Chapter Four
FOUR DAYS AFTER he’d entered the hospital, he woke with a spinning head and saw his wife, Linda, sitting in a white enamel chair stitching a large canvas of needlepoint. He watched her a moment before he spoke to make sure she was real and not one of the dreams that had been haunting him. He blinked. It was stolid Linda, red hair, milk white complexion, her fingers working needlepoint chair bottoms she sold to a furniture store uptown.
When he spoke her name, she lifted her head and said, “Do you remember what happened?”
It was like her to check to see if something, in this case his memory, might be broken. He wondered if she’d throw him away if he couldn’t think anymore. But after a moment, he decided he could, and told her, “I’m all right. I remember.”
She leaned in close and studied his eyes, kissing his forehead as she would a feverish child. “I’ll call for the doc to look at you in a minute.” She helped him sit up, and his head began to clear. He then told her about that day in the store, carefully working in all the details, placing them for her like delicate items on a shelf.
“Well,” she said, brushing his hair back. “That’s pretty much the way Mr. Krine told it to me when he came by to fire you.”
He looked down at his arms, as though he still expected to be wearing his floorwalker’s suit. “What for?”
Her eyebrows arched, and she looked at him as if he’d just asked what the sun was. “Why, for losing that little girl.”
He thought about this. For Mr. Krine there was no substitute for performance. If something went wrong, it was the employee’s fault. Always. “How did they get away with her?”
“They left you out cold in the dressing room, came downstairs with the child dressed as a sleeping boy and walked right through the doors before the staff got the order from Mr. Krine himself to lock them.” She leaned around and inspected the back of his head. “Nobody found you for half an hour. When they saw all the stuff in the dressing room, they figured out what happened. The parents were really upset, Lucky. They said they should’ve got more help from the store. They’ve been by here every day with a policeman wanting to ask you questions. Mr. Krine’s afraid they’ll try to sue.”
“What else could I have done?” But even as he said this, he knew the answer. He’d ignored Mr. Krine’s rule: If a child was missing in-store for more than fifteen minutes, the floorwalker on duty was responsible for making sure all the doors were locked.
His wife walked back to her chair. “Whatever needed to be done, you didn’t do it.”
“I tried my best.” He turned his face to the wall, wondering if this was true.
“That’s what the mezzanine attendant and the candy girl said.” She glanced up at him, then returned to her needlework. “You sure have a lot of lady friends.”
“Linda, three-quarters of the staff’s ladies.”
She drew her work close. “The city cops said you should’ve called them first off.”
He groaned and slid down in the sheets. “City cops wouldn’t come for a kid lost in a store.”
“I realize that. But because things turned out bad, you know, after the fact, they’re all down on you.”
“They want Krine to hire one of their patrolmen on his off-hours.”
She squinted and drew a stitch. “They do carry guns.”
“I’ve got a little gun in the store safe,” he said weakly, knowing he would never have used it. After his experience in the war, he wanted nothing further to do with guns.
Linda shrugged.
He watched her push her needle up and through the pattern, one he recognized from other chair seats, of an eighteenth-century dandy bowing before his reluctant lady. Her work was beautiful and earned decent money, and he was glad of it.
TWO DAYS LATER he went to the store, and Mr. Krine gave him a week’s pay along with a lecture. Sam was hoping for a little mercy, but it was a faint hope at best; he’d seen several employees walk out of Krine’s flashy doors holding their final pay envelopes because of lesser mistakes.
He stood in front of the mahogany desk in the owner’s office. “How can I come back? I like the job.”
Mr. Krine was looking up a phone number, already finished with him. “If you find that little girl you can have your job back.”
Sam glanced at the family photograph on Mr. Krine’s desk showing his well-dressed offspring, all of them working in the store. “You have any idea how I might do that?”
Mr. Krine kept his eyes on the phone as he drew it toward him. “You could use all the free time you have.”
SIX BLOCKS FROM THE STORE was the precinct station on Chartres, and he dawdled through the steamy morning, breathing a nimbus of horse droppings and cigarette butts sopping in the gutters and sewer gas crawling out of the storm drains. He kept back from the curb as the Model T’s and fruit wagons splashed down toward the market.
Coming into the station house’s lobby, a large open space with wedding-cake plaster on its ceiling, he saw Sergeant Muscarella writing in a ledger, the white dome of his bald head bobbing away under a shivering lightbulb. Last year he was on foot patrol in Sam’s neighborhood, but then he had donated a month’s pay to the new mayor’s campaign fund.
“Mr. M.”
Muscarella raised his gray face from the ledger. “Eh, Lucky, you got out the hospital.” The sergeant’s eyes, watching him with detachment, were olives left too long in the jar.
“Yeah. I still got the headache real bad.” He touched his forehead. “You heard anything about that little girl?”
The sergeant laid his pen in the crack of the ledger. “You know, somebody steals a coat, he’ll sell it or wear it. We can kind of guess where to look. But when somebody steals a kid, what do you do?”
“You sent people to the stations?”
“Yeah, sure. But nowadays they coulda used a car.” He shrugged. “They coulda left on a ship. They could even still be in town, you know.”
“If you hear anything, I’m in the book.”
Muscarella’s face twitched unpleasantly. “Lucky, why you worried about this? You not a cop.”
He looked at the quarter-sawn oak wall panels behind the sergeant’s bench, carved sections that rose up around the policeman like a little throne. He decided not to tell him about the pale cameo floating nightly behind his eyelids, the injured girl he left behind in France, his dead son, or his stolen family. He looked down at his shoes, understanding that the policeman didn’t need the complicated truth. He needed a reason. “Sal, I got fired because of this mess. Krine said he might hire me back if I found the kid.”
The sergeant shrugged. “Lucky, floorwalker’s not much of a job for somebody like you.”
“I like it. The pay’s not bad and I can move up some, maybe manage a department.”
“Well, if you that hard up, I can get you on as a bank guard.”
He looked up and shook his head.
The sergeant picked up his pen. “I guess you’re not the shootin’ kind.”
“Even my wife says I’m responsible for the little girl.”
Muscarella ranged his dark eyes over him. “What
He put his hands in his pockets. “I say I wish it’d been my day off.”
The sound of an argument rolled up the steps outside and the double doors burst open with two small cops fighting a two-hundred-pound whore, her red face rising angry as a boil out of a white feather boa.
