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“For you.”
She grinned.
“That’s sweet. Thank you.”
She opened the box and put it on the bedside table, beside the telephone.
They stared at each other a long time, then Bayer broke the silence.
“Please, Mary, you have to tell me what happened.”
She closed her eye but said nothing.
“Were you robbed?”
She shook her head.
“Did someone take the money that I gave you?”
She started softly crying.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I don’t want to make you cry more.” He paused. “But I have to know.”
She opened her eye.
“You won’t get mad?”
“Mad? Why would I get mad? Just tell me who did it.”
She was silent a moment.
“Okay…” she began, then inhaled deeply. “Donnie.”
“Donnie? Donnie who?”
“Paselli.”
“Who the hell is Donnie Paselli?”
Mary started crying and sniffling.
Bayer got up and went to the bathroom for a tissue. He pulled one from the box, then grabbed the box and brought it back and put it on the bedside table. He pulled out another two tissues and handed them all to her.
She gently blew her nose—the effort itself proved painful—and coated the tissues with a soupy, blood-laced mucus.
When she paused, Bayer took the tissues, threw them in the tin trash can that was under the bedside table, and gave her two new ones to hold to her nostrils.
She looked at him, then looked away, then said, “They call him Donnie the Ape—Donnie ‘the Ape’ Paselli.”
“Okay. But why—”
“He’s the guy who I told you beat me before. You know? The guy I’m supposed to give half of my money I make?”
Bayer was silent.
You didn’t give him the fucking money I gave you? Jesus!
“You didn’t give him the money…?”
