"No. But it wouldn't help you if I did. She hasn't been there in weeks. And none of her stuff is there any longer."
"Since she was arrested?"
"Yes," he said after a brief hesitation. "Since then."
"What happened when she was arrested?"
"What do you mean?"
"The arrest was unusual. Most arrested prostitutes don't spend time in jail. She was locked up for three days."
He shrugged. "This time it was different. Who can say why?"
"She was different when she got out, and you were no longer seen with her. Why? What happened?"
He shrugged again, but this time his lips compressed. I had touched upon a sore point.
"Did she no longer want to be with you?" I said.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Did she tell you to stay away from her? Did she finally see you for the rat that you are?"
He sat straight in his chair and pointed a finger at me. "You're a fool. She begged me to take her back. Begged me. Wept and pleaded. I wouldn't have taken her back even if—"
He stopped in mid-sentence, his face sour, like a man angry, not at someone else, but at himself.
"Even if what?"
He sat back, glancing away. "I'm done talking to you."
"No," I said. "You're not done. I want to know why you wouldn't take her back. She could still make money for you. You wouldn't give her up for no reason."
"Enough with your questions. I said we're done talking."
I leaned forward. "You don't seem to get it, Charlie. I am going to find out what happened to her. And you're going to help me. Do you understand? Or are two broken ribs not enough motivation for you?"
He gritted his teeth, and his eyes shone with rage. "Just because you got lucky once, doesn't mean that you would get lucky again. I won't be following you into a dark alley this time. I'm staying right here in this club, where there are plenty of men who would gladly lend a hand to bash you, if you make any trouble for me."
"You're going to sit in this club forever?" I asked. "Because I will get the information from you."
"Not forever. But you won't be around to watch me leave. Soon I will have someone throw you out. So leave now, on your own two feet, or be thrown out on your ass."
I looked around me. There were about a dozen young men in the place, and I figured at least half would gang up on me if Buzaglo and I started fighting. For the moment I was beaten. And I could tell by his face that he knew that I knew it. He smiled an indulgent, self-satisfied smile at me. It made me furious, itching to reach over the table and slap that smile off his face along with some of his teeth. But I wouldn't get any information that way. I had to retreat, temporarily.
I pushed my chair back and rose.
He said, "You were a fool to come here, Adam. But I'm glad that you did. I'm very glad that you did."
He was grinning at me now, showing his uneven teeth. I wanted to tell him that we weren't finished, partly to get the last word in. But I refrained. Saying the words would not help me. I was on his turf, and he had the advantage. I would have to get him in another location at a later time and question him again.
Outside the club, I paused on the sidewalk to light a cigarette. I walked slowly, keeping my ears open, waiting to hear the sound of the nightclub door open and close, signifying that someone had come out after me. This time, though, there was nothing, just the hum and buzz of the city around me and the thud of my shoes on the dirty, dust-clogged pavement.
I hastened my steps, heading north, sucking on the cigarette so hard that its taste disgusted me. I tossed it only half spent, and it bounced on the road, flashing out its little burst of sparks before dying out.
My mind went over my conversation with Charlie Buzaglo. He had given me little. In fact, it seemed to me that the only reason he spoke with me at all was to flaunt his domination over Maryam Jamalka, to gloat over it. He knew it would infuriate me. He wanted to get under my skin. It was his revenge for those two broken ribs. Or part of his revenge, as he had said I would pay for those ribs at some later time.
The bad taste stayed in my mouth long after I had discarded the cigarette. It was an aftertaste of my encounter with Buzaglo. Just the thought of him taking advantage of Maryam Jamalka sickened me. He might not have killed her, but his exploitation of her had contributed to her death. This I knew in my gut. It was a certainty of emotion rather than one of fact. As Sima Vaaknin had told me, he had used Maryam Jamalka's romanticism to gain control over her life.
Sima Vaaknin.
The thought of her brought me to a stop. I was five minutes away from my apartment and the fitful sleep that awaited me in my empty bed. My watch told me it was after eleven. Too late to pay an unannounced visit on anyone, but perhaps, like the night on which Akiva had telephoned her on my behalf, Sima Vaaknin would not be asleep.
But I didn't want to see Sima Vaaknin. She was dangerous. Hard to resist. Perhaps even addictive. If I went to her, it would be for one purpose only. And there would be guilt afterward. Scorching, searing guilt. The kind that would infiltrate my dreams and make me wish I could tear all memories of my wife out of me and erase my past and the love I had lost. I wanted to avoid this guilt and decided to go home. But my legs took me past the turn to Hamaccabi Street and further north, through nearly deserted late night streets, all the way to her building.
On the sidewalk outside, I paused and raised my eyes. Her windows were dark. Was she asleep, or had she company? Either choice likely meant that I would be unwelcome. I went up the stairs and knocked on her door.
A minute or so went by with no answer. I felt a flash of disappointment that was supplanted by a rush of relief. I was halfway down the stairs when I heard her voice at my back.
17
"Running away, Adam?"
I didn't know how she had recognized me from the back. I turned and she was in the doorway, her hair mussed and beautifully chaotic, the contours of a pillow's edge marking a soft indentation on her cheek. She was wearing a blue nightshirt that left her legs bare to mid-thigh. My eyes lingered on her legs, consuming the lines of her feet and calves, the graceful knobs of her knees, before traveling up to her covered hips and to where her breasts hung free and firm beneath her shirt. When my eyes reached her face, her full-lipped mouth was split into the satisfied smile of the appreciated, and the deep brown pools of her eyes shone with amusement. She had caught my admiring appraisal of her, and she relished it.
Before opening her door, she had turned on the light inside her apartment. Its light far outmatched that of the weak staircase bulb, and her shadow was thrown across the landing and stairs, brushing my shoes with its hazy darkness.
"You should not open the door to strangers, dressed like that," I said, my mouth so dry I was surprised my voice did not crack.
"But I knew it was you."
"How?"
She tapped the peephole with her forefinger. "With this."
I felt heat rush to my face. So she hadn't recognized me from the back after all.
"Then why did it take you so long to open the door?"
She smiled, and the fingers of her left hand brushed the fabric of her nightshirt over the valley made by her breasts. "I had to put this on first."
The heat from my face went south to my belly and further down past my belt buckle.
"And now you'd better come in. You rousted me out of bed, and I'd like to return to it before too long."
She pulled the door further open, holding it for me, letting me consider whether she meant to return to bed by herself or with me for company.
When I passed by her on the threshold, I caught her scent—soap, and not the cheap, utilitarian one given each citizen as part of their rations, and the clean, wholesome smell of freshly laundered sheets. She did not look like a woman whose sleep had been disturbed. Her eyes were alert, and the skin of her face showed none of the slackness of the recently awakened.