“Where?”
Auerbach dragged on his cigarette. “Gone south to the big city, pally. Washington, D.C.”
The swirls in the floor’s concrete vibrated softly in front of Florek’s eyes. “Gone with who?”
“A man she met here last week. A man and a woman, it was. I don’t have no names. He registered at the desk, but you can make book that the name was a phony.”
“What’d the man look like?”
“Small and bald. Other than that, I don’t recall.”
Florek closed his eyes. “Why’d she go with him?”
“This man, see, he put her onto something nicer than what I was giving her. Your sister, she liked to have a good time. She really liked these pills I was gettin’ for her. Nembutols. You know, goofballs. I get ’em cheap from a pharmacist friend over in Youngstown. But this guy, he showed her a really good time. Put a needle in her arm, made her feel real dreamy and good. Promised her more of the same, more needles, more good times, nice clothes and big city life, all kinds of fancy shit like that. It’s kind of funny, you know. What’s that word for it? Ironic. Yeah, it was ironic, like. I introduced this guy to her, and then he takes her away.”
“You sound pretty broken up about it.”
Auerbach shrugged. “Hey, he paid me and all that. Fifty bucks, it was. So I didn’t lose out all the way.”
Florek’s voice shook. “You made out real good.”
“Yeah, I made out all right. I’m gonna miss her though, is what I’m saying. I had a good thing with her. She never complained once about who I brought down those stairs. Long as I kept feeding her those goofballs, she never got particular on me. You gotta admit, it’s not a bad setup down here. It’s warm all the time, with the furnace next door and all, so warm she never even had to get dressed. I walked in on her once or twice myself, got a good eyeful. Like I say, your sister Lola, for a hophead I mean, she was some kind of dish.”
Florek turned on his feet and took a step toward Auerbach. The bellhop grinned, dropped his cigarette to the concrete, ground it under his shoe. He didn’t move back an inch.
Auerbach smiled, looked Florek over. “Aw, get a look at you. You got your fists balled up like you wanna fight. Is that what you want, stretch? You wanna go a few with Danny Auerbach?”
Florek let the heat in his blood pass. He unbailed his fists. He felt a tear run down his cheek, hated himself for letting it go.
Auerbach’s smile disappeared. “Get outta here. Go on and beat it before I kick you in the ass.”
Florek walked from the room. He passed through a veil of heat coming from the boiler room, smelled the alcohol in his sweat, the stench of it turning his stomach. On the stairs, he stopped to retch, holding the banister for support. Then he was out on the street, walking down the strip toward the Plymouth, his head down, his hands buried deep in his jacket. There was little to remember of the ride home.
That evening, Florek went to the California Confectionery and spoke to his boss. On Sunday he had supper with his mother and younger sister, a special meal with dishes prepared especially for him. Later he and his mother sat at the kitchen table while the radio played standards in the room. His mother kept her hand over his as they spoke into the night.
On Monday morning, Michael Florek took the two hundred dollars he had saved since high school from the bottom of his dresser. He gave his mother half of it and stuck the remainder in the pocket of his wool trousers. He kissed his mother on the cheek, picked up his duffel bag, and went out to the street.
Florek walked along the highway until he reached the edge of town. A flatbed truck hauling vegetables stopped for his upturned thumb. Florek went to the passenger side, looked through the open window. The driver had a kind, welcoming face. He wore a red plaid cap with flaps that covered his ears.
“Can I get a ride with you?”
The driver made a motion with his head. “Throw that bag of yours in the back, son, and get in.”
Florek looked behind him at the town. Down along the Shenango River, blankets of smoke flowed into the gray sky from the stacks of Sharon Steel.
Florek swung the duffel bag over the rail of the truck’s bed. He climbed into the cab.
The driver put the shifter in gear, gave the truck gas as it lurched onto the highway. He reached for a cigarette from the sun visor, placed the cigarette between his cracked lips. He struck a straight match on the dashboard, paused to glance at Florek before he gave himself the light.
“Where you goin’, anyway?”
“Washington.”
“Warshington? Down above Waynesburg?”
“Not Washington County,” said Florek. “Washington, D.C.”
Five
Washington, D.C
1949
16
Lola Florek felt the plump hand of Lydia Fortune pushing on her shoulder, shaking her awake. If she could just keep her eyes closed, pretend she was asleep... maybe Lydia would go away. When Lola felt like this, so good and right, all she wanted was to lie there, curl up like her mama’s baby girl, fly on it for a while, be left alone.
“C’mon, honey,” said Lydia. “I can see that smile on your face.”
The smile. Lola always forgot about the smile. She couldn’t help but smile, the way it felt. Just so good and right.
“C’mon,” said Lydia.
Lola opened her eyes. “Now?”
“Mr. Morgan’s got a date for you, honey. You don’t want to keep him waiting.”
Lola looked up at Lydia. The woman had a truly beautiful face: baby-doll eyes, shining, wavy black hair, a full mouth that snaked around suggestively when she smiled. Most folks would never recognize her beauty straight off, as they couldn’t get past the first impression of Lydia’s size. It was true that Lydia was an awfully big woman, what most folks would call fat. Lydia, she probably weighed upwards of two hundred pounds. Well, some men liked them big. Men had funny tastes, all right. Which is why Mr. Morgan kept all kinds around.
“C’mon, Lola, get on up.”
Lydia got a hand underneath Lola’s armpit, raised her so she sat upright on the bed. Lola watched the flicker of the flame from the candle on the nightstand. Shadows did the rhumba on the burgundy lace curtains of the bedroom window. It reminded Lola of a Warner Brothers’ cartoon she had seen before the feature at the Capitol once, back in Farrell. Lola laughed.
“Now, you don’t want to get old Lydia in trouble with Mr. Morgan, do you? You gotta help me out here, baby. Like I helped you out, just a little while ago.”
It was true, all right. Lydia had given her the sweet shot just a half hour before. She had always given it to Lola when she asked. Lola loved what the sweet shot did for her, but could not bear to put the needle in her own skin. On those nights when Lydia had a date of her own, she had showed Lola how to snort the brown powder up her nose, or heat it up in foil and inhale the smoke. Those ways worked just fine, but not like the needle. With the needle, it was like an ocean of warmth was crashing through her, sending her down to the liquid softness of her bed where she could just curl up and close her eyes and let it move her back and forth. So good and right... and Lydia had always helped.
“All right, Lydia. Here we go.”
Lola managed to get off the bed. She went to the makeup stand with the scrolled legs, had a seat on the miniature davenport, looked in the mirror. The dress she wore was sheer, a mocha color decorated with small, blood-red roses, with long sleeves that covered the marks on her arms. Her slip showed black beneath the dress. Lola fluffed the sides of her blonde hair, then brushed away a fork of bangs that tickled her forehead. She scratched her forehead at the tickle and saw that she had made it red.