'Why?'
'Because Mama Ida's got a good imagination. Here's the legend. Marcia was born in Italy. She's the daughter of some Italian count who's got a villa on the Mediterranean. During the war, Marcia—against the wishes of her father—married a guerrilla who was fighting Mussolini. She took about ten thousand dollars in jewels with her and went to live in the hills with him. Picture this flower of nobility, a kid who knew how to ride before she knew how to walk, living in a cave with a band of bearded men. Well, one day her husband got killed in a raid on a railroad. Second in command claimed Marcia as his own, and pretty soon the entire band of cutthroats was getting in on the act. One night Marcia took off; They chased her through the hills, but she escaped.
'Her jewels bought her passage to America. But she was an enemy alien and had to stay in hiding. Barely able to speak the language, unable to get a job, she drifted into prostitution. She's still in the racket, but she loathes it. Goes about it in a ladylike fashion, and every time she's had, it's like rape. That's The Lady, and that's the way Mama Ida tells it.'
'What's the real story?' Hawes asked.
'Her name's Marcia Polenski. She's from Scranton. She's been a hooker since she was sixteen, has the shrewdness of a viper, and a good ear for dialect. The Italian accent is as phony as the rape scenes.'
'Any enemies?' Hawes asked.
'How do you mean?'
'Anybody who'd want to kill her?'
'Probably every other hooker on the Street wants to kill her. But I doubt if any of them would.'
'Why?'
'Hookers are nice people. I like them.'
'Well,' Hawes said noncommittally. He rose. 'I'm getting out of here.'
'Will Willis take care of me?' Donner asked.
'Yeah. Talk to him about it. So long,' Hawes said hastily. 'Thanks.'
'De nada,' Donner replied, and he leaned back against the steam.
After Hawes had dressed and listened to a dissertation by Regan on the big money to be made in boxing, accompanied by Regan's card and an admonition to keep it in a safe place, he went out into the street and called the squad. He got Carella.
'You back?' he asked.
'Yeah. I was waiting for your call.'
'What'd you get?'
'Danny Gimp tells me there's a hooker named The Lady working on the Street. She may be our baby.'
'I got the same from Donner,' Hawes said.
'Good. Let's look her up. This may turn out to be simpler than we thought.'
'Maybe so,' Hawes said. 'Want me to come back to the squad?'
'No, I'll meet you on the Street. Jenny's, do you know it?'
'I'll find it,' Hawes said.
'What time have you got?'
Hawes looked at his watch. '10.03,' he said.
'Can you meet me at 10.15?'
'I'll be there,' Hawes said, and he hung up.
CHAPTER FOUR
La Vía de Putas was a street in Isola that ran north and south for a total of three blocks. Over the course of years, the street had changed its name many times, but never its profession. It had changed its name only to accommodate the incoming immigrant groups, translating 'Whore Street' into as many languages as there were nations. The profession, as solidly economic a profession as undertaking, had steadfastly defied the bufferings of time, tide, and policemen. In fact, the policemen were in a sense part of the profession. Whore Street, you see, was not a secret. Trying to keep the Street a secret would have been like trying to keep the existence of Russia a secret. There was hardly a citizen, and barely a visitor, who had not heard of La Vía de Putas, and many citizens had first-hand knowledge of the practices plied there. And if the citizenry know of something, the police—as slow-witted as they sometimes are—know of it, too.
It was here that the oldest profession clasped hands with the neophyte profession. And during the clasping of hands, bills of various denominations were exchanged so that the Street could continue its brisk trade without interference from the Law. Things got difficult for the 87th's cops when the Vice Squad decided to get puritanical. But even then, it didn't take cops long to realize that the green stuff could be divided and then subdivided. There was plenty of it to go all the way around, and there was certainly no reason to get stuffy about something as universal as sex.
Besides, and here was rationalization of the most sublime sort, was it not better to have most of the precinct's hookers contained in an area three blocks long rather than scattered all over the streets? Of course it was. Crime was something like information for a thesis. So long as you knew where to find it, you were halfway home.
The uniformed cops of the 87th knew where to find it—and they also knew how to lose it. Every now and then they would stop by and chat with the various Mamas who ran the brothels. Mama Luz, Mama Theresa, Mama Carmen, Mama Ida, Mama Inez (from the song of the same name), were all bona fide madams and could all be counted on for the discreet payoff. In turn, the cops looked the other way. Sometimes, on a sleepy afternoon when the streets were quiet, they dropped into the cribs for a cup of coffee and things. The madams didn't mind too much. After all, if you ran a pushcart you expected the cop on the beat to take an apple every now and then, didn't you?
The detectives of the 87th rarely got a piece of the long green that shuttled from customer to hooker to madam to patrolman. The detectives had bigger things going for them, and everybody has to eat. Besides, they knew the Vice Squad was getting its cut, and they didn't want the pie sliced too many ways lest the bakery close shop altogether. Out of professional courtesy, they, too, looked the other way.
On Wednesday, July twenty-fourth, at 10.21 a.m., Carella and Hawes looked the other way. Jenny's was a tiny dump on the corner of Whore Street. Most of the payoffs took place in Jenny's, but Carella and Hawes were not looking for payoffs. They were discussing The Lady.
'From what I understand,' Carella said, 'we may have to wait on line to see her.'
Hawes grinned. 'Why don't you let me handle this one alone, Steve?' he said. 'After all, you're a married man. I don't want to corrupt—'
'I've been corrupted,' Carella said. He looked at his watch. 'It isn't even ten thirty yet. If this works out, we're nine and a half hours ahead of our killer.'
'If it works out,' Hawes said.
'Well, let's go see her.' He paused. 'You ever been in one of these joints?'
'We had a lot of high-class call-houses in the Thirtieth,' Hawes said.
'These ain't high-class, son,' Carella said. 'These are very low-class. If you've got a clothes-pin, put it on your nose.'
They paid their bill and went into the street. Half-way up the block, a radio motor-patrol car was at the curb. Two patrolmen were on the sidewalk talking to a man and a woman, surrounded by kids.
'Trouble,' Carella said. He quickened bis pace. Hawes fell into step beside him.
'Now, take it easy,' the patrolman was saying, 'just take it easy!'
'Easy?' the woman shouted. 'Why should I take it easy? This man—'
'Pipe down!' the second patrolman yelled. 'You want the goddamn commissioner to drive up?'
Carella pushed his way through the knot of kids. He recognized the patrolmen at once, walked to the nearest one and said, 'What's up, Tom?'
The woman's face burst into a grin. 'Stevie!' she said. 'Dio gracias. Tell these stupids—'
'Hello, Mama Luz,' Carella said.
The woman he addressed was a fat woman with alabaster-white skin and black hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her neck. She wore a loose silk kimono, and her swelling bosom moved fluidly in the open neck. Her face was exquisitely carved, angelic, patrician. She was one of the most notorious madams in the entire city.