"No. Just asking some more questions."
She rolled her eyes. "You with your questions. Are you just cold, or do you have nothing left in you after Sima?"
"Lydia," Akiva said in a voice part admonishing and part beseeching.
She spread her arms in a show of innocence. "What? What did I say? Get me a drink, will you, Akiva?"
"How many did you have so far tonight?" I asked.
She turned on me, her face red. "What do you care? You're not my father nor my husband. You don't even want to be my client. But that doesn't matter. There are plenty of men who are eager for my company."
"Maybe Adam is right," Akiva said.
"Adam doesn't know anything," she shot back. "That's right, isn't it?" she said to me. "You don't know anything. That's why you're here asking all these questions."
"Maybe you can help me with that. I understand that Miryam began seeing a man three months ago." I described him to her. "Do you remember him?"
"There was someone like that," she said after a moment. "I saw him around with her outside once, and she tried to introduce us, but I said I was in a hurry. I don't know if he was a regular. I never saw him with her again."
"Did you know he was her pimp?" I asked.
"No. She never told me she had a pimp."
"Do you remember his name?"
She scrunched up her face, her cheeks flushed with alcohol. "Something foreign."
"Foreign how? Russian, German, American, Arab?"
"Not Russian," she said, rubbing her temple. "American, I think. I'm not sure. What difference does it make?"
"Try to remember," I said. "It's important."
"What's important is that I get something to drink. Enough with your questions already. Get me a drink, Akiva. I need it. I don't want to make a scene."
It was a little late for that, as some of the other patrons were giving us uncomfortable looks. Akiva must have noticed them, too, because he sighed and poured her a shot.
"Last one, all right?"
"Yeah, yeah," she said, gulping down the drink. She looked at me, and her eyes were bleary with alcohol. "I don't remember his name, okay? I see plenty of men. They all get mixed up in my mind after a while."
With that she staggered off toward a table where two young men were sitting. They smiled when she approached, and one of them lit her cigarette for her.
"Does she always drink like this?" I asked.
"Often, I'm afraid."
"What's her story?"
"Her story?"
"Why did she become a prostitute? She said she had a husband."
Akiva grimaced. "Yes. But he's no catch. He's a bum and more of a drunk than her. They have two children. Twin girls, two years old. He doesn't work, so she has to feed them all by herself. She can make more money by sleeping with men than with any other job she's likely to get. And she gets to spend the day with her girls. I hate to think what will happen when they grow up enough to understand how she makes her living."
"Maybe they'll appreciate the sacrifices she made for them," I said.
"Maybe. Or maybe they'll be ashamed of her. And maybe Lydia will be too drunk to care either way."
I finished my beer and shook my head no when he offered to fill up my glass for me.
"And what about Sima? What is her story?"
Akiva smiled faintly. "She got to you, didn't she?"
I said nothing, and a silent moment stretched between us. Then, for no reason I could fathom, I said, "I didn't sleep with her," and felt foolish for having said it.
"I didn't say that you did," Akiva said, and I appreciated it when his faint smile did not broaden. "I don't know her story. I've known Sima Vaaknin for a few years, but I have no idea where she came from, whether she has any parents or siblings, or what her life was like before. I don't even know if she enjoys what she does or if it's just something she's good at. That's the only thing I know for sure, that she's good at what she does."
And that she was kind to Maryam Jamalka, I thought to myself.
I left Club Adom and made my way to Alfasi Street, where the hotel Akiva had described as "sleazy" was located. It was a five-minute walk, and I could well understand its appeal as a place of operation for the working girls who picked up their johns at Club Adom.
A small sign above the front door announced that I was standing in front of the Jaffa Star Hotel. It was a three-story structure with a rough-hewn dirty stone exterior and long and narrow round-top windows along its front. There were no balconies, which was appropriate since most of the guests spent no more than an hour or so in their rooms.
The lights were on in a few of the rooms, but dark curtains were drawn across all the windows. The front door was held open by a gray brick, and the lobby beyond it was small and devoid of any furniture, paintings, or plants. Just stone walls that could use a new layer of paint and a counter at the far end, where an overweight man sat in his undershirt.
His cheeks were marked by a few days' worth of stubble, and his scalp looked oily past his thinning dark-brown hair. There was a half-eaten sandwich on the counter and two newspapers spread beside it, partially illuminated by a weak lamp whose light was further muffled by its dusty yellow lampshade.
The man watched me approach without a change in his expression and did not offer any greeting when I stopped across the counter.
"What can I do for you?" he asked. His voice was gruff and bored.
"You the manager?"
"I own the place," he said. "You want a room? Or just someone to keep you company for a while?"
He leered at me, exposing uneven teeth. I shook my head.
"Neither," I said, "I want information about a woman who used to frequent this hotel." I took out Maryam's head shot and laid it on the counter. "This one."
His joviality was replaced by wariness. He said, "Never seen her in my life."
"You've got special eyes, anyone ever tell you that?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You could tell you never saw her without even glancing at her picture. That's a neat trick."
He narrowed his eyes at me, the fat in his cheeks bunching up like rolled-up dough. "You with the police?"
"Just look at the picture."
"If you're not with the police, I don't have to do what you want. In fact, why don't you get the hell out of here and leave me in peace?"
"Look at the picture and give me an answer, and then I'll leave."
"Don't feel like it." He smirked at me and reached a fat hand toward the remains of his sandwich. I slammed my hand down hard on his, trapping it against the hard surface of the counter. He let out a cry of pain and tried withdrawing his hand, but I pushed down, putting my arm and shoulder into it, crushing his fingers.
His face turned red and he twisted in his seat so hard it toppled over. He nearly fell, which put even more tension on his trapped hand, and he let out a bellow like someone had stuck a knife in his stomach. Gasping for air, he pushed himself up with his free hand.
"Let go," he wheezed.
I shook my head. "Look at the damn picture."
"Okay. Okay." He picked up the picture and held it in front of his face. "Don't know her. Satisfied? Now let go of me."
"No," I said. "I know she used this hotel. A lot of prostitutes do. Keep lying and you won't be able to use this hand for a month." I applied a little more pressure.
"Dammit! Okay, I've seen her around. But not lately. Name was Miri or Mor or Miryam. Something like that."
I kept my hold on him and started to ask him about Maryam's pimp, when the door in the wall behind the counter opened and a young, lanky man stuck his head out.
He had big bulging eyes, a sallow complexion, and cheeks scored with acne. His hair was dirty blond and limp. He was holding a large wrench.
"What's going on here?"
I let go of the manager and he backed up as far as he could go, rubbing his damaged hand with the other.