and he could talk about whatever the fuck he wanted.
Samsonite – her real name, she said, was Rita; no last name, just Rita, but Jack couldn't stop thinking of her as Samsonite, it fit her too perfectly – lived on a run-down street in the East Village, one that had not yet been made aware of the booming economy and the renovations going on in the neighborhood. The entire block was little more than a row of burned-out tenements and rubble. One of the tenements was Samsonite's apartment building.
'You live here?' Jack asked, surprised. He thought it looked as if it had long ago been abandoned.
'I've lived in worse, believe me.'
She fumbled for the key to the front door, couldn't find it in her purse. After several minutes, she mumbled a curse and reached into the right pocket of her skirt to fish out the key. When she opened the door, she motioned for Jack to go ahead of her.
Inside was even worse. The hallway was squalid and filthy and smelled as if it hadn't been cleaned in years. She headed up a flight of stairs and Jack hesitantly followed. One of his feet grazed a pile of rags on the first landing – and the pile moved angrily.
'A crackhead,' Samsonite said. 'Don't mind him.'
She also told Jack not to mind the rat that scurried past them on the way downstairs. He considered grabbing her, dragging her the hell out of there and taking her back to his place, then he thought: No. I'm too close. I'll know what's going on soon. Don't spook her. Just let it go.
They reached her apartment, which was on the third floor. The soiled green door was protected by four interior locks and one outside padlock. As Samsonite began her unlocking process, she said, 'It's not like I'm paranoid. I know you're thinkin' I'm paranoid. It's the Russian mentality. You always think someone's trying to take whatever you've got.'
By now she had managed to open her door. She stepped into the apartment, flicked on the light, and recoiled at the brightness. She immediately flicked it off and, as Jack stepped in behind her, she began scurrying around lighting candles. Not three or four candles. Fifty, sixty candles, maybe even a hundred that were scattered all over the place. And there was not all that much place in which to scatter.
Samsonite lived in two rooms plus a kitchen. Although it could barely be called a kitchen now. It was a room with a dirt-streaked white refrigerator and countertops that were covered with food-encrusted plates and bowls and ancient cardboard cartons of Chinese food. When she lit the four candles that sat by the sink – which was filled to the brim with dirty plates and silverware – Jack saw what looked like a herd of cockroaches scuttle into the cracks in the wall.
The living room had rags and towels thumbtacked up as window curtains. There was one sofa that looked as if it would collapse if anyone sat on it, and a small orange crate that Jack guessed was a makeshift coffee table. That was it. Through the open bedroom door, he could see mounds of clothes scattered on the floor and an iron, four- poster bed.
'You know, when I first came here, I thought I'd be a model. That's what everyone said, beautiful girls come here from Russia, they become models.'
'What happened?'
'Maybe I'm not beautiful enough.'
'I don't think that's it.'
She smiled a bitter smile and continued lighting the candles scattered around the room. As she reached over to light two on the floor, in the corner, she picked up a small hypodermic needle and held it up for inspection. 'Maybe I found something else I like better,' she said. When she was done lighting the candles, she seemed exhausted by her effort and flopped down on the ruin of a sofa. 'Have a seat.'
'Where?' he asked.
Without answering – he wasn't certain she'd even heard him – she popped back up off the couch and went to the kitchen. He heard the fridge open and the rustling of various implements in her cabinets, then saw her, her back to him, pouring wine into two paper cups. On her return trip to the sofa, she handed him one of the cups, filled nearly to the brim. She flopped again, this time stretching out so her head rested on one arm of the couch and her black boots on the other.
'Oh, God,' she sighed. 'Will you take my boots off?'
Jack hesitated, then set his wine down on the scuffed hardwood floor. He moved to the couch and she gingerly lifted one leg. He took her left foot in his hand, worked his fingers around the black heel, and pulled. It took three yanks, then it came free. He saw the look of pleasure on her face as she wriggled her toes. Without a word, she lifted her other leg and held her foot out to him. He grabbed this boot and pulled. When it was off, he set it down on the floor in front of her. Her head back, her feet flexing, she closed her eyes and Jack wasn't certain that she hadn't fallen asleep on him. But before he could even check, her eyes flew open and she said, 'You know what Kid's biggest problem was? He was trying to reform me. I mean, shit, reform me from what?'
She took a long sip of her wine. A tiny bit of it slid from her lips and down her chin. She caught it with a finger and, with a look of great contentment, stuck that finger in her mouth and sucked it. Jack went back to where he'd been standing, picked up his own wine, and took a long swallow. It was cheap stuff, too cold and vinegary-tasting, but he didn't really care. He drank again.
'Someone was with him that night, just before he died. Did you know that?'
'Who?'
'I don't know. I was hoping you would. It was a woman.'
'Oh.' She was drifting now. He wondered if she'd taken something when she went to get the wine. 'Kid.' She seemed to be lost in her own thoughts. 'Besides,' she said, 'who wants to be reformed?'
'Were you with him?'
'I was with him a lot,' she said dreamily.
'That night. The night he fell, were you with him then?'
'How the fuck would I know?' she said. 'I don't even know where I am now. Where are we? I mean, Jesus.'
She reached down under the couch without looking, felt around, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches, and lit one.
'Kid was tripping when he fell,' Jack said.
'Yeah?'
'Are you surprised?'
'You wanna know the truth? I'm beyond surprise. That particular, whaddyacallit, that thing in my brain, it's like some kind of electrical thing, well, it's gone. The fuse is blown or whatever. I don't know the exact medical terminology.'
Jack sipped his wine again. He was surprised to find that it was tasting better.
'Goddamn, I miss him, you know? I mean, he saved my ass. Did I tell you that already? Yeah, I guess I did. Sorry. Sometimes I don't remember what I said and what I didn't say.
'No,' Jack told her. 'You didn't tell me.'
'Really?'
'What happened?'
'Oh, man, I did somethin' so fucking stupid. I mean, it was so fucking stupid it was even stupid for me. But all that money, you know, it's just right there in front of you.'
Jack watched her sit up. Her movements were almost snakelike. She seemed to slither when she moved. She looked at him and bared her teeth. As she did, she took her right hand and began rubbing her left breast. She twisted the shirt fabric over her nipple and squeezed and massaged it. Her head lolled back and her mouth opened just a bit. He saw her eyes lose their focus and he thought she was about to begin masturbating. But then, as suddenly as she'd started, she stopped. She was just sitting on the edge of the couch now, leaning forward intently, staring at him.
'You're talking about when you're dealing?' he asked, trying to get her back on the subject. He glanced at his watch. He'd left Grace exactly half an hour ago. 'Where all that money is?'
'Yeah,' Samsonite said. 'When I'm dealing. It's not like we're in Vegas, you know. I figured, with those bozos, I mean, you slip a coupla chips into your panties, who the fuck is gonna know?'
Jack realized he was sweating heavily. He wiped his forehead as perspiration dripped down into his eye. 'Can I open a window?' he asked. 'It's very hot in here.'
