked out. The poor kid looked beat.”
“Did he say anything about where he was?”
“Oh, yeah! Hector? Hector likes to keep it close. Oh, also, his mom called. We had a nice talk in broken English. I don’t think we should have any trouble getting her settled here. Stupenagel has taken her up.”
Marlene forced a conventional smile. “Oh, that’s nice,” she said. Superconducting magnets were pulling her toward the gun safe.
He had replaced the real pistol, the good boy. She took it out and sniffed the muzzle, which stank of burnt powder. She slipped the thing into her bag and headed for the door.
“Hey, where’re you going?” called Karp.
“Oh, stupid me, I left something I need at the office. I’ll be back in twenty minutes. No, you stay here, Sweety!”
She drove to West Street, to the abandoned pier where gays held parties on summer nights. She walked to the end of the wooden structure, sat down on the edge, and disassembled the pistol. Then she compounded a felony by throwing each piece as far as she could in different directions, there to join generations of other murder weapons on the bed of the slow and stately Hudson.
The next day, Saturday, was the first real hot New York day of the year. Marlene Ciampi was wearing a T-shirt that said Ray’s Pizza, in white on blue. Her daughter was wearing one with the line about a woman needing a man like a fish needs a bicycle, in black on yellow. Behind the daughter trailed a wire cart loaded with soiled laundry, and behind that trailed the huge black dog.
They were walking down Mott Street in Chinatown. The rain of the past week and today’s heat had summoned forth the traditional rich scents of the district-anise, hot oil, rancid meat, rice water, and steam, all on top of that ineffable odor, clean New York. There was a potsy court drawn on the pavement in pink chalk, and Lucy left her cart and picked up a filthy bottle cap from the gutter. She tossed it for a turn of onesies.
Marlene watched Lucy bounce fairy-light through the squares. She looks like a regular kid, she thought, clinging to the hope that this was indeed largely the case, that her offspring was not, in fact, an embryo Duchess of Malfi.
They went into Wing’s Hand Laundry and passed the dirty stuff over the scarred counter, receiving a blue ticket in return and a brown paper package of clean stuff. Marlene paid, and they were about to leave when she had a sudden thought.
“Lucy,” she said, “say your Chinese saying to Mr. Wing.”
“Shen gao huang di yuan,” said Lucy. Middle high high high low.
“Do you know what that means, Mr. Wing?” asked Marlene.
Mr. Wing had to think for a moment, because the saying was in Mandarin and not Cantonese, but it was a familiar saying nonetheless, one he had lived by all his life.
“It means: The mountains are high, and the Emperor is far away,” said Mr. Wing, and then wondered why the white ghost woman with the little girl and the demon dog was laughing until tears sprang from her eyes.