More laughs. Two men, situated to either side.
‘I don’t have the necklace.’ A slight wobble; she is feeling the strain. ‘What I do have is information that you can use, either for the retrieval of the missing jewels or …’ She leaves the sentence unfinished, although I suspect she concludes with a flourish of her hands. It’s a dramatic gesture, designed to turn her lack into a positive. Better than the stolen goods, her phrasing says, she has given him options.
‘Or what, babe?’ He sounds short-tempered now. The tactic hasn’t worked. ‘You got something for me? Some kind of trinket? A keepsake you want to trade?’
‘I have information for you.’ She is repeating herself. I can hear the strain as she tries to regroup. ‘I have followed up on all the leads and I know who stole the necklace.’
‘What do you think, guys?’ He’s playing to his henchmen, enlisting them in some game I do not understand. ‘Do we believe her?’
‘I don’t know, boss.’ A low rumble, part growl, part laugh. ‘What’s she got to show for it?’
‘I said—’ Care again, a little louder.
He cuts her off. ‘Exactly. Now, if you had something to give us … A little token of your esteem?’
Footsteps. The men have advanced. It takes all of my will not to snarl and leap, assuming I could force my way past the metal grid of the vent. I suspect the girl is expending a similar effort, willing herself not to run.
‘Wait.’ A command, firm and clear. The men stop. ‘You hired the old man, my mentor, to uncover who had stolen your necklace. I have completed the job. George Bushwick has your necklace. I suspect he employed others to do the actual theft, but that shouldn’t matter to you. He is the one behind the theft.’
A moment of silence. I can hear her breathe, a little shaky, and I hope that none of the men below share my aural sensitivity. This is not what she expected. Nor Diamond Jim, either, I believe. The silence is one of reckoning and recalculation. I examine the grill and consider my options.
And then it happens. A bark like thunder, breaking loud. A laugh. Diamond Jim is laughing, and then his two henchmen are laughing with him, big, meaty laughs forced from the belly to support their leader’s mood. I strain my ears to hear what else is going on as the humorless thunder fills the room. I do not hear any major movements. The girl has not run, nor has she been attacked.
‘Oh, that’s rich,’ the big man says at last. He sniffs back tears and I picture him wiping his eyes with a be-ringed hand. ‘That’s good, sweetheart. Real good.’
‘Mr Jim?’ She sounds like a child again, her voice high-pitched with confusion.
‘Go on. Run along.’ Those big hands, those rings. Light footsteps as she stumbles back toward the door. ‘Don’t waste any more of my time. Unless—’ I hear her stop and turn. ‘Unless you do find something for me. You hear me, sweetheart? Come back with something real.’
A second wave of laughter accompanies her footsteps as she turns and leaves, walking as quickly as her injured dignity will allow. I long to follow, to find her on the street. To press my own small body against her in solidarity and comfort. Instead, I make myself wait. As quickly as it rose, the laughter dies down, the two taking their cue from their boss.
‘She’s been checking up on Bushwick, boss,’ one of the men offers. ‘Watching him, maybe.’
‘So she has,’ says their leader. ‘Hey, maybe she will come up with something. She’s a sharp one, that girl. Almost makes me sad.’
TWENTY-NINE
Care is fuming when I find her on the street. She’s too preoccupied to question my appearance here, downtown. Her fear – the shredded remnants of her courage – has turned to anger. ‘I don’t get it,’ she spits the words out, as much to the pavement as to me. ‘I don’t get that jerk at all. He paid for information. That was the deal. The old man never said he’d get the necklace back. Right from the start, he was clear – odds were the piece was already broken up. That’s what the pros do, and whoever took that necklace was clearly a professional.’