“Vanessa said you were a businessman.”

“She’s got that right.”

“And you’re a burglar.”

He gave her a hard look that chilled. Now he wasn’t so good looking. Momentarily, the shark had bared its teeth. “Van tell you that?”

“It isn’t any secret,” Gina said. “You did your time, and now you’re out and a productive member of society.”

“You must watch a lotta TV.”

“Hardly any.”

“The point,” he reminded her. He actually glanced at his watch, letting her know he had more important things to do and didn’t want to waste much more time here. “You wanna score some dope, right?”

“Wrong. I’m more interested in the burglary part.”

He scratched his scalp beneath the greasy hair near his hat brim and grinned, showing he was learning to like her and was interested. “You want me to steal something?”

“Have you broken into any pawn shops since you got out of prison?”

“Since and before,” Reggie said. “I like pawn shops. They got a lotta stuff in ’em I can turn into money.” He did his little shuffle and glanced around at the ongoing maelstrom of traffic. Gina thought again he might have chosen this meeting place because the constant noise would make electronic eavesdropping on their conversation difficult, if not impossible.

She hesitated, wondering if she should simply call this off and walk away, if this was one of those crucial moments in life that would change everything that came after.

No, she decided, it didn’t have to be. But hadn’t somebody or other said the forks in life’s road are usually only visible in the rearview mirror?

“You interested in something that might be in a pawn shop?” Reggie asked.

“A gun,” Gina said.

39

“Can they do that to me?” Adelaide asked.

She was sitting, talking on the phone at the table in her tiny kitchen. In front of her was a plate with half a piece of buttered toast with a bite out of it, a tumbler with a residue of orange juice, and a full cup of decaffeinated coffee with cream added to it. She’d just poured the coffee—her third cup of the morning—from the Braun brewer that sat on the table near the wall and electrical socket. Alongside the cup was today’s Post.

Adelaide was pleased with her photo on the front page. It was a shot of her standing on the City Hall steps with her fist raised, breasts thrust forward, a resolute expression on her face. The wind had for once cooperated and not done bad things to her hair. She looked like a stubborn child, but one to be reckoned with. She looked adorable.

What she didn’t like was the story that went with the photo. New York City had decided not to summon her, or other temporarily unemployed show business people, for jury duty. They were classifying such citizens as hardship cases and rejects.

“They can do it to you,” Barry confirmed on the phone. “They can summon anyone they want for jury duty, and they can reject anyone.”

“Reject,” Adelaide said. “I don’t like that word, Barry. I hear it too often.”

“If you read further down,” Barry said, “you’ll find that the paper regards you as heroic. They say you made the city back down.”

Adelaide paused in her one-handed attempt to spread more butter on her toast. “That’s good, Barry.”

“It would be, Ad, but it happened too soon. We want them to back down, but later, after you’ve had plenty of press. The bastards know that. They just want to fast shuffle you out of the news.”

“The bastards,” Adelaide said. She laid the butter knife aside and took another tiny bite of toast. Chewed. “Summoning me for jury duty was bad, but then canceling the summons like they say in the paper, that’s a cruel trick.”

“You could say that, Ad.”

“I did say it.” She washed down the bite of toast with a swallow of coffee. “Cruelty in others is something I cannot abide.”

“Of course, what they’ll say if we complain is that you’re getting exactly what you’ve been demanding.”

“I don’t put that below them.”

Adelaide turned to the next page. There were more photographs of her. Most of them were okay, but not as good as the one on the front page. One of them, taken at an upward angle from the base of the steps, made her nostrils look too large. Her nostrils did not look like that. She turned her attention away from the photos and began to read.

“Ad? Still with me?” Barry, ever patient with his client.

“My God! It says under my picture in the Post that I’ve won. How can they print that kinda stuff without getting sued?”

“You did win, Ad. That’s the problem.”

“This is outrageous. What are we gonna do, Barry?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“I hope so. I am really, totally, shit-kicking angry about this.”

Beneath the table, her dainty foot began to tap.

Nell lay perspiring beside Terry in her bed and watched the morning light filter in through the cracks in the blinds. The air conditioner emitted a steady hum, providing white noise that seemed to isolate the room from the noisy city outside, still waking to a new and boisterous day.

Terry was an attentive, considerate lover, if sometimes a little rough. Nell wondered what kind of lover Jack Selig was. She wasn’t going to find out now.

She was totally smitten by Terry Adams. Last night had been wonderful. She’d feared the bed would collapse as the headboard slammed over and over against the wall with each of Terry’s thrusts into her. At first she’d been concerned about whether the proper Mr. Ramirez downstairs would hear the racket, but it wasn’t long before she forgot about Mr. Ramirez altogether.

The longer she knew Terry, the more she was surprised by his many facets. He not only repaired appliances and was a struggling but respected actor, he’d yesterday mentioned that ten years ago he’d actually published a collection of short stories. He’d shown her a yellowing copy. The publisher was a small one Nell had never heard of. The stories were dark and lyrical, and, she thought, quite good. Of course, she was a cop, not a literary critic.

She did know that this far into their developing relationship, nothing about him had disappointed her.

Then why do I find myself thinking about Jack Selig? What does he represent to me? Safety? My father? Wealth?

She didn’t like to think it might be wealth. But how well did people really know themselves?

Amazing! A few weeks ago I thought I’d never have a relationship again, and now I’m trying to decide between two men.

No—I’ve decided!

But she knew better.

“You awake?”

Terry’s voice beside her startled her and her body jerked. The iron headboard bounced off the wall and the bedsprings sang. The noise reminded her of last night and made her aware of the musty scent of sex that lingered in the room despite the flow of cool air from the window unit.

“Most of the way,” she answered.

“What’re you thinking?”

Better come up with something here.

“That actress who’s got everybody stirred up about her jury duty,” she said, remembering the conversation in da Vinci’s office.

“Adelaide Starr?”

“Yeah. You know her?”

“I’ve met her. And I saw her in Nuts and Bolts. She’s got talent, and she’s cute as a bug’s ear.”

“You ever look close at a bug’s ear?” Nell asked.

He laughed. “Don’t be jealous.”

“Don’t be conceited. I was asking about Adelaide Starr professionally. Is she the type who’d be doing all this for publicity?”

“Since she’s an actress, I don’t have to know her well to answer that one. Yes, she would. Many, maybe most, of my fellow thespians would.”

“Would you?”

“Maybe. This is a rough, competitive business in a tough city.”