Part 4 (1/2)

How weird. No accounting for what people like to read. I wondered if someone came over and read to Inge regularly. And then it occurred to me that the books had to have belonged to Sig.

Of course. Not that I'd have pegged him for any kind of scholar, either.

When Inge woke she looked utterly lost. I waited while she washed up and then we went out for a pizza, Bruno in tow.

I was drinking alone in a tavern in the middle of the day. Something no properly raised black woman would ever do-it was acting nasty, acting like trash. And not a particularly nice tavern at that.

But I needed a bourbon, bad, and I needed to think.

So I had found little Mrs. Sig. And her fatherless baby-that would be Bruno in the cartoon version of this story.

Now what was I going to do about it?

Inge and Bruno were going to have it tough without Siggy. But it looked like they'd had it just as tough with him. Sig looked like any other down on his luck musician when I met him, yet he had plenty of money. Money as dirty as a tenement toilet, I wagered. But he hadn't used it, and he hadn't shared it with Inge. She didn't seem to have a clue to who he really was, no inkling he was a cop. I wondered if there was a legitimate Mrs. Sig somewhere-a real wife.

What to do? I could mail Inge a couple of hundred bucks anonymously. I could say it was from an old fan. Or I could just forget about her-try to, anyway. I could follow Aubrey's line of reasoning, too: finders, keepers. After all, Conlin left the money in my house, not Inge's. Truth was, I didn't know whether he'd meant to give a dime to Inge or the legitimate Mrs. He may even have been fixing to dump the both of them. Yeah-nice guy.

That was just it, though. I'm under no illusion that I'm the queen of mature judgment, but I don't pick bad guys, heartless b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. They might be f.u.c.k ups, they might be dumb, they might have a little larceny in their hearts, drink too much, think a little too highly of themselves for their own good, but nine times out of ten they are nice. And I couldn't imagine one of them sponging off a hapless blind girlfriend and then stiffing her when he hit the jackpot. There had to be a reason Sig hadn't told Inge about that money yet.

Yes, I had compa.s.sion for blind Inge. But I had to learn how to have a little compa.s.sion for poor little Nanette, too. Who needed a break. Who was about to fall on some pretty tough times herself, now that Walter had split.

Sure, a couple of hundred bucks in a plain brown wrapper would be just fine for Inge. h.e.l.l, I wouldn't turn it down if I were in her place.

I heard Ernestine whispering then: Honey, Some doors are closed for a good reason. Crack this one a little bit more, and your heart's truly gone be ready for Satan.

I called for another bourbon, no ice, asked the bartender for change and purchased a pack of Winston Lights from the machine. Except for my ongoing b.u.mming of smokes from anybody I happened to be sitting across from, I had been off cigarettes for two years. G.o.dd.a.m.n. Why did they make cigarettes taste so G.o.dd.a.m.n good if you weren't supposed to smoke the G.o.dd.a.m.n things?

The bourbon was awfully tasty too-with just a little water, no ice, no, no ice-mellow. Like me. like Mellow Nan. No more No No Nanette. Oui, Oui. South of f.u.c.king France. Little farmhouse. Field of lilac. Hot summer sun. String bikini. Real vegetables. Vin rouge to die.

Aubrey would scoff at this dilemma of mine. f.u.c.k compa.s.sion, she'd say. Aubrey was mighty wise about life. Maybe I had no business doubting her on this one. Maybe my only dilemma was whether to take Air France or Sabena. American Express Travelers Checks or Cook's. France by rail or rent a car?

Ernestine was going to have my a.s.s for this.

Two drivers took a pa.s.s on me before I could catch a cab home. I must have looked drunker than I was. But on the other hand, in the daytime it's always 5050 whether a taxi will stop for me. I don't look straight enough to be a bougie bank exec, but I don't exactly look like I'm gonna take them to the South Bronx either. Sometimes the black drivers are just as bad as the white. I stand there on the curb wis.h.i.+ng I was Sissy s.p.a.cek in Carrie. Just picturing that f.u.c.king yellow car skidding on two wheels into a concrete wall and blowing sky high and me watching the conflagration with a serene little smile on my lips. Witnesses, officer? No, sorry, I didn't see a thing.

Of course, when I'm in my night finery, it's a different story. I've caused more than one pile up in my leather bustier.

The kitchen table was covered with newspapers, all of them turned to the travel section. I'd bought them to compare airline prices.

I'd taken the money and put it all in my knapsack, which I then propped up in the chair across from me. The bag looked for all the world like a puffed up midget sitting there waiting for coffee to be served. When the telephone rang, I looked over at it, as though asking, Now who can that be?

Walter.

He begged me not to hang up on him, as I'd done late last night. He said he had to talk to me. He missed me so much he couldn't function. He had to see me.

I'm getting ready for a trip, I told him.

Just to see me once before I went off. I said I don't know-that fatal phrase: they always know they've got you when you say I don't know. Women are dumb a lot of the time: it's not a pretty thing to face, but there it is. I said I don't know, but I did know: he was going to come over. And we were going to talk. And we were going to end up in bed. That was how it always shook out. That was where, after one of our break-ups, the talk always led. We'd talk and then we'd f.u.c.k and then a few days later he'd move in again, amid a lot of promises and hope. Until the next time.

”Can I come over now? Please, baby.”

I felt that creeping hot patch on my neck. The signal of my desire. It didn't much matter what he promised me now, and I was just about to tell him to hurry over, when I was suddenly knocked off my feet by an enormous wave of sadness and guilt. As much for Siggy as for Inge.

”Walter?”

”What, sweetheart?”

”Walter, what would you say was the greatest thing you ever did to earn me?”

”What?”

”You know, the emblematic gesture that said what you want in this world is me.”

”What?”

”I mean, I know that you kind of keep me-in a way. But did you ever do anything to earn me? When was the last time you jumped in front of a bus for me?”

”What the f.u.c.k you talking about, Nanette?”

I wasn't listening to Walter anymore. I said I had to hang up. And I did.

I also folded up the newspapers and put them out near the incinerator. I wasn't going to France and I knew it. Not on this sixty grand, anyway.

”Who's there?” Inge called timidly from behind the paint-flecked door to her apartment.

”It's Ann,” I responded.

It was dark inside. She closed the door behind me and switched on a lamp.

Inge stood there, blinking every now and again, waiting for me to speak.

”I have something to give you,” I said finally.

She c.o.c.ked her head to the left, but remained silent. Bruno ambled over and took his place at her side.

I reached into my overalls and came out with four of the rolls. ”Here.”

I pressed them into her hands, swatting away the dog's curious nose.

”What is it?”

”It's money. From Sig. He told me it should go to you if anything ever happened to him. There's ...” I faltered there, postponing the absurd sentence I was about to p.r.o.nounce. ”There's twenty thousand dollars there, Inge.”

”Twenty thousand.” She repeated the words as if I were talking about a breakfast cereal.

”That's right. It's not a trick. It's not a joke. Just take it and live your life.”