Inside the entryway a strong scent of Pine-Sol showed someone making an effort to overcome the urine. It was almost successful, but the stench still lingered underneath, turning my stomach. Presumably the same hand had screwed a grate over the sprung mailboxes. The postman could get letters through, but you had to unlock the grate to get them out.
The Armbrusters were on the second floor. No stairwell lights existed. I picked my way slowly in the dark, testing each stair before putting weight on it. Twice a major portion of the tread was missing and my heart lurched as nothing but air met my foot.
At the second-floor door an infant’s howling mixed in with the radio. I pounded on the door with the side of my closed fist. On the second try a deep-voiced woman demanded to know who was there.
“It’s V. I. Warshawski,” I yelled. “I’ve come to see Mrs. Ramsay.”
The door held a peephole; I positioned myself so that my clean honest face would be visible from the other side. For a while nothing happened. Then the radio and the baby stopped almost simultaneously; I could hear someone undoing a series of locks.
When the door opened a thin middle-aged woman faced me holding a baby. The child’s soft cheeks were still wet with tears. She turned her head away when she saw me watching her and buried her chubby hands in the thin woman’s tight bun. Something about the immovable tidiness of the woman’s hair and the severe ironing of her dress made me think she was responsible for the Pine-Sol in the lobby.
Zerlina stood behind her, overshadowing her both in girth and in the rich blackness of her skin. I presumed the other woman was Maisie and that she held Katterina.
“How did you find me?” Zerlina demanded.
“The morgue gave me the address of the person who took Cerise’s body. It was just a guess that you’d be here, but you’d talked about Otis and about Katterina’s other grandmother, so I thought you might all be together.”
All the light was behind them. I had to squint to see their faces, but I thought it would be better if I waited to be invited in. No one seemed in a hurry to do so.
“You can’t come around hounding people in the privacy of their homes,” Maisie growled, jiggling the baby to let her know the anger wasn’t for her.
I rubbed my face tiredly. “Someone burned down a big hotel two weeks ago. No one died but a lot of people were hurt, including Mrs. Ramsay. She’s the only person I know who might be able to give me some help in finding out who did it.”
“I’m not the only person you know, little white girl, as you’re well aware,” Zerlina said. “Ask that precious aunt of yours.”
“The last time I talked to Elena I told her about Cerise. That scared her so much she ran away from home. She’s been hiding on the streets ever since. I figure you’re made of sterner stuff.”
Her strong face set into stubborn lines. “You figure what you want to. Between the two of you, that aunt of yours and you got my daughter dead. I don’t have nothing more to say to you.”
Before Maisie could slam the door in my face I pulled out a card and gave it to Zerlina. “If you change your mind, you can call me at that number. Someone takes messages twenty-four hours a day.”
Before she’d bolted the first lock the radio started again. The insistent beat of the rap music followed me down the stairs and into the night.
24
Asleep in a Basement Room
I spent the night at Robin’s. He was a sweet and thoughtful lover, but he couldn’t wipe the decay of north Lawndale from my mind. Falling into a fitful sleep around one, I was jerked awaked by a dream in which I was walking up Christiana while a car trailed me. I woke up just before it ran over me.
I fumbled around on the night table for my watch. Squinting in the dark, I could just make out the hands: four-ten. I lay down again and tried to go back to sleep. In a strange bed, though, with the memory of a bad dream lingering, I couldn’t relax. Finally, a little after five, I gave it up and tiptoed into the bathroom with my clothes.
In the kitchen I found a spiral notebook next to the phone. I tore out a page and scribbled a note to Robin, explaining why I was taking off, and slipped out quietly.
At five-thirty the city was barely coming to life. Lights burned in a number of apartment windows—this was a neighborhood of hard workers who started the day early— but I was alone on the road until I hit a main artery.
When I got to my own place I felt tired enough to go back to bed. This time I managed to sleep until eight. When I got up again I felt groggy and disoriented. I pulled on a sweatshirt and a pair of underpants and sat in the kitchen reading the paper and drinking coffee until past nine when Furey called.
“I thought you were going to phone me last night, Vic.”
I didn’t like the angry impatience in his tone. “I thought so, too, Michael, but it slipped my mind. If I’d had anything to report, I might have remembered, but the woman wouldn’t even let me in the front door.”