Night Secrets

  “You can’t beg ’em,” the man said emphatically. “You look like a fucking creep, you do that.”

  The woman dropped her eyes. “I don’t know how, Eddie.” She was dressed in a soiled blouse, and an old blue sweater hung limply over her shrunken shoulders.

  “Christsake,” the man hissed at her. “You can’t look like you ain’t worth nothing, like they already said no. It don’t work that way. You got to go after ’em, Frannie. You got to make ’em see you. Otherwise, they just go right by.” He shook his head despairingly. “There ain’t enough to you. You don’t scare nobody, so they walk right through you, like you was air, like you was nothing.”

  The woman’s eyes lifted toward him, her face broken but intent on his instructions. She fingered the napkin absently while she listened.

  “You got to look ’em in the eye,” the man told her. “You can’t just head away from ’em, like no matter what, they ain’t gonna give you nothing.”

  The woman nodded meekly. “Okay, Eddie. I’ll do better next time.”

  “We ain’t got much time, Frannie,” the man said hotly. “I ain’t staying with you tonight, you don’t get it straight.”

  “I’ll get it straight,” the woman said determinedly. She lifted her head. “I’ll get it straight, no shit.”

  The man nodded, unconvinced. “Yeah, well, you got to. ’Cause if you don’t come up with something, we’ll be in the fucking park tonight, and I ain’t staying there. You’re gonna be on your fucking own, you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “It’s fifteen bucks at the Mayfair,” the man told her. “Fifteen fucking bucks, and you got to get it.” He shook his head. “You got to do it, Frannie. Nobody’ll get that close to me.” His hand lifted toward his face. “’Cause I got these spots on me.”

  “I’ll do better, Eddie,” the woman assured him. “I heard what you said. You got to come right up to ’em, look ’em straight.”

  “And mention kids,” the man reminded her. He coughed into his fist, a hard, dry cough mat he finally brought under control. When it was over, he looked half-dazed, as if he’d forgotten where he was.

  “I’ll look ’em straight, Eddie,” the woman told him.

  Her words seemed to return him to consciousness. “Yeah, yeah,” he murmured weakly.

  “And kids, too,” the woman said, as if coaxing him back to earth. “I won’t forget the kids.”

  “Right, kids,” the man said. He drew in a long, feeble breath. “Like you got ’em in a hotel or something, you know what I mean?”

  “Okay, Eddie.”

  The man nodded toward her coffee. “Well, finish it up, then. We got to get started.”

  Frank’s sandwich arrived a moment later, and he ate it pleasurelessly while the man and woman stared mutely at each other before they finally struggled to their feet and headed out to the street. After that, he sat alone, his eyes moving continually toward the window, then beyond it, into the dark interior of the unfinished building that now towered over the neighborhood. Within a few months it would be finished, and the new residents would begin to take over, bringing their new demands for restaurants, clubs, boutiques. He wasn’t sure what would be lost once the building was completed, only that something would, a rich, more concrete life of street scenes and loud music and something else that was even more important, but that he couldn’t put his finger on.

  He finished his sandwich, and headed down Forty-ninth Street toward his office. Up ahead, he could see a small, twisted figure staggering toward him, but the darkness concealed it until she came toward him in the grayish light of the single streetlamp which still shone between the avenues. It was the woman he’d seen in the restaurant only a few moments before, and she was moving toward him very firmly, her eyes fixed on his.

  “Kids,” she said as she came up to him, her hand outstretched. “I got to help my kids. They’re in this hotel, and I got to get ’em out.”

  Frank said nothing. Not far away, he could see the man leaning against the wall, his head drooped forward as he coughed hoarsely into his fist.

  “Things happen in them hotels,” the woman said, “to them kids they got there.”

  Frank reached into his pocket for some change and came up with a couple of quarters. As he dropped them into her hand, he thought of the tower again, and realized instantly what would be lost when it was completed: the chance to see, every day, every hour, how much still remained to be done.

  A black limousine was parked in front of his office, and as Frank approached it, a woman got out.

  “Hi, Frank,” she said.

  It was Karen, his old lover, and suddenly, as he looked at her, a strange anger swept over him. It wasn’t directed at her, he realized immediately, but at what had happened between them, the desert it had left behind, and as he looked at her, took in her sleek figure, her smooth skin, the lights that seemed always to be flickering in her hair, he knew with a sudden consuming emptiness how much he missed the old passion he had once felt for her, how dry his life had become without it.

  “I guess you’re surprised to see me,” Karen said.

  Frank nodded. “How you doing?”

  “Fine,” Karen said. She glanced toward his office. “May I come in?”

  “Sure,” Frank said. He led her down the stairs, through the corridor, then inside his office.

  “Have a seat,” he said after he’d turned on the light.

  Karen looked at his desk. “Where’s your lamp?”

  Frank pulled the camera from his shoulders and placed it on his desk. “Somebody lifted it,” he said. “It was all they took.”

  “I’m sorry,” Karen said.

  Frank smiled quietly. “Well, it speaks well for the lamp, right?”

  Karen laughed slightly. “It’s good to see you again, Frank,” she said affectionately.

  Frank shrugged. “What can I do for you, Karen?” he asked as he sat down behind his desk.

  She looked faintly offended by his tone. “Does it have to be so businesslike?”

  “You got married, didn’t you?”

  “Does that mean we can’t be friends?”

  “It means I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can’t think of you that way.”

  “Things change, Frank,” Karen said. “They don’t always have to be destroyed.”

  “I didn’t pick you for a friend,” Frank said. “For a friend, I picked an overweight, middle-aged Arab.”

  Karen laughed slightly.

  “And when I’m with him,” Frank said. “I never look at his legs or his neck or his mouth.”

  Karen’s eyes darted away. “I thought we’d already lost that before you left.”

  “We had, but since then, there’s been …”

  Karen lifted her hand. “Please, Frank, I can’t …”

  “It’s just the way it is, Karen,” Frank said. “There’s nothing I can do about it.”

  Her eyes watched him softly. “There’s something about you … about us … that I will always miss.”

  “Me, too,” Frank said with a slight shrug. “But so what?”

  Karen looked at him coolly. “I think you’ve gotten a little harder than you were, Frank.”

  “A little older, that’s all,” Frank said impatiently. “You have less time to waste.”

  Karen straightened herself slightly. She looked faintly resentful, as if she’d been scolded and didn’t like it. “I’d better go,” she said. She smiled nervously as she stood up. “I’m not sure why I came anyway.”

  Frank remained in his chair. He said nothing.

  For a moment, Karen lingered at the door, her eyes on him. “Actually, I do know. I just wanted to find out how you were doing.” She looked around the room. “Are you still living here?”

  “Yes.”

  “You just sleep on the sofa?”

  Frank nodded.

  A small smile fluttered to her lips. “So, I guess you don’t have
a woman in your life,” she said.

  For a moment, Frank thought she must be mocking him, then, almost instantly, he thought of the Puri Dai, and a wave of heat passed over him. He saw her arms as she had flung them upward under the hard light of the prison meeting room, saw her legs rise toward its bleak ceiling, and he realized that Farouk had been absolutely right that it had been a very long time.

  He stood up immediately. “I have to go, Karen,” he said. Then he swept by her quickly and headed through the door without so much as a backward glance at her astonished face.

  She came into the room as she had the night before, with the matron at her arm. But this time she nodded almost imperceptibly when she saw him, then walked over and sat down at the table across from him.

  He felt his body tense as she leaned toward him slightly, and for a moment, he wanted only to draw her into his arms, sit silently with her until he could sense the exact rhythm of her needs, then move determinedly to meet them.

  “I talked to Leo Tannenbaum,” he said finally. “Do you know who he is?”

  She stared at him evenly and shook her head.

  “He’s the officer in charge of the investigation,” Frank told her. “I’m sure he talked to you that night.”

  She made no response.

  Frank smiled quietly. “Anyway,” he said. “We went over the evidence against you. The blood on your sleeves, on the razor, under your fingernails, all that sort of thing.”

  She looked at him silently.

  “I also went over to the place where it happened,” Frank added. “I saw where the body was laid out.” He stopped in the hope that she might speak.

  She said nothing.

  “It was laid out, wasn’t it?” he asked. “She couldn’t have fallen down that way.”

  She sat back slightly, her black eyes burning into him with a sudden anger. “Why are you doing this?” she asked vehemently, the words bursting out of her. So she could talk after all. Why now, he wondered, but did not dare ask, lest she stop again.

  “Doing what?”

  “Seeking out these things,” she blurted. “Why can you not leave me alone?”

  Frank shrugged. “Because,” he stammered. “Because …”

  “You must not do it,” the Puri Dai told him.

  Frank shook his head. “I have to.”

  “No,” the Puri Dai said. Then she leaned over toward him. “No,” she repeated adamantly.

  “But I …”

  She stood up and began to peer about.

  Frank leaped to his feet. “What are you doing?”

  She did not bother to look at him. “Matron,” she called, “I am ready.”

  Frank looked at her desperately. “Don’t go yet,” he said. “I have a few things.”

  “Matron,” the Puri Dai called, this time more loudly.

  “Why are you doing this?” Frank demanded.

  She turned to him. “Go,” she said fiercely as she headed toward the door at the opposite end of the room.

  “I’ve found out a lot,” Frank called after her. “A lot.” His mind raced to get out the details. “I know that Puri Dai couldn’t possibly be your name.”

  The Puri Dai continued to move toward the door.

  “It means Tribal Woman,” Frank called after her.

  She stopped and turned back toward him, easing her arm from the matron’s grasp.

  Frank looked at her squarely. “The Tribal Woman doesn’t have a name,” he said.

  Her eyes were smoldering as she glared at him.

  Frank jerked his notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped to the page he wanted. “This is a drawing I made. It shows the woman’s body.”

  She did not look at the drawing.

  “Her arms are stretched out,” Frank went on. “What was she reaching for?”

  The Puri Dai’s eyes glistened for a moment, then turned dry again.

  “What was she reaching for?” Frank repeated, almost tauntingly.

  The Puri Dai said nothing.

  Frank stepped toward her, pulled the bead from his jacket pocket and held it up to her. “If you hadn’t wanted to see me, why did you send me this?”

  Her eyes widened as she looked at it.

  “Why would you have left this at my office?” Frank demanded.

  Her eyes shot over to him. “I sent you nothing,” she said in a swift, resentful whisper.

  Frank stood his ground. “Well, someone did,” he said. “I didn’t steal it.”

  She stared at him fiercely. “It was not for you,” she said. “The other.”

  “Other?”

  “The one who came for his fortune.”

  Frank’s lips parted wordlessly.

  “The large one,” she hissed under her breath, “who chose his destiny.”

  “Farouk,” Frank murmured, his heart sinking, as if he’d lost something precious and could not regain it. “You wanted him?”

  “Not I,” the woman said. “Her.”

  “Who?”

  “Salome.”

  “The dead woman?”

  The Puri Dai nodded, her eyes lowering somewhat. “Salome,” she repeated softly. “It was not I who sent for you.”

  She lifted her right hand slightly. It was very brown, and Frank found that he could barely control his urge to take it in his own. “Go,” she said as she pointed toward the opposite door. “Go.”

  Frank didn’t move. “Do you want me to get Farouk for you?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “What was Farouk to her?”

  She continued to stare at him determinedly. “Go,” she repeated.

  Still, Frank remained in place. “Did she know Farouk?” he asked insistently.

  The Puri Dai turned back toward the door just as the guard stepped through it. “I am ready,” she said.

  The guard opened the door and stepped back to let her pass through.

  Frank continued to walk toward her. “What did she want from Farouk?” he demanded.

  Silence.

  “Was she afraid?” Frank asked. He could feel a strange desperation overtaking him, the sense that he was losing the slender grasp he still had on the Puri Dai.

  He stepped forward quickly and touched her shoulder. “If I brought him here, would you talk to him?” he asked.

  She stopped and once again turned toward him. “No,” she said adamantly. “Not to him. Not to you.”

  She turned back toward the door, but Frank stepped around to block her path. “Please, you have to understand that I …”

  She lifted her hand commandingly and silenced him. “It is not for you to do,” she said.

  Frank gazed at her quietly. He could feel her breath on his eyes.

  “I think you’d better go, mister,” the guard said sternly.

  Frank did not seem to hear her. “Why did you dance?” he asked softly, his eyes fixed on the Puri Dai’s shoulders. “The last time I was here. Why did you do that?”

  The Puri Dai said nothing. Her hand pressed forward, palm out, as if easing him from her path.

  “It was because you still have some reason to live, wasn’t it?” Frank said. “What is it? What is that reason?”

  The woman’s eyes drifted from him.

  “The razor,” Frank added. “Whose is it?”

  She stared at him lethally.

  He felt something grow suddenly cold and empty inside himself. “A man,” he said. “You must have a man.”

  Her eyes seemed to grow very small, the pupils to all but disappear.

  Frank drew in a deep breath, nearly trembling when he spoke. “Is he your husband?”

  She turned away from him.

  “Your lover?”

  Silence.

  “Are you protecting him?” Frank demanded.

  Her eyes shot back to him, dark and fiery, rocked by furies which seemed older than herself. “Never,” she hissed in a voice that seemed to come from the depths of an ageless enmity. “Upon my mother’s grave.”


  It was almost two in the morning before Farouk finally came through the door of the small after-hours place where they’d first met.

  He saw Frank immediately, lumbered over and sat down.

  “Good evening,” he said quietly. He turned to the old man who had taken Toby’s place at the bar.“Café turco,” he said.

  Frank took the bead out of his jacket pocket and pressed it toward him. “I found out tonight that this was for you,” he said tiredly.

  Farouk looked closely at the bead. “For me?”

  “Yes.”

  Farouk took the bead from Frank’s hand and turned it over slowly. “It is from the Puri Dai?”

  “No.”

  “But it is like the others,” Farouk said. “The ones that made the curtain.”

  “Yeah,” Frank said. “But it’s from the other woman.”

  Farouk’s eyes squeezed together slowly. “The one who told my fortune?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “The Puri Dai.”

  “She spoke to you?”

  “A little.”

  “And told you that it was the fortune-teller who brought the bead?”

  Frank nodded.

  Farouk leaned back in his seat, suddenly studying Frank’s face more closely. “She must have seen me coming from your office. She must have thought that it was where I lived.”

  “Probably.”

  Farouk’s eyes continued to watch Frank intently. “So it was to me she came,” he said slowly. “Not you.”

  “Yes.”

  The Turkish coffee arrived, and Farouk took a long slow sip, then lowered the cup to the table. “Well, now she has spoken,” he said, “the Puri Dai.”

  “Yes, she has.”

  “And what else has she said?”

  “Not much,” Frank said. “But at least she said enough for us to know where the bead came from. The first time I saw her, she wouldn’t talk to me at all.” He shook his head, puzzled. “The only thing she did was dance.”

  Farouk’s eyes brightened. “Ah yes, that is called the baile jondo, the Deep Dance.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It does not mean anything,” Farouk said. “It only expresses.”