“Friends,” Brother Anthony said.
“Friends? Who? What friends?”
“Please open the door,” he said.
“Go away,” Judite said.
“It’s important that we speak to you,” Emma said.
“Who are you?”
“Open the door just a little,” Emma said, “and you’ll see for yourself.”
They heard lock tumblers falling. One lock, then another. The door opened just a crack, held by a night chain. In the wedge of the open door, they saw a woman’s pale face. A kitchen light burned behind her.
“Dominus vobiscum,” Brother Anthony said.
“We have money for you,” Emma said.
“Money?”
“From Paco.”
“Paco?”
“He said to make sure we gave it to you if anything happened to him.”
“Paco?” Judite said again. She had not seen Paco for at least two months before he was killed. It was Paco who had scarred her breasts, the rotten bastard. Who was this priest in the hallway? Who was this fat woman claiming they had money for her? Money from Paco? Impossible.
“Go away,” she said again.
Emma took a sheaf of bills from her pocketbook, the money remaining from what Brother Anthony had taken from the pool hustler. In the dim hallway light, she saw Judite’s eyes widen.
“For you,” Emma said. “Open the door.”
“If it’s for me, hand it to me,” Judite said. “I don’t need to open the door.”
“Never mind,” Brother Anthony said, and put his hand on Emma’s arm. “She doesn’t want the money.”
“How much money is it?” Judite asked.
“Four hundred dollars,” Emma said.
“And Paco said he wanted me to have it?”
“For what he did to you,” Emma said, lowering her voice and her eyes.
“Just a minute,” Judite said.
The door closed. They heard nothing. Brother Anthony shrugged. Emma returned the shrug. Had their information been wrong? The man who’d told them about Judite was her cousin. He said she’d been living with Paco Lopez before he was killed. He said Paco had burned her breasts with cigarettes. Which was one of the reasons Brother Anthony had suggested they call on her at 1:00 in the morning. It was Brother Anthony’s opinion that no woman allowed herself to be treated brutally unless she was a very frightened woman. One o’clock in the morning should make her even more frightened. But where was she? Where had she gone? They waited. They heard the night chain being removed. The door opened wide. Judite Quadrado stood in the open doorway with a pistol in her fist.
“Come in,” she said, and gestured with the pistol.
Brother Anthony had not expected the pistol. He looked at Emma. Emma said, “No hay necesidad de la pistola,” which Brother Anthony did not understand. Until that moment, in fact, he hadn’t known Emma could speak Spanish.
“Hasta que yo sepa quien es usted,” Judite said, and again gestured with the gun.
“All right,” Emma answered in English. “But only until you know who we are. I don’t like doing favors for a woman with a gun in her hand.”
They went into the apartment. Judite closed and locked the door behind them. They were in a small kitchen. A refrigerator, sink, and stove were on one wall, below a small window that opened onto an areaway. The window was closed and rimed with ice. A table covered with white oilcloth was against the right-angled wall. Two wooden chairs were at the table.
Brother Anthony did not like the look on Judite’s face. She did not look like a frightened woman. She looked like a woman very much in command of the situation. He was thinking they’d made a mistake coming up here. He was thinking they’d lose what was left of the money he’d taken from the pool hustler. He was thinking maybe the ideas he and Emma hatched weren’t always so hot. Judite was perhaps five feet six inches tall, a slender, dark-haired, brown-eyed girl with a nose just a trifle too large for her narrow face. She was wearing a dark blue robe; Brother Anthony figured that was why she’d left them waiting in the hall so long. So she could go put on the robe. And get the gun from wherever she kept it. He did not like the look of the gun. It was steady in her hand. She had used a gun before; he sensed that intuitively. She would not hesitate to use it now. The situation looked extremely bad.
“So,” she said. “Who are you?”
“I’m Brother Anthony,” he said.
“Emma Forbes,” Emma said.
“How did you know Paco?”
“A shame what happened to him,” Emma said.
“How did you know him?” Judite said again.
“We were friends for a long time,” Brother Anthony said. It kept bothering him that she held the gun so steady in her hand. The gun didn’t look like any of the Saturday-night specials he had seen in the neighborhood. This one was at least a .38. This one could put a very nice hole in his cassock.
“If you’re his friends, how come I don’t know you?” Judite said.
“We’ve been away,” Emma said.
“Then how did you get the money, if you’ve been away?”
“Paco left it for us. At the apartment.”
“What apartment?”
“Where we live.”
“He left it for me?”
“He left it for you,” Emma said. “With a note.”
“Where’s the note?”
“Where’s the note, Bro?” Emma said.
“At the apartment,” Brother Anthony said, assuming an attitude of annoyance. “I didn’t know we’d need a note. I didn’t know you needed a note when you came to deliver four hundred dollars to—”
“Give it to me then,” Judite said, and extended her left hand.
“Put away the gun,” Emma said.
“No. First give me the money.”
“Give her the money,” Brother Anthony said. “It’s hers. Paco wanted her to have it.”
Their eyes met. Judite did not notice the glance that passed between them. Emma went to the table and spread the bills in a fan on the oilcloth. Judite turned to pick up the bills and Brother Anthony stepped into her at the same moment, smashing his bunched fist into her nose. Her nose had not looked particularly lovely beforehand, but now it began spouting blood. Brother Anthony had read somewhere that hitting a person in the nose was very painful and also highly effective. The nose bled easily, and blood frightened people. The blood pouring from Judite’s nose caused her to forget all about the pistol in her hand. Brother Anthony seized her wrist, twisted her arm behind her back, and yanked the pistol away from her.
“Okay,” he said.
Judite was holding her hand to her nose. Blood poured from her nose onto her fingers. Emma took a dish towel from where it was lying on the counter and tossed it to her.
“Wipe yourself,” she said.
Judite was whimpering.
“And stop crying. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
Judite didn’t exactly believe this. She had already been hurt. She had made a mistake, opening the door at one in the morning, even with the gun. Now the gun was in the priest’s hand, and the fat woman was picking up the money on the table and stuffing it back into her shoulder bag.
“Wh... what do you want?” Judite said. She was holding the towel to her nose now. The towel was turning red. Her nose hurt; she suspected the priest had broken it.
“Sit down,” Brother Anthony said. He was smiling now that the situation was in his own capable hands.
“Sit down,” Emma repeated.
Judite sat at the table.
“Get me some ice,” she said. “You broke my nose.”
“Get her some ice,” Brother Anthony said.
Emma went to the refrigerator. She took out an ice tray and cracked it open into the sink. Judite handed her the bloodstained towel, and Emma wrapped it around a handful of cubes.