How weird. No accounting for what people like to read. I wondered if someone came over and read to Inge regularly. And then it occurred to me that the books had to have belonged to Sig.

Of course. Not that I'd have pegged him for any kind of scholar, either.

When Inge woke she looked utterly lost. I waited while she washed up and then we went out for a pizza, Bruno in tow.

I was drinking alone in a tavern in the middle of the day. Something no properly raised black woman would ever do-it was acting nasty, acting like trash. And not a particularly nice tavern at that.

But I needed a bourbon, bad, and I needed to think.

So I had found little Mrs. Sig. And her fatherless baby-that would be Bruno in the cartoon version of this story.

Now what was I going to do about it?

Inge and Bruno were going to have it tough without Siggy. But it looked like they'd had it just as tough with him. Sig looked like any other down on his luck musician when I met him, yet he had plenty of money. Money as dirty as a tenement toilet, I wagered. But he hadn't used it, and he hadn't shared it with Inge. She didn't seem to have a clue to who he really was, no inkling he was a cop. I wondered if there was a legitimate Mrs. Sig somewhere-a real wife.

What to do? I could mail Inge a couple of hundred bucks anonymously. I could say it was from an old fan. Or I could just forget about her-try to, anyway. I could follow Aubrey's line of reasoning, too: finders, keepers. After all, Conlin left the money in my house, not Inge's. Truth was, I didn't know whether he'd meant to give a dime to Inge or the legitimate Mrs. He may even have been fixing to dump the both of them. Yeah-nice guy.

That was just it, though. I'm under no illusion that I'm the queen of mature judgment, but I don't pick bad guys, heartless b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. They might be f.u.c.k ups, they might be dumb, they might have a little larceny in their hearts, drink too much, think a little too highly of themselves for their own good, but nine times out of ten they are nice. And I couldn't imagine one of them sponging off a hapless blind girlfriend and then stiffing her when he hit the jackpot. There had to be a reason Sig hadn't told Inge about that money yet.

Yes, I had compa.s.sion for blind Inge. But I had to learn how to have a little compa.s.sion for poor little Nanette, too. Who needed a break. Who was about to fall on some pretty tough times herself, now that Walter had split.

Sure, a couple of hundred bucks in a plain brown wrapper would be just fine for Inge. h.e.l.l, I wouldn't turn it down if I were in her place.

I heard Ernestine whispering then: Honey, Some doors are closed for a good reason. Crack this one a little bit more, and your heart's truly gone be ready for Satan.

I called for another bourbon, no ice, asked the bartender for change and purchased a pack of Winston Lights from the machine. Except for my ongoing b.u.mming of smokes from anybody I happened to be sitting across from, I had been off cigarettes for two years. G.o.dd.a.m.n. Why did they make cigarettes taste so G.o.dd.a.m.n good if you weren't supposed to smoke the G.o.dd.a.m.n things?

The bourbon was awfully tasty too-with just a little water, no ice, no, no ice-mellow. Like me. like Mellow Nan. No more No No Nanette. Oui, Oui. South of f.u.c.king France. Little farmhouse. Field of lilac. Hot summer sun. String bikini. Real vegetables. Vin rouge to die.

Aubrey would scoff at this dilemma of mine. f.u.c.k compa.s.sion, she'd say. Aubrey was mighty wise about life. Maybe I had no business doubting her on this one. Maybe my only dilemma was whether to take Air France or Sabena. American Express Travelers Checks or Cook's. France by rail or rent a car?

Ernestine was going to have my a.s.s for this.

Two drivers took a pa.s.s on me before I could catch a cab home. I must have looked drunker than I was. But on the other hand, in the daytime it's always 5050 whether a taxi will stop for me. I don't look straight enough to be a bougie bank exec, but I don't exactly look like I'm gonna take them to the South Bronx either. Sometimes the black drivers are just as bad as the white. I stand there on the curb wishing I was Sissy s.p.a.cek in Carrie. Just picturing that f.u.c.king yellow car skidding on two wheels into a concrete wall and blowing sky high and me watching the conflagration with a serene little smile on my lips. Witnesses, officer? No, sorry, I didn't see a thing.

Of course, when I'm in my night finery, it's a different story. I've caused more than one pile up in my leather bustier.

The kitchen table was covered with newspapers, all of them turned to the travel section. I'd bought them to compare airline prices.

I'd taken the money and put it all in my knapsack, which I then propped up in the chair across from me. The bag looked for all the world like a puffed up midget sitting there waiting for coffee to be served. When the telephone rang, I looked over at it, as though asking, Now who can that be?

Walter.

He begged me not to hang up on him, as I'd done late last night. He said he had to talk to me. He missed me so much he couldn't function. He had to see me.

I'm getting ready for a trip, I told him.

Just to see me once before I went off. I said I don't know-that fatal phrase: they always know they've got you when you say I don't know. Women are dumb a lot of the time: it's not a pretty thing to face, but there it is. I said I don't know, but I did know: he was going to come over. And we were going to talk. And we were going to end up in bed. That was how it always shook out. That was where, after one of our break-ups, the talk always led. We'd talk and then we'd f.u.c.k and then a few days later he'd move in again, amid a lot of promises and hope. Until the next time.

"Can I come over now? Please, baby."

I felt that creeping hot patch on my neck. The signal of my desire. It didn't much matter what he promised me now, and I was just about to tell him to hurry over, when I was suddenly knocked off my feet by an enormous wave of sadness and guilt. As much for Siggy as for Inge.

"Walter?"

"What, sweetheart?"

"Walter, what would you say was the greatest thing you ever did to earn me?"

"What?"

"You know, the emblematic gesture that said what you want in this world is me."

"What?"

"I mean, I know that you kind of keep me-in a way. But did you ever do anything to earn me? When was the last time you jumped in front of a bus for me?"

"What the f.u.c.k you talking about, Nanette?"

I wasn't listening to Walter anymore. I said I had to hang up. And I did.

I also folded up the newspapers and put them out near the incinerator. I wasn't going to France and I knew it. Not on this sixty grand, anyway.

"Who's there?" Inge called timidly from behind the paint-flecked door to her apartment.

"It's Ann," I responded.

It was dark inside. She closed the door behind me and switched on a lamp.

Inge stood there, blinking every now and again, waiting for me to speak.

"I have something to give you," I said finally.

She c.o.c.ked her head to the left, but remained silent. Bruno ambled over and took his place at her side.

I reached into my overalls and came out with four of the rolls. "Here."

I pressed them into her hands, swatting away the dog's curious nose.

"What is it?"

"It's money. From Sig. He told me it should go to you if anything ever happened to him. There's ..." I faltered there, postponing the absurd sentence I was about to p.r.o.nounce. "There's twenty thousand dollars there, Inge."

"Twenty thousand." She repeated the words as if I were talking about a breakfast cereal.

"That's right. It's not a trick. It's not a joke. Just take it and live your life."

Bruno growled from way down in his chest.

"I told Sig I didn't know if we'd make the rent next month," she said distractedly. "But how did you-"

I ran out of there.

In what had to be the boldest act of my life, out of high compa.s.sion and no sense, I had just given away twenty thousand dollars that didn't belong to me-just like that-without thinking.

Which left forty.

So, who was going to be Robin Hood's next have-not?

The old woman in Harlem who rescued the babies with AIDS was dead now, but her work continued. Someone else was operating the charity called Hale House. Perhaps I'd give them something.

What about the United Negro College Fund? What about a yearly stipend for some deserving music student at one of the city colleges?

And there was still that large breasted, half bald black girl from Queens who blew tenor on street corners-the one who was so fond of Provence and triple milled soaps. The one who needed to have her head examined at the earliest possible opportunity.

No, none of these, deserving as they might be. It was time for me to come to my senses.

The money-what was left of it-was going where it should have gone five minutes after I'd found it. G.o.d help me, I was going to have to turn it over to Leman Sweet.

CHAPTER 5.

Little rootie toot The kitchen in the house where I grew up is as pure with light as a day in St. Paul de Vence. And it is invariably spotless. There is an explanation for this: Mom can't cook.

My mother is a child of convenience foods. No homemade cornbread or peach cobbler ever drew breath in that kitchen. We were strictly Colonel Sanders and Mrs. Paul; spinach pie at the Greeks on Metropolitan Avenue, corned beef at the deli in Sunnyside; Sunday trips in to Manhattan for the biscuits at Sylvia's in Harlem or, on a really special occasion, dinner in the theater district before some musical my father was taking us to.

It had nothing to do with my mother's lousy cooking, but Daddy left her about eight years ago. He is a department head at one of those high schools for gifted a.s.sholes, and he fell in love with a colleague-a young white teacher nearly half his age. The feeling, apparently, was mutual and so they were wed. Like something out of the Greeks, my mother has not spoken his name since. Mom is going on fifty-five. She is still pretty. I don't look a thing like her.

I placed a roll of bills in the pocket of her mauve shirtwaist with a simple "Happy birthday, Mom."

"Nanette, what is this?"

"It's for you, Mom. Your birthday present."

"Nanette, you already gave me a birthday present-three months ago."

"Right. That was part one. This is part two."

She removed the rubber band from the roll and counted the bills. "Nanette, this is five thousand dollars."

"Yes ma'am, I know."

"Where did this come from?"

"From NYU. It's a bonus."

"Bonus for what?"

"Well, not exactly a bonus. It's more like a prize. For some, uh, books that I translated."

"Well, that's just wonderful. But what would I look like taking your whole fee for that work? You're not supporting me, Nanette."

"It's not my whole fee. It's only half. And I wanted to give it to you now because I'll probably forget your next six birthdays. It's a kind of insurance. And besides, haven't you been talking about repainting the house or something for months now?"

"I want aluminum siding, I said. As if you were listening."

"Well, that's what I mean. It's yours."

In the end she did take the money. After pinning me to the wall with a couple of those patented Mom looks. You know, those looks that can mean anything from who's going to be wearing pajamas at this pajama party? to prison is probably too good for you. I had seen the full panoply of her looks and now, after nearly thirty years, could all but ignore them.

Mom kissed me and put the bills back in her pocket.

She keeps saying that one day she'll take a vacation someplace nice-maybe even go to Europe. But she never will. She keeps promising to visit me and see my apartment, too, at least to meet me midtown for lunch. But I don't count on that one either. I don't think she even remembers the last time she was in Manhattan.

Mom told me all about aluminum siding. We had tea, Lipton's, which is very hard to get wrong.

She asked after Aubrey, and inquired whether she still had "that beautiful mink jacket that she saved up for" out of her earnings as a restaurant hostess. I knew that her suspicions about what Aubrey really did for a living were probably much worse than the reality. A go go dancer isn't a wh.o.r.e, I wanted to tell her. But it was a little late for that. See, the old folks do have a point-once you tell a lie, you have to go on lying; it just works that way.

A few minutes before it was time for me to go, I went into my old room and called Aubrey. I had to confirm the appointment we'd made. I needed someone there with me when I faced Leman Sweet, and Aubrey had agreed to accompany me; to watch my back, so to speak, since I feared Detective Sweet might get physical again when I told him what I'd done. When I told him even half of what I'd done.

"So ... you really gone do it, huh Nan?" Aubrey asked wearily.

"Yeah, I really am."

"You be better off taking Walter back."

We had taken over a corner of the immense lobby of her apartment building and fashioned an island of sofas and gla.s.s tables and easy chairs. I took a cigarette from Aubrey's pack. As I was striking the match I noticed Leman Sweet swing in through the plate gla.s.s doors. As he barrelled along, he was being dogged by an irate doorman who had not been responded to in the manner to which he was accustomed. Sweet finally wheeled on the man and flipped open his badge. The doorman removed his hat and wiped his forehead.

"That's him?" Aubrey stage whispered to me.

"Oh yeah. That is most definitely him."

"He doesn't look that mean."

She was right.

It was Leman Sweet, all right, but not the same one who had cursed and a.s.saulted me in my own home. He still had the Fu Manchu moustache but he was now dressed in a dark business suit. High polished Florsheims. Good Presbyterian tie. Good haircut. The quietly competent look. Best of all, he wasn't carrying a musical instrument that might end up smashed to bits against the nearest available surface.

Detective Sweet towered over us like the wish-granting, coal-black genie in my childhood affirmative action story book. I worked up enough courage to meet his eyes.

"Why'd you want to meet here?" he boomed.

"My friend Aubrey lives here," I responded, a clumsy introduction if ever there was one.