“Well,” Maria answered, “it depends on what you do with your time, I suppose.”

  “I can think of a few things to do with the time,” he said.

  “Can you?” She lifted one brow coquettishly and then moistened her lips.

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Well, I’m curious,” Maria said, stalking her game carefully now, knowing there was no joy to the hunt unless the hunted felt he was being chased. “If it was early enough, and I’m not saying it is, but if it was, what would you like to do with the time?”

  “I’d like to lay you, Maria,” he said.

  “Oh now, that’s vulgar,” Maria said.

  “Is twenty dollars vulgar?” he asked, and suddenly Maria had no desire to play the game anymore. Maria wanted that $20, the game be damned.

  “All right,” she said quickly. “Let me arrange for a room.”

  “Do that,” he told her. She started away from him, and then she turned suddenly.

  “I’m a one-way girl,” she warned him.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “I’ll get the room.”

  It was very late, she knew that, and perhaps she could not get a room for the usual three. But with $20 promised, she could afford to risk five on a room, oh, this was wonderful, this was more than she could have hoped for. She climbed to the second flight of the tenement and knocked on one of the doors. At first, there was no answer, and so she knocked again, and then knocked repeatedly until a voice from within called, “Basta! Basta!” She recognized the “Enoughs” as having erupted from the mouth of Dolores, and she grinned in the hallway, picturing the old woman getting out of bed. In a few moments, she heard the slap of bare feet approaching the doorway.

  “Quien es?” a voice asked.

  “Me,” she answered. “Maria Hernandez.”

  The door swung open. “Puta!” Dolores shouted. “Why you break down the door at…qué hora es?”

  Maria looked at her watch. “Son las tres. Look, Dolores, I need—”

  Dolores stood in the doorway, a small thin woman in a faded nightgown, her gray hair straggly and hanging at the sides of her face, her collarbones showing sharply where the gown ended. The rage began building inside her, finally spread into her face, and then exploded from her mouth in a string of epithets. “Puta!” she screamed. “Hija de la gran puta! Pendega! Cahapera! Three o’clock in the morning, you come here and—”

  “I need a room,” Maria said hastily. “The one downstairs, is it—?”

  “Bete para el carago!” Dolores hurled, and she started to close the door.

  “I can pay five dollars,” Maria said.

  “Me cago en los santos!” Dolores went on, still cursing, and then the door stopped. “Cinco? You said five?”

  “Si.”

  “The room downstairs is empty. I get the key. You stupid whore, why didn’t you say five dollars? Come out of the hallway, you’ll get pneumonia.”

  Maria stepped into the apartment. In the kitchen, she could hear Dolores opening drawers, cursing mildly as she searched for the key. In a few moments, Dolores came back.

  “The five,” she said.

  Maria opened her purse and gave her $5. Dolores gave her the key. “Good night,” Dolores said, and she closed the door.

  He was still waiting in the street when Maria went to him. “I got a room from Dolores,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Dolores Faured. An old woman who…” She stopped and grinned. “Come,” she said, and she led him to a room at the rear of the ground floor. She opened the door, flicked on the wall light, and then locked the door behind him.

  He reached for her almost instantly, and she danced away from him and said, “I heard a proposal of twenty dollars.”

  He took out his wallet, grinning. He was a big man with big hands, and she watched his hands, and she watched the methodical way in which he counted out the bills. He handed her the bills and because she didn’t want to seem cheap—even though she’d already laid out five for the room—she didn’t count them. She put them in her purse, and then took off her coat.

  “Last time I saw you,” she said, “you didn’t seem interested in me personally. You were more interested in cards.”

  “That was last time,” he said.

  “Well, I’m not complaining,” she said.

  “I’ve been looking for you all night,” he said.

  “Really?” She walked toward him, wiggling suggestively. Now that the $20 was in her purse, the game could proceed again. “Well, you found me, baby.”

  “I wanted to talk to you, Maria.”

  “Come, baby, we’ll talk horizontally,” she said.

  “About Gonzo,” he told her.

  “Gonzo?” She seemed puzzled. “Oh, are you still saying that silly name?”

  “I like it,” he said. “Now, about your arrangement with Gonzo.”

  “I have no arrangement with Gonzo,” she said. Slowly, she began unbuttoning her blouse.

  “Ah, but you do.”

  “Listen, is this all you want to do? Talk, I mean? You didn’t have to pay me twenty dollars to talk.”

  She took off the blouse and draped it over the back of a chair. The chair, a bed, and a dresser were the only pieces of furniture in the room. He studied her and then said, “You’re small.”

  “I’m not Jane Russell,” she answered, “but I’m in proportion to the rest of me. For twenty dollars, you don’t get movie queens.”

  “I’m not complaining.”

  “Then what’s the holdup?”

  “There’s more to say first.”

  Maria sighed. “You want me to undress, or no?”

  “In a minute.”

  “This room ain’t exactly warm, you know. Whatever I got, I don’t want to freeze ’em.” She grinned, hoping he would grin back. He did not.

  “About Gonzo,” he repeated.

  “Gonzo, Gonzo, what’s with you and Gonzo, anyway?”

  “A lot,” he said. “I asked Gonzo to make that arrangement with you.”

  “Wha…” She stared at him, surprised. “You? You asked him to—?”

  “Me,” he said, and now he was grinning again.

  Warily, she asked, “What arrangement are you talking about?”

  “The arrangement with Gonzo and your brother.”

  “Go ahead,” she said, “tell me more.”

  “Where you promised Gonzo you’d swear you saw your brother and this Byrnes kid arguing.”

  “Yeah?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “Gonzo was working on my orders. He gave you twenty-five dollars, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Maria said.

  “And he said there’d be more, didn’t he, if you swore you heard them arguing.”

  “Yes,” Maria said. She shivered and said, “I’m cold. I’m getting under the covers.” Unself-consciously, she slipped out of her skirt, and then ran to the bed in her brassiere and panties and pulled the covers to her throat. “Brrrrrrrr,” she said.

  “Did Gonzo tell you what it was all about?”

  “Only that this would be a good deal, and that my brother was in on it.”

  “What about since your brother died? Has Gonzo said anything about that?”

  “He said my brother fouled up the works. Listen, I’m cold. Come on over here.”

  “Do you feel any differently about the deal since your brother died?” he asked, walking toward the bed. He took off his overcoat and draped it at the foot of the bed.

  “No,” she said, “why should I? He committed suicide. So why should—”

  The man was grinning. “Good,” he said. “You keep thinking that way.”

  “Sure,” she answered, puzzled by his grin. “Why shouldn’t I? The deal had nothing to do with Aníbal’s death.”

  “No,” he said. “But just forget there ever was a deal, do you hear me? All you know is that your brother and this Byrnes kid argued, that’s all. Do you understand? If anyone asks you—cops, reporters, anybody—that’s your story.”

  “Who is this Byrnes kid, anyway?” He was sitting on the bed now. “Aren’t you going to take off your clothes?” she asked.

  “No, I’ll leave them on.”

  “Well, Jesus, I—”

  “I’ll leave them on.”

  “All right,” she said quietly. She took his hand and guided it to her breast. “Who is this Byrnes kid?”

  “That doesn’t matter. He argued with your brother.”

  “Yes, yes, all right.” She was silent for a moment. “Now, that’s not so small, is it?”

  “No,” he said.

  “No,” she repeated. “That’s not so small at all, is it?” They were silent for several moments. He lay back on the bed, holding her.

  “Remember,” he said again. “Anyone who asks you; cops, anyone.”

  “I already spoke to one cop,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know his name. A good-looking one.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “About the argument?”

  “No. Gonzo said I should wait until I got the word on that. He said I should keep quiet until then. This cop…” She frowned.

  “What?”

  “He said…he said maybe Aníbal didn’t commit suicide.”

  “What did you say?”

  Maria shrugged. “He must have committed suicide.” She paused. “Didn’t he?”

  “Sure, he did,” the man said. He held her tighter now. “Maria—”

  “No. No, wait. My brother. He…he didn’t die because of this deal, did he? This deal had nothing to do with—I said wait!”

  “I don’t want to wait,” he told her.

  “Did he commit suicide?” she asked, trying to hold him away from her.

  “Yes. Yes, damnit, he committed suicide!”

  “Then why are you so interested in making me lie to the cops? Was my brother killed? Was my—oh! Stop, you’re hurting me!”

  “Goddamn you, can’t you shut your mouth!”

  “Stop!” she said. “Stop, please, you’re hurting—”

  “Then shut up about whether he was killed or he wasn’t killed, who the hell gives a damn about that? What kind of a whore are you anyway?”

  “He was killed, wasn’t he?” she asked, bearing his weight now, the pain disappearing. “Who killed him? Did you kill him?”

  “No.”

  “Did you?”

  “Shut up! For Christ’s sake, shut up!”

  “Did you kill my brother? If you killed him, I’ll never lie. If you killed him for one of your deals…” She felt something warm on the side of her face quite suddenly, but she didn’t know what it was and so she kept talking. “…I’ll go straight to the cops. He may have been a crumb, but he was my brother, and I’m not going to lie to…”

  There was more warmth on her face, and then her throat. She reached up suddenly and then, over his body, she studied her hand, and her eyes went wide with terror when she saw the blood. He’s cut me, she thought. Oh God Jesus, he’s cut me!

  He backed away from her, arching his body, and she saw the knife in his right hand, the blade open, and then he slashed at her breasts and she rolled with all her strength, flinging him off her. He caught her arm and flung her back into the room, coming at her with the knife again. She held out her hands to ward off his blows, but he slashed, and then slashed back, and she began screaming as he continued swinging the knife, cutting the palms and fingers of her hands. She rushed to the door, groping with the lock, her fingers slashed, fumbling with the lock and unable to open it because her fingers would not do what she wanted them to do.

  He swung her around, and she saw him pull back the knife, and then thrust forward with it, and she felt the blade when it tore skin just below her rib cage and then ripped across her body and slashed upward. She fell back against the door, and he slashed at her neck and her face, and then he shouted. “You don’t have to lie for me, you bitch! You don’t have to say another word, anymore!” He threw her away from the door, and he unsnapped the lock, and then he scooped his coat from the bed, and went to her and stood staring at her for a moment, staring at the blood-smeared caricature that had once been Maria Hernandez, and then maliciously he thrust the knife deep into her breast and brought it across her body, sure he had struck her heart. He watched as she fell to the floor, and then he ran through the door and out of the building.

  She lay in a pool of her own blood, thinking, He killed my brother and now he has killed me. He killed my brother because of his deal, I was to lie, I was to say Byrnes and Aníbal argued, Gonzo told me that, a good deal he said, he gave me twenty-five dollars, more to come, he killed my brother.

  And miraculously, she crawled to the open doorway, naked, running blood every inch of the way, and she crawled into the hallway, not screaming because there was no strength in her to scream with, crawling the long, long length of the hallway while her life drained out of her, running red into the bare brown wooden floor of the building, and then into the entryway with its mailboxes, and she reached up and managed to hold the doorknob in her tattered fingers, and managed to twist the doorknob, and then fell face forward onto the sidewalk, still bleeding.

  A patrolman named Alf Levine found her a half hour later as he was making his round. He called an ambulance immediately.

  There were four bulls in the squadroom of the 87th on the night Maria Hernandez was stabbed.

  Detectives Meyer and Willis were sitting at one of the desks, drinking coffee. Detective Bongiorno was typing up a DD report to be turned over to the Safe and Loft Squad. Detective Temple was sitting at the telephone, catching.

  “I don’t like coffee in containers,” Meyer said to Willis. Meyer was a Jew whose father had a hilarious sense of humor. And since Meyer had been a change-of-life baby, which in a sense, had been a big practical joke on the old man, the old man had decided to play his own little joke on his son. And since his son’s surname was Meyer, he could think of nothing more side-splitting than to make his son’s given name Meyer, too. In those days, babies were born at home, delivered by midwives. There was none of the hospital pressure to name a child. Meyer’s father withheld his choice of a name until the briss. He announced it just as the moile was performing the circumcision, and the resultant shock almost caused him to have a castrated son.

  Fortunately, Meyer Meyer emerged intact, if not altogether triumphant. A name like Meyer Meyer is a difficult burden to bear, especially if you live in a neighborhood where kids were wont to slit your throat if you happened to have blue eyes. Remarkably, considering the Meyer Meyer handle, and considering the unfortunate coincidence that had provided Meyer with blue eyes, he had managed to survive. He attributed his survival to an almost supernaturally patient attitude. Meyer Meyer was the most patient man in the world. But when a man bears the burden of a double-barreled name, and when a man is raised as an Orthodox Jew in a predominantly Gentile neighborhood, and when a man has made patience his credo, something’s got to give. Meyer Meyer, though he was only thirty-seven years old, was as bald as a cue ball.

  “It simply doesn’t taste like coffee,” he expanded.

  “No? Then what does it taste like?” Willis asked, sipping.

  “It tastes like cardboard, if you want to know. Now, don’t misunderstand me. I like cardboard. My wife often serves cardboard for dinner. She has some wonderful recipes for cardboard.”

  “She must have got them from my wife,” Temple called over.

  “Well,” Meyer said, “you know how wives are. Always exchanging recipes. But my point is that I wouldn’t want you to believe I’m prejudiced against cardboard. Not at all. In fact, I might honestly say that the taste of cardboard is a taste cultivated among gourmets and civilized humans all over the world.”

  “Then what’s your beef?” Willis asked, smiling.

  “Expectancy,” Meyer said patiently.

  “I don’t get it,” Willis said.

  “Hal, when my wife serves dinner, I expect the taste of cardboard. We have been married, God bless her, for twelve years now and she has never disappointed me on the matter of dinner. I expect the taste of cardboard, and it is the cardboard taste I get. But when I order coffee from the local luncheonette, my taste buds are geared to enjoy the tongue-tingling tang of coffee. As you might say, my face is fixed for coffee.”

  “So?”

  “So the disappointment, after the great expectations, is almost too great to bear. I order coffee, and I’m forced to drink cardboard.”

  “Who’s forcing you?” Willis asked.

  “To tell you the truth,” Meyer said, “I’m beginning to forget what coffee in a cup tastes like. Everything in my life tastes like cardboard now. It’s a sad thing.”

  “I’m weeping,” Temple said.

  “There are compensations, I suppose,” Meyer said wearily.

  “And what are they?” Willis asked, still smiling.

  “A friend of mine has a wife who has cultivated the knack of making everything taste like sawdust.” Willis laughed aloud, and Meyer chuckled and then shrugged. “I suppose cardboard is better than sawdust, already.”

  “You should switch wives every now and then,” Temple advised. “Break the monotony.”

  “Of the meals, you mean?” Meyer asked.

  “What else?” Temple said, shrugging grandly.

  “Knowing your filthy mind,” Meyer began, and the telephone on Temple’s desk rang. Temple lifted the receiver.

  “87th Squad,” he said, “Detective Temple.” He listened. The squadroom was silent. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Okay, I’ll send some men. Right.” He hung up. “Knifing on South 14th,” he said. “Levine’s already called an ambulance. Meyer, Hal, you want to take this?”

  Meyer went to the clothes rack and began shrugging into his coat. “How come,” he wanted to know, “you’re always catching when it’s cold outside?”

 

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