"But how come he was there in the first place?"

"Well, now, I do know that. I went to Sister Isabella-she's the superintendent of nurses-to complain about him. After all, I was the one who got Miss Gibson into the hospital in the first place. She said to put up with him as best we could. He was an employee of Mr. Romano who was a benefactor of St. Jude's. Mr. Romano felt better with him there in case there was anything Miss Gibson wanted outside the jurisdiction of the staff."

Mr. Romano the benefactor. "And was there ever?" Julie asked. Then a shot in the dark: "Did Mr. Romano himself ever put in an appearance?"

"He did. And all while he was in the room, this red-headed oaf and another like him hung outside the door like bodyguards."

"Would there have been anyone else in the room while he was there?"

"Not past those bulldogs," the nurse said.

"Only one visit?"

"I think I'd have heard if there were more. You can imagine the buzz among the staff. Mr. Romano is reputed to be a Mafia figure."

"Reputed to be," Julie repeated.

"Sister Isabella warned us: reputed."

"That way it was all right to take his money."

Nurse Brennan gave a little sniff. "I don't think it's your place to censor an inst.i.tution dependent for its life upon charity."

"I agree. It's not my place to censor anyone." She did feel censorious, but it was not time to alienate Miss Brennan. "Sometimes I say things I shouldn't trying to understand other things. I know for a fact this Mack person has been around the apartment where Pete was found murdered. I don't suppose Mr. Romano visited any other patients, did he? What I'm getting at, Miss Brennan: you got Laura Gibson into St. Jude's, right? It seems to be a whopping coincidence that Mr. Romano happened to be a benefactor of that very hospital."

"For all I know, he may give to half the hospitals in New York City."

"You're right again." But Julie didn't think so.

"Or, there's another possibility," the nurse said slowly and drew herself up as though to say something not to her liking. "Laura was in twice-the exploratory in September, and then again in November until the end. And I will admit, the hospital's concern to please Mr. Romano struck me as a bit much."

"Like they were wooing him?"

"Something like it."

"In other words, if Miss Gibson had gone to St. Vincent's or someplace else, that's where Mr. Romano's endowment would have gone?"

"Mmmm." A noise of a.s.sent.

"That's it. That would make sense," Julie said.

"Do you want me to try a discreet inquiry?"

"Not necessary, but thank you."

Mrs. Ryan said, almost blissfully, looking up at the picture, "Isn't it amazing the variety of men Laura attracted? When I was a girl and first came to New York, it was very fashionable for prominent people to have their own bootleggers. There were all sorts of underworld types invited to theater parties and the very best houses. You're not shocked, are you, Julie?"

"No."

Miss Brennan rolled her eyes to the ceiling. And hadn't got them quite back in place when Mrs. Ryan looked at her.

"I'm surprised with all you see of human nature, Sheila, you're so out of touch with the world. But I suppose there's something of the nun in the nurse. Not that nuns are all that unworldly nowadays, G.o.d knows..."

"It's you and not me that's out of touch with the world, Mary."

Mrs. Ryan wagged her head: right you are if you think you are. "I wonder what he thought of Peter being there all the time, this Mr. Romano. You've never said what you thought of it, Sheila."

"We're always short-handed. It was good to have him there."

"But what was he to her, do you think?"

"It was none of my business."

"Didn't she used to call him her nephew?"

"He was more than that."

"I think so too," Julie said.

"Julie was half in love with him. Do you mind our talking like this, dear?"

"No. I don't know who I was half in love with. I mean I still don't know Pete."

"You're just as well then." Miss Brennan leaned over and rubbed one of her legs. "Look at my ankles, the size of cantaloupes. I must go up and put them in a hot tub."

"That isn't fair, Miss Brennan. Please?"

"I'm not going to sit here and talk about things I don't know the meaning of. I said before, it was my impression that Laura Gibson wanted people to think she was more in bed than out of it. And G.o.d knows, the likes of Mary Ryan here made a great audience. You heard her tonight."

"I never said she was bed with him, did I, Julie? The poor boy was queer. He wasn't f.a.ggoty, but I'd swear on my oath he was queer."

The color flamed up in the nurse's face. "Just lie there and be quiet. You wouldn't know a f.a.g from a fig leaf. Not that I'm such an expert myself. All right, I'll tell you what I saw, and you make of it what you will. He was an artist, wasn't he?"

"Sort of. A scene designer," Julie said.

"Oh, these were scenes, all right." The woman's face grew even darker as she plunged ahead. "Do you know how he entertained her the last weeks of her life? Drawing dirty pictures for her. I saw some of them myself. I wasn't supposed to, but I saw them. And sometimes you'd hear the two of them laughing, you'd hear it down at the end of the hall with her winding up screaming with the pain it brought on. And I heard her say it was worth it. So there." Little bubbles of spit had appeared in the corners of the woman's mouth.

"Don't excite yourself so," Mrs. Ryan said, sitting up.

"I'm not exciting myself!"

Julie said: "I can put this part together, Miss Brennan. And it goes with Mr. Romano. It's not so awful, really. Pete paid all the hospital bills for Miss Gibson, all her bills, and he needed money. He made p.o.r.nographic movies or a p.o.r.n movie-which is one of the Romano rackets, distributing them. It sounds to me like Miss Gibson was a consultant. Don't you think?"

Miss Brennan let go the breath she was holding. "I wouldn't say."

Julie wanted terribly not to make her feel the fool. "You couldn't have known what it was about unless somebody told you, and if they didn't know, anybody would have thought it bizarre." One of Doctor's favorite words.

"Bizarre, that's the word." She sat quietly for a moment, saved from chagrin, and then gave a great boom of laughter that startled Fritzie off the couch. "Oh, my G.o.d, my G.o.d!" She went into another peal of laughter. "And here I thought they were having some kind of s.e.xual experience."

Great, Julie thought, but she sure as h.e.l.l wasn't going to say it. All in all, she had learned quite a lot, but it was in the area of facts: Russo's department. Sweets Romano, Pete, and Laura Gibson. Well, the psychology of it was over her depth. But there was always Doctor. Wh.o.r.es and wh.o.r.es... and 'ho's and 'ho's. She was going to be in great shape for her session after a five A.M. party at Goldie's.

Mrs. Ryan lay back on the couch. "p.o.r.nographic films, and him at the altar every Sunday."

"There was something I wondered about at the time," Miss Brennan said. "He was never long from her bedside except at night. But he did go off to Boston for three or four days. Now, that's when this Mack person was on hand so much, when the young man was away. Laura tried to drink herself to death while he was gone. I pretended I didn't know what was going on, but I did. This henchman kept the bottle for her: he was in and out the room twenty times a day. I suppose it was concerned with the film that Mr. Mallory went, and if he did it for the money, G.o.d knows he soon needed it. She died within the week and the bills were enormous."

"And didn't he give her a lovely funeral? At St. Malachy's. You remember, Sheila?"

"Of course, I remember."

Julie said, "There's to be a memorial Ma.s.s for Pete at St. Malachy's on the twenty-fourth."

"That would be Father Doyle who arranged it," Mrs. Ryan said with the certainty of felt truth. "You'll like him, Julie, and maybe you ought to go see him yourself. About your own father."

"What?"

"I've been thinking a lot about what you told me." She turned to Miss Brennan and said, "Excuse me, Sheila. It's a confidence Julie confided to me."

"According to the church, I'm an illegitimate child," Julie said. All right.

Mrs. Ryan went on persuasively. "Father Doyle is the Hound of Heaven when it comes to tracking down men and making them face up to their responsibilities. Think about it. You might feel better just knowing."

"I might."

Fritzie was scratching at the door, a welcome sound. "Shall I take the dog for a walk, Mrs. Ryan? Then I have to go." She shook hands with Miss Brennan and thanked her.

"You didn't mind my saying that?" Mrs. Ryan, the dog's leash in her hand, detained Julie by not giving it to her right away.

"No. I didn't even mind saying my lines."

Mrs. Ryan pulled her down and kissed her cheek. The woman smelled of beer and dentures and tired perfume. "You're a funny, brave little thing," she said.

Poor old Fritzie, all sniff and belly, and not enough holy water left to sprinkle his domain. She walked him on Eighth Avenue, her own prelude. Twilight. The Twilight Zone. In Boston "the street" was the Combat Zone. Why Boston, Pete? Why anything? She had thought she would know herself, knowing Pete. But getting to know Pete wasn't any easier. Maybe knowing herself, she'd know Pete. How about that? The Manhattan Hotel: dark, out of business, hundreds of rooms with empty beds, dusty mattresses, and a lobby with a moving stairway that had come to a halt. You heard all the time of streets that were dying, neighborhoods, but here you saw it happening. Building after building with life at the top snuffed out, s.e.x pads and parlors on the second floors, a few cultists, and occultists selling shabby dreams that wouldn't last the night, s.e.x for men who didn't want women... Yeah, even those buying the female bodies of women who didn't want men. The people who were going somewhere went quickly, blindly, mostly to theater, respectable people, like Jeff's friends, with whom she just couldn't identify. What were her father's friends like? She could hardly remember her mother's friends. What did it mean, this obsession with the street, with life at the bottom? There wasn't a thing she could fix. Not really. She kept telling herself she cared that Rita make it out of The Life. But if that's what it all was about, why didn't she care more for Rita? Gut caring. For whom did she gut care? Julie? Yes. Or why hang around? It wasn't just to see what happened. No, sir. She wanted in on the action. Absolutely. But what action?

She delivered Fritzie back to Mrs. Ryan who, having thanked her, then said, "Julie, wouldn't you like a nice game of whist? Mrs. Russo's coming over and Sheila said she'd come down as soon as she gets out of her clothes."

"Can't," Julie said, and it was the only word she could say on the subject.

On the street again, debating between the subway and her feet, Julie was struck with the idea that from Columbus Circle to where she stood, there wasn't a church on Eighth Avenue. On the side streets were all varieties, but not on the street itself. Could that be the reason the street was dying? Just to see how far she would have to go to come to one, she walked. n.o.body said G.o.d was dead anymore. Or even that he was alive and well someplace else. It had been a great line when she was in college.

Pa.s.sing Penn Station without having come on a church, she turned east on Thirty-first Street. In there somewhere the Franciscans had staked out a mission where they could go around in their long skirts and bare sandaled feet. It was the bare feet that had drawn her in the first time. But on the busy steps of the church she remembered that inside there was a figure as large as life-or death-under gla.s.s. People prayed there as they did in Europe and waited in line to touch. She had touched Pete. There ought to have been a miracle, but there wasn't. There had only been herself.

Home, she read a letter from Jeff written before she had sent him her long log. He did not even mention Paris. Not one word. She checked the date to see if this one had been written earlier and delayed. Not at all. Jeff was being Jeff, going on ahead. His little girl could catch up or not, but she'd have to do the running. It was one of his Olympian letters which she hated anyway, a cross between Ben Franklin and Polonius. Balonius. "Just remember, you are now that marvelous age which people from now on will remind you you aren't anymore." She'd have to work that one out with a slide rule.

She cleaned house furiously, bathed, and dressed in a change of clothes but not of costume. Whatever she was, she wanted to be the most of it when five A.M. came around. Toward midnight she took a cab back to Forty-fourth Street, taking with her a mohair blanket and the collected poems of William Butler Yeats.

24.

"MIZ JULIE..."

The street was so silent that the building itself seemed listening with her. She thought at first she imagined Goldie's voice. A quarter to five. A night of a thousand hours. And if it weren't Goldie?

"Miz Julie," this time drawn out coaxingly, musically, and with a fingernail tap on the window. Who else would it be, for G.o.d's sake?

She drew the curtain she had hung on the door between the rooms and lit the light in the front of the shop. There he stood, face close to the window, a black G.o.d with white teeth. He was wearing a dinner jacket. The lapels shone with a kind of iridescence and the glittering studs on his dress shirt might well be diamonds. A girl's best friend. Yeah.

Julie let herself out and locked the shop door. "When you say a party you mean it, don't you?"

"Handsome, huh?"

"You bet."

He pranced ahead and opened the door to a white Cadillac he had parked a couple of buildings down, a yellowed white in the amber of high-security street light.

"Family morale goes way up when Goldie does his thing," he said, getting in beside her. He turned up the radio: Barbra Streisand in stereo. She wasn't singing it, but Julie thought of people who need people. Having given her the full benefit of his sound system, Goldie switched stations to Mozart and turned the volume down again. He drove north on Eighth Avenue and cruised, crossing the whole wide thoroughfare from corner to corner, a smooth, long zigzag in the spa.r.s.e traffic to make known his pa.s.sing to the hustlers still shivering at their posts in the chill predawn.

"My G.o.d, this street's depressing."

"It all depends who's hustling it, honey chile." His phony dialect.

He stopped in front of a new apartment building on Fifty-seventh Street and gave the car keys to the doorman. "It's a private party tonight, Tony. n.o.body, right?"

"Yes, sir." In his heart, Julie felt, the doorman said, "Ya.s.suh."

A penthouse, naturally. In the elevator Goldie did a little dance step all the way to the top.

House Beautiful plus. White and gold. A waterbed and bean bags. Hi fi and comic books. A white vase with gold-dusted flowers, incense over gra.s.s.

"I'm home," Goldie sang out. "Let me have your coat, Miz Julie."

"I'll keep it, thanks. It gives me someplace to put my hands." Julie made a careful choice of a chair, the only straight thing in the place.

Goldie rolled his eyes and shrugged. "How about a drink? Name it and I got it."

"Orange juice?"

"You're the healthiest chick I ever tried to hustle. Orange juice. No lace?"

"No lace."

The door opened and three women filed out in the kind of body-conscious sway and swagger you expected in a fashion show, which it turned out to be.