Jake recognized the street they were on. This was where he arrived on the Ward, where he’d tied his horse up and let it get stolen. These townhomes were his first glimpse of Omaha. Almost nice ones, jigsawed together from curb to curb, brownstones too close to industry and the pig iron cauldrons of mills, the constant rolling of steel and tails of factory smoke. The windows here framed with lace valance or blocked out with velvet. The doors with stained-glass panels and heavy brass knobs. A sleek Packard Twin was along the curbstone, all shine and varnish. More than a dozen people stopped here now to see a woman put out. Street kids, businessmen in derby hats. Mostly it was women who pulled housecoats over their shoulders as they stood in the street, who bit their lips, or clutched hands to their necks. One wrung her fingers in the folds of a silk kimono. A few of the crass couldn’t wait to inch over and examine what the evictors brought out. To finger a stole or lift a hairbrush studded with rhinestones to her thick-powdered face.
The two evictors wore overalls, shirtsleeves rolled up. They looked like twins, balding on top, with hair so short it revealed their greasy scalps. The rent collector was a beanpole. After Evie yelled at him, he backed away and left the work to the others. One emerged from the door with a tuft of gauzy material hugged against his chest. The second followed with a leather footstool. Evie grabbed the fabric and rushed up the stairs to toss it in her rooms. There was no way she could match their pace. Her belongings cluttered on the sidewalk. Furniture and clothes, a Victrola cabinet with a stack of records, a crate of wine bottles, a lounger of threadbare green upholstery, a pillow to match. The evictors carried a vanity, bottles clinking inside. A short cabinet meant to rest on a dresser that only went to the evictors’ knees when they set it down. Evie rushed behind in a panic, rambling to herself. She checked to make sure none of the bottles had broken, lifting a decanter into the light to examine its rosy liquid. It was a useless thing to do. A second later she chased a boy making off with her rabbit fur coat. Once she had it back, she slipped her arms inside and wore it over the pea coat. Nobody else could grab it. But girls walked off with skirts. Kids took her records. There was talk of renting a truck to load the furniture, and a merchant who’d give them a fair price. All her things would be gone before long. She’d end up on the street, like the girl at the parade the summer before.
Jake approached the rent collector and asked why Evie was being put out.
“Her man got himself killed,” he said. “She’s got no one to pay her rent. That’s how it goes. Don’t give me shit about it. There’s nothing I can do. She stayed on a lot longer than she should of.” Indignation squeezed his elongated features, the thin mustache under his nose. “I hate it when they yell at me. There’s nothing wrong with putting a girl out. She won’t be on the street for long, a pretty one like her. Don’t feel sorry for her. She’s got it good.”
Jake asked if there was anything he could do.
“You mean for her? I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Don’t get involved.” The man shook his head. “All these buildings are owned by madams.”
“Brothels?”
“Mostly.” The man glanced to his paperwork. “Not all of them. I run this building, and there’s no whores who live here. Not the way you mean it.”
Evie splayed on the steps, an arm over her face, the rabbit fur coat bloomed out to reveal her legs. The evictors wouldn’t step over her. They looked to the rent collector and shrugged.
One of them bent to pick her up after the rent collector said to, but when his hand touched her elbow Evie scrambled to the sidewalk. “Don’t let her inside,” the rent collector shouted. The evictors stonewalled her when she ran back with an armful of garments. Gowns fell to the steps as she plowed into them, then fell to her knees. She didn’t cry, though. She fixed eyes on those who stood by to watch her struggle, the ones who walked away with her things. Ruby sequins littered the pavement. Black downy feathers and torn fabric.
“Listen,” Jake said. “What’s it cost for her rooms?”
“Sorry,” the rent collector laughed. “I can’t rent to you.”
“I want her to stay. How much for two months?”
The man turned. His features narrowed, the mustache trembling.
“Hundred ten,” he said. “That’s in cash, per month. On the spot. Take it or leave it.”
Jake didn’t flinch.
“I’ll get you money for the rooms. But something fair. The room isn’t worth that much.”
The rent collector turned and walked to the steps. He snatched a dress from Evie and tossed it on the pile at the curb.
“You can trust me,” Jake said, trailing. “I work for Tom Dennison. How’s that for credit? I work with him directly. I swear it.”
The rent collector stared Jake in the eye. “I don’t believe you. Anyone can say that.”
“It’s true.”
“What’s Tom Dennison need with you? Don’t waste my time, or I’ll tell someone about your lying. Then you’ll be in real trouble.”
The rent collector turned to pull another gown from Evie’s grasp. He tugged at the material, stretched it until Evie let go and thumped down hard against the steps. She stared at Jake as she had before. She expected him to do something.
Jake had to help her. He took the rent collector by the collar and dragged him down the steps. He slammed the man against the wall, once, to stop his floundering, and then again, because he could. “Don’t have to do me any favors. I work for Tom. Call me on that.”
The evictors were stunned. Jake slammed their boss into the wall again.
“Put her things back,” he told them. He took the papers from the rent collector, folded them carefully, tucked them into his jacket. “You’ll get a fair rent. Just let the girl alone.”
He returned the first chance he had, two days later. He carried a brown paper package on his arm and wore the best of his new suits, a blue handkerchief in the breast pocket. The suit fit snug around his legs, shoulders, and arms.
She opened the door before he even knocked, clutched a robe as she pulled him inside. The furnishings were familiar. The portrait of the sickly girl, the shabby lounging chairs he’d seen cluttered on the sidewalk. There was a pile of clothing in the corner, a brass bed and legless vanity in the other room. Her belongings were thrown around like this was a hotel room. Evie kneeled at the dressing glass, where her combs and cosmetics were, and anointed herself with some alcohol-rich mixture. She was calmer, her body softer, the curls in her hair relaxed and dry. She wore a pink kimono. With perfume bottles unstoppered the rooms smelled like lavender and sweet wine. Jake waited in the entry, the package held to his gut. Evie glanced to him in the mirror as she smoothed a red element on her lips.
“What were you up to today?” she asked. He said he’d worked. “Don’t you want to tell me? I’d like to know what you’re up to, but you don’t have to say.”
Jake looked around. He was under a spell, his flesh alive at the idea of being here. He’d been with plenty of women in Omaha, too many really, but never one who was so girlish and sensual. He could smell her perfumes, her velvet furniture. Neither kitchen nor bedroom was closed off. There were openings where doors had once hung, hinges still screwed to the frame, the main room divided by a canvas screen draped with her clothes. Jake set his package on the radiator then entered the kitchen. He poked at a bread crust to find its underside moldy. Greasy sandwich wrappers were on the counter, fruit peels in the sink, wine bottles along the baseboard. The milk box in the door was empty.
He leaned out the doorway. “Don’t you eat?”
“Why not? When there’s good food, I eat it.”
Past-due bills from a laundry service scattered the counter, weeks-old grocery receipts.
“Why don’t we get some food?”
“No money for food,” she said.