Page 88 of If Looks Could Kill

I huddle in the front window of Mother Rosie’s Greenwich Village brothel with almost all of me showing to Mack, to Zeke, to Rosie, and to anyone passing by. I want to die.

I also want to live. My body, such as it is, is today’s cut of meat. And my only home.

“Stand up straight,” Mother Rosie calls to me from her plush seat. “Chest out. Put a little wiggle into it.”

There’s a pounding at the street-level door.

“The police,” Rosie hisses. “Get away from that window.”

Do I dare hope for the police? If they came, would they even help me?

Rosie nods at the men, sprawled out on couches. “See to it.”

Mack lumbers to his feet and plods down the stairs. I hear a door open, then nothing, then footsteps coming up that aren’t his. Two sets of them.

Rosie’s eyes grow wide. “Zeke,” she says, “what’s going on?”

Captain Paddy.

Why, now, am I thinking of Captain Paddy ?

Zeke opens the door at the top of the stairs. He growls something at whoever is coming up, then sways sideways and topples to the floor.

Rosie reaches for her pistol, tucked inside her purse, and now I know.

I stand behind Mother Rosie, as if I crave her protection. So she doesn’t see me wind up with a stiff velvet couch cushion until I smash it into the side of her face. In the split second of her cursing and confusion, I bring up an uppercut to her chin and then a left jab into her gut.

She crumples to the floor.

I did that. Me. Little Miss Sunday School. Little Miss Salvation Army.

My right hand hurts like a sonofagun.

But thank God for Captain Paddy, who had insisted on teaching us how.

Rosie’s gun is wobbling in my hands, its owner cringing on the floor, when the door bursts open.

She is a ghost when she enters. A pallid corpse. She sways on her feet. Red blood runs down her side. Her golden snakes hiss with fangs bared.

This is a ghost. He’s killed her. My Salvation Army friend.

Rosie rises on one elbow. Pearl turns and opens her mouth in a silent battle cry.

The Bowery madam screams herself to sleep, till her eyes roll back in her head and her body lies stiff and senseless upon the floor.

Pearl staggers forward and topples onto a couch. Another Medusa appears in the doorway, looking ready to kill. What on earth? She disappears into the flat. I hear muffled screams and thumps. She returns in a moment, carrying my clothes. She drapes a throw blanket over me.

I pull Pearl onto my lap. She is cold. So terribly cold. I enfold her in my blanket and hold her close to me. She is soaked in blood.

On the floor, Mother Rosie starts to stir. I keep the gun in one hand.

“This way,” a voice says. I look up to see the wide-cheeked face of Oscar the newspaper boy, staring at me. I must be hallucinating. Next thing I know, the whole Salvation Army brass band will appear.

I focus on Pearl. She is, at least, still breathing. Stay with me, Pearl. Don’t leave me now.

In moments, someone is at my side, taking my gun from me. I struggle, until a voice speaks in my ear.

“It’s all right, Miss Tabitha,” a familiar voice says. “You’re safe now.”

I blink into the eyes of Captain Paddy himself. I’m so confused. Maybe the brass band will show up after all.

I cry out, “Pearl is dying.”

“We need to get her to St. Vincent’s,” he says. “Are you all right?”

I hold Pearl close and cradle her head, snakes and all. They move about in my hands, mournful, distressed. Soft as velvet to my touch.