Manhattan Noir - Lawrence Block [39]
Minthorn pulled the blinds all around his office, cutting the light until he reached the desk lamp.
On cue, Maria took Maxie’s empty duffel bag from her drawer and went to the open vault, as Minthorn had agreed.
Minthorn, spent and on his side last night at the Hotel Martinique, and Maria, naked beneath his shirt on the chaise, telling him about Cuba. After a stopover in Miami, she said, they’d lounge on golden beaches, rum concoctions in their hands, and there wasn’t a banker on the entire island who would fail to believe he’d won the $202,000 at the casinos.
She stretched out her long legs, giving him a peek at the dark patch under the shirt front, and Minthorn quivered at the thought of her on white sheets after a day in the sun.
Referencing Maxie, she said, “He won’t know what to do when he has to face a man like you, Morris.”
There was no counting how many ways a line like that would work on a dope like Minthorn.
The 9:18 to Baltimore lurched forward, jostling the last of the passengers to board. Mitzi turned one last time to the rear. Maxie’s valise sat next to her atop the empty seat on the aisle.
She’s not coming, Mitzi thought, as she wrapped her kerchief around her finger, unwrapped it, all but tied it in knots. I’m sent off, again, only this time it’s to Baltimore with two dollars and change in my purse.
Ain’t it always the way?
She started thinking she’d get off in Newark, grab a couple of bucks on a refund, figuring they had a subway or some kind of ferry would take her back to Hell’s Kitchen, knowing Maxie was paid up until New Year’s.
As the clattering train began to find its pace, she thought, maybe there’s a guy in Baltimore. There’s got to be. A real nice guy, and she’s new in town, and he can see she’s had it rough. He’s got a job, something regular, and he’s kind. Buys her a drink, then the blue-plate special, a refill on the coffee, and everybody in the diner says he’s kind, a gentleman—
“Excuse me, miss. I can have this seat?”
Maria smiled, looking down.
She seemed awfully composed, considering.
“I can put your valise with mine,” she said.
Brand new, brown leather, and without a single scratch.
Mitzi figured the money was locked inside.
“Okay,” Mitzi said, and she watched Maria allow the porter to hoist the two pieces, and her coat, into the overhead compartment.
“Your coat now, miss?” asked the colored porter, sharp in a black bow tie and vest.
“No,” Mitzi said, as Maria nestled next to her. “If you don’t mind, I’ll keep it.”
They met sunlight in Jersey, and Mitzi leaned over, whispered, “Did you hurt him?”
Maria looked at the red trim on the seat in front of them. “No, chica, I did not.”
“The money …”
Outside, miles of tracks on all sides, maybe twenty ways to come and go.
Maria tapped Mitzi’s hand. She’d booked a sleeper for the overnight to Birmingham, and they’d count the dough on the bed, if the girl insisted.
Maria figured it was $200,000, seeing that she left the coins.
Minthorn thought she was waiting at the Hotel Martinique. He said he’d arrive around noon, passport in his pocket.
She told him she had a brother in Camagüey.
Her turn to whisper, Maria said, “The next tunnel I’m going to kiss you, Margarita. I’m going to kiss you until you no can breathe.”
Mitzi blushed.
“There is no one between us now, baby,” Maria added. “Now you are mine alone.”
They rode in silence for a stretch, pulling into Newark, pulling out. “Trenton next,” bellowed the roly-poly man.
Factories on either side, most of the way. Mitzi wondering if they had an ocean in Baltimore. Be nice to swim in an ocean.
She didn’t know what to call the feeling inside. No, but it was like it was all the other times at the start. She wondered if it could be different in the long run.
“Maria? Maria, will you be nasty?”
“Que? ”
“I mean, are you ever nasty?”
Maria looked at her with her black, black eyes.
“I told you, Margarita: Don’t think and don’t worry,” she said softly. “Leave everything to me.”
Mitzi studied her, trying to