On the street, the cops sipped their coffees, smoked their cigarettes, shrugged. They called the girls by their names and nicknames. Foxy. Angie. Daisy. Raf. SweetCakes. Sugarpie. They knew the girls well and the crackdown was as lethargic as the day. The girls must have heard the rumor of it beforehand, and they had gotten rid of their needles and any other drug paraphernalia, dropped them down into the gutter. There’d been raids before, but never so complete a sweep.
“I want to know what’s happening to them,” said Corrigan, going cop to cop. “Where are they going?” He spun on his heels. “What are you arresting them for?”
“Stargazing,” said a cop, bashing into Corrigan’s shoulder.
I watched a long pink boa scarf get caught up in the wheels of a patrol car. It wrapped the wheelbase as if in affection, and bits of tufted pink spun in the air.
Corrigan took down a series of badge numbers. A tall female cop plucked the notebook out of his hand and shredded it slowly in front of him. “Look, you dumb Mick, they’ll be back soon, okay?”
“Where’re you taking them?”
“What’s it to you, buddy?”
“Where are you bringing them? Which station house?”
“Step back. Over there. Now.”
“Under what statute?” said Corrigan.
“Under the statute that I’ll kick your ass if you don’t.”
“All I want is an answer.”
“The answer’s seven,” the female cop said, staring Corrigan down. “The answer’s always seven. Get it?”
“No I don’t.”
“What are you, man, some sort of fruit or something?”
One of the sergeants swaggered up and shouted: “Somebody take care of Mr. Lovey-Dovey here.” Corrigan was pushed to the side of the road and told to stand on the curb. “We’ll lock you up if you say another word.”
I guided him aside. His face was red and his fists tightened. Veins thrummed at his temple. A new splotch had appeared on his neck. “Take it easy, okay, Corr? We’ll sort it out later. They’ll be better off in a station anyway. It’s not as if you actually like them being here.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Oh, Jesus, come on,” I said. “Just trust me. We’ll get to them later.”
The paddy wagons bounced down off the curbs and all but one of the squad cars followed behind. A few onlookers gathered in clumps. Some kids rode their bicycles in circles around the empty space as if they’d found themselves a brand-new playground. Corrigan went to pick up a keyring from the gutter. It was a cheap little glass thing with a picture of a child in the center. Flipped over, there was a picture of another child.
“That’s the reason,” said Corrigan, thrusting the keyring towards me. “They’re Jazz’s kids.”
Whosoever brought me here is going to have to take me home. Tillie had charged me fifteen dollars for our little tryst, patted me on the back, then said I represented the Irish quite well, a grand dollop of irony in her voice. Call me SweetCakes. She flicked the ten-dollar bill and said she knew some Khalil Gibran too — she would quote a bit or two if I wanted. “Next time,” I said. She’d riffled through her handbag. “Are you interested in a little horse?” she asked as she buttoned me up. She said she could get some from Angie. “Not my style,” I said. She giggled and leaned closer to me. “Your style?” she said. She put her hand on my hip, laughed again. “Your style!” There was a sickening moment when I thought she had pickpocketed all my tips, but she hadn’t; she just tightened my belt and slapped me on the arse.
I was glad that I hadn’t gone with her daughter. I felt almost virtuous, as if I hadn’t been tempted at all. Tillie’s smell had lingered with me for a couple of days and it returned again now that she had been taken off and arrested.
“She’s a grandmother?”
“I told you that,” said Corrigan. He stormed towards the last remaining cop car, brandishing Jazz’s key chain. “What’re you going to do about this?” he shouted. “You going to get someone to look after her kids? Is that what you’re going to do? Who’s going to look after her kids? Are you going to leave them there on the street? You’re arresting her mother and her!”
“Mister,” the cop said, “one more word from you—”
I pulled Corrigan’s elbow hard and dragged him back through the projects. For a moment the buildings seemed more sinister without the hookers outside: the territory was transformed, none of the old totems anymore.
The lift was broken again. Corrigan wheezed up the stairs. Inside, he began dialing all the community groups he knew, looking for a lawyer, and a babysitter for Jazzlyn’s kids. “I don’t even know where they’ve gone,” he screamed into the phone. “They wouldn’t tell me. Last time, the lockups were full and they got sent down to Manhattan.”
Another phone call. He turned away from me, cupped his hand around the receiver.
“Adelita?” he said.
His grip deepened around the phone as he whispered. He had spent the previous few afternoons with her, at her house, and each time he came home he was the same: roaming the room, pulling at the buttons on his shirt, muttering to himself, trying to read his Bible, looking for something that might justify himself, or maybe looking for a word to leave him even further tortured, a pain that would leave him again on edge. That, and a happiness too, an energy. I wasn’t sure what to tell him anymore. Give in to the despondency. Find a new posting. Forget her. Move on. At least with the hookers he didn’t have time to juggle notions of love and loss — down on the street it was pure take and take. But with Adelita it was different — she wasn’t pushing any greed or climax. This is my body, it has been given up for you.
Later, around noon, I found Corrigan in the bathroom, shaving in front of the mirror. He had been down to the Bronx county courthouse, where most of the hookers had already been released on time served. But there were outstanding warrants in Manhattan for Tillie and Jazzlyn. They had pulled some robbery together, turned on a trick. The case was old. Still, they were both going to be transported downtown. He pulled on a crisp black shirt and dark trousers, went to the mirror again, pasted his long hair back with water. “Well, well,” he said. He took a small scissors to his hair and lopped off about four inches. His fringe went in three smooth snips.
“I’m going to go down to help them,” he said.
“Where?”
“The parthenon of justice.”
He looked older, more worn. With his haircut, the bald spot was more pronounced.
“They call it the Tombs. They’ll be arraigned in Centre Street. Listen, I need you to take my shift in the nursing home. I talked with Adelita. She already knows.”
“Me? What am I going to do with them?”
“I don’t know. Take them to the beach or something.”
“I have a job in Queens.”
“Do it for me, brother, will you, please? I’ll give you a shout later on.” He turned at the door. “And look after Adelita for me too, will you?”
“Sure.”
“Promise me.”
“Yeah, I will — now, go.”
Outside I could hear the sounds of the children following Corrigan down the stairs, laughing. It was only when the apartment had fallen into full silence did I remember that he had taken the brown van with him.