bitterly.
Suddenly Quinn was at their elbow, saying softly: “Your table’s ready now-would you follow me, please?”
She was pleasant but decidedly formal, probably because of the presence of Leroux, Barton thought.
They followed her into the dining room where Thelma and Jenny were already seated. Barton gave his drink order-black coffee and preferably immediately-and squeezed Jenny’s hand. She was unresponsive and distant, a slim, dark-haired girl in her middle twenties whose classic beauty was marred only by a too-thin nose. At one time, Barton thought morosely, she was full of life, relaxed and outgoing. That had been one of the things that had attracted him to her; in so many ways she had been like Quinn, only a younger version. Tonight, as usual lately, she was withdrawn and remote; she wouldn’t have ten words to say throughout the entire meal.
He turned his attention to Thelma Leroux. The enigma in Leroux’s life, he thought. A woman he would probably never quite understand, but one whom he instinctively respected. Younger than Leroux, though perhaps not by much. Like Wyndom, she was from North Carolina and still possessed a lingering trace of southern accent and charm. A naturally warm, self-confident woman who had somehow endowed matronhood with sensuality. She was slightly chubby-just enough to prevent the crepe from forming under her throat-with pale, smooth skin and frost-tinged hair. And despite her sophistication, there was still an earthiness about her. She could probably mingle with construction foremen as easily as with dowagers and still be herself, he thought.
“You know,” Thelma said, “as long as the building’s been open, I’ve never eaten here.”
“That’s Wyn’s fault,” Barton said. “He should have taken you here long before now. Curtainwall could even pick up the tab as a business expense.”
“Like hell it could,” Leroux interrupted. “The IRS watches us like a hawk.”
“It’s a beautiful place, Craig, and the service seems delightful, too.” Thelma’s eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. “The hostess seemed to know you. Is she somebody out of your past?”
Barton smiled. “Quinn’s an old friend I once dated a long time ago-before I met Jenny.”
“How long before, Craig?” Jenny’s voice was small and stiff and there was sudden silence at the table.
“As a matter of fact,” Barton said curtly, “just before I met you.
You and she were much alike-I told you about Quinn.”
“She seems older than I had expected,” Jenny said coolly.
“More mature,” Barton corrected shortly. Irritated, he whipped his place napkin off the table, his elbow knocking over the carafe of water in the process. It shattered on the floor and he swore softly to himself, almost not hearing Thelma’s quiet “There’s no damage, Craig-the waitress shouldn’t have left it so near the edge.” Quinn was already sending over a bus boy with a small broom and several napkins to soak up the water.
Barton turned to the table behind him at which a middle-aged, rather stout woman and an elderly, dapper man were sitting. “I’m sorry if you were splashed, I’ll make good the cleaning….
“No, no, I wouldn’t think of it,” the woman said, smiling. “It’s only water. Mein lieber Gott-think how wet we would be if we were outside! Isn’t that right, Harlee?”
“Quite right, my dear. Don’t trouble yourself ‘ sir, it’s trilling, I assure you.” He was brushing at some spots on his suit and there was a tone in his voice that made Barton wonder if his response would have been the same if his wife hadn’t spoken up first.
He turned back to the table. It was going to be a long night, he thought, and Jenny had apparently made up her mind to make it even longer.
“It must have been rough flying weather today,” Thelma was saying, spreading a thin oil of conversation over the troubled waters. “Or does the weather bother you when you fly? I know it would me, particularly if I had to leave San Francisco to come here.”
Barton couldn’t help smiling. Thelma.into the breach, he thought.
He envied Leroux.
CHAPTER 20
Time was running out and Jesus was beginning to feel panicky. He had followed his mother from office to office as she methodically emptied wastebaskets into the large canvas bag in the frame she wheeled behind her, begging and pleading for money. Her answer had always been a mumbled “no.” He was angry one minute and sobbing the next and then he started to get increasingly mean. He was already very close to the time when Spinner had planned on meeting him. Twenty minutes more and Spinner would have left; he had other appointments. Besides, Spinner had been nervous ever since his last bust; if Jesus stood him up, he might get suspicious and Turn Jesus off completely. After all, he had a record and Spinner might think the cops were using him to entrap dealers….
Jesus felt the sweat dampen his armpits and ooze over his forehead.
Spinner would think that, in fact it would be the first thing that Spinner would think. Jesus was constantly fighting nausea now and instinctively knew the cramps were only minutes away.
“Mama, you’ve got to help me!”
She shook her head. “No. You help yourself.”
“You want I should do something terrible?” The top of his upper lip was soaked and he was beginning to shake.
“I have no money,” she said stoically, tugging at her cart.
“Mama, I got to meet this man, I got to have the money. You don’t know what it’s like. If I don’t make this connection, it could kill me.”
Her eyes suddenly flicked at him. “Connection?”
He licked his lips, then ripped at the buttons on his sleeves and pushed the cuffs up over his knobby elbows.
He held out his arms with the veins showing. “You see these, Mama?”
he asked thickly. “They’re tracks. From needles. I’m hooked, Mama; I’m hooked on heroin. I need a fix. You know what I mean? I need a fix, Mama; if I don’t get it, it could kill me.”
““Kill you? You kill yourself.”
He grabbed her shoulders then, his thin fingers digging into her flesh. She winced with pain and pulled free.
“Maybe you kill me instead,” she said angrily. “Is that what you want to do; kill me, maybe? You want twenty dollars. I don’t have twenty dollars. Ask as much as you like, I don’t have it.”
She was lying, he thought, she had to have it. “You don’t care what happens to me!” he yelled angrily. “Maybe you want me to go out and rip off some mark in an alley, is that what you want? A brick in a sock and there he is and all I have to do is go through his pockets.
Or maybe I hit him too hard and he never wakes up. You never think I hurt anybody, Mama? You never think I hide in an alley and wait for somebody to go by? You don’t know me, Mama, you never knew me!” - She emptied a basket into the cart, followed it with the contents of several ashtrays, and wiped them out with a damp rag.
“Turn yourself in,” she grunted. “Maybe that can help you.” He didn’t see the tears that were forming at the corners of her eyes.
“Mama,” he said slowly, the strength draining out of him as he felt the nausea build again, “I don’t need to ask you. I can go down on the street and get money. I can sell myself, Mama; I can let old men use me like a girl.” His voice was almost a sob now. “They pay me, Mama; Ira good at it. I don’t want to, but I got to.”
Her back was to him and the tears stood on her cheeks like raindrops.
“So you’re a girl,” she said. “You’re not a man.” Her voice was close to breaking, but he didn’t notice.
The nausea passed and he came around the desk and pushed her back against it. “Maybe I should report you to welfare, Mama,” he hissed.
“You’re living with Martinez, only you ain’t married to him. I turn you in and they take you off the lists; they don’t know about your job here. You want me to do that? I will, Mama; T swear to God I will!
They’ll throw you out of that dump you live in and you ain’t ever going to find another place that cheap to stay!”
“Jesus!” For a moment her emotions showed and then they were washed away in silent tears. “I have another floor to clean tonight.
