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Six
Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
—Gerard Manley Hopkins,
from “Carrion Comfort”
Darkness still reigned when Roman blinked his eyes open. He looked at the unfamiliar ceiling, ran a hand over the nubby sheets beneath him. Street noise poured through an open window along with a cool breeze. He had absolutely no idea where he was and no recollection of how he had gotten there.
A noise from his right caught his attention. He looked over to see a flame flicker onto the end of a cigarette, illuminating a feminine face. The smell of burning tobacco almost made him salivate. “Can I bum one of those?”
The woman turned his way, not seeming surprised to hear his voice. “Sure, champ.” Before handing him one, she leaned over and switched on a lamp. Roman became instantly aware of her state of undress. She wore a combination, but the bloomer part was shortened to the top of her thigh, and the chemise part was scooped lower than could possibly be useful under a dress. Teddies, he thought they called them. This one was in a powder blue and ridiculously adorned, telling him that the blond wearing it had intended it to be seen.
“Where am I?”
The woman laughed and leaned over to hand him a ciggie she had lit while he studied her. The action gave him an unobstructed view down her wisp of clothing, which he enjoyed for the moment it lasted. She was obviously a prostitute—but she was a pretty one, young. Her fair hair was bobbed and waved to perfection, her features were fine, and her lips were stained a bright red.
She took another puff of her own smoke. “It ain’t the Everleigh, that’s for sure.”
The reference to the upscale bordello removed any doubt of the woman’s profession. He pushed himself up on her lumpy bed—noting that though his shirt was off, his pants were not—and took a long drag of tobacco. “You gotta name?”
She smiled. “A couple of ’em. Most often I go by Sally.”
He nodded, though the information didn’t help clarify the recent past. “And what am I doing here, Sally?”
A cross between mockery and annoyance flickered in her eyes. “Not much, champ. Not much.”
The insult irritated him, and the irritation irritated him even more. “Look, doll—”
“Oh, lighten up.” She smiled again and blew out an impressive smoke ring. “I wasn’t really expecting much when your buddies dumped you at my feet. Practically had to scrape you off the sidewalk to get you up here, so it was no big surprise when you fell asleep straight away.”
“Buddies?” Now that interested him. The last thing he could really remember was stumbling for a speakeasy. As far as he knew, he hadn’t had any friends with him.
“Yeah. Couple of Italians, brothers I’d bet. Good looking fellas, strapping like, ya know? One of ’em called the other Tony.”
An image flashed in his memory. Lorenzo Capecce sitting on a stool scowling at him, flanked on either side by his “strapping” brothers. He had another flash of Lorenzo’s fist heading for his face. Reaching up, he gingerly touched a finger to his bruised jaw.
“Nice colors.” Sally chuckled. “Looks like you had quite the evening. Over a dame, I bet.”
He grunted his agreement and stewed for a minute, let the anger build up to a satisfying inferno. He was going to bring them down, the whole lot of them. Mancaris and Capecces and anyone else stupid enough to step into the crossfire. He narrowed shrewd eyes on the hooker. He was willing to use any means at his disposal to achieve his goal—and if the Capecces brought him here, it was possibly because they were familiar with the location. “Say, Sally, who’s your man?”
She lifted brows that had been drawn on too high. “What’s it to ya?”
He affected a disinterested shrug. “Call me curious. Is it Mancari?”
She snorted and ground out her cigarette stub in an ugly glass ashtray. “You kidding? His places have more class than this joint. Nah, these days we’re run by a new guy to town, from Brooklyn.” It was her turn to narrow her eyes. “You sound pretty New York yourself, champ. You a friend of Al’s?”
“Al?”
“Yeah, Al. Capa-something, though he usually goes by Brown.”
He searched his mind for who she meant. “Oh—Capone? Torrio’s new guy?”
“That’s him.” Apparently deciding he was becoming lucid enough to make himself useful, she slid over onto the bed and trailed a fingernail down his chest. “Rumor has it Torrio’s grooming him to take over while Johnny takes wifey and her mama back to Italy for a while. You ask me, young Al’s not likely to step down again once he steps up.”
