Ed McBain: Cinderella

“Which sister?” Alice said. “I got two. One’s in Orlando, the other’s in LA.”

Ernesto smacked her again.

“Here,” he said, “Miami. Never mine nowheres else.”

“I got no sister here in Miami,” she said.

This time the greaseball smacked her. They were taking turns smacking her.

“Listen,” she said, “stop hitting me, okay? Who the fuck are you? What right do you have...?”

One of them smacked her again, she didn’t know which one.

“Listen,” Ernesto said. “You unnerstan’ English?”

What a fuckin’ question, she thought. Coming from him.

She just looked at him.

“Okay,” he said. “You got a sister, she’s a blonde, she’s here in Miami, and we want to know where , okay, ’cause we got to find her, okay? So — you want your teeth knocked out, or you want to tell us?”

She was beginning to understand him. All at once, it sounded as if he was talking almost perfect English. Even “seest’” sounded like “sister.”

“Oh, you mean Jenny ,” she said.

Ernesto looked at the fucking greaseball. “Domingo?” he said. “Se llama Jenny?”

The greaseball shrugged. Domingo. A fuckin’ dance team, she had here. Ernesto and Domingo.

“We’re talking about a girl named Jody,” Ernesto said, “we know she’s your sister, so where is she?”

“That’s a name she uses,” Alice said.

“What name?”

“Jody. But Jenny’s her real name. But you won’t find her under Jenny, either, ’cause she uses a lot of different names.”

The two men looked at her.

Ernesto nodded at Domingo.

Domingo took a switchblade knife from his pocket and snapped it open.

“So what’s that supposed to be?” Alice asked, but all at once she was scared.

“Jenny what? ” Ernesto said.

“That depends. You want her square handle or the hundred other names she’s been using? Her last name ain’t the same as mine, you know, she’s my step—”

Ernesto smacked her.

“Por favor,” he said patiently and pleasantly. “No bullshit.”

“She’s my fuckin’ stepsister ! Listen, you smack me one more time—”

He smacked her one more time. Her lip split open. Blood spilled onto her blouse. She thought, Boy.

“Listen,” he said. “You want to get cut?”

“No,” she said. Like a little girl. Looking at the knife in Domingo’s fuckin’ fist. Eyes wide. “No,” she said again.

“Okay.” Pause. “Jenny, Jody, whoever.” Pause. “Your sister.”

“Yes.” Eyes still wide, entire face attentive.

“Her last name is not Carmody?”

“She was born Santoro,” Alice said quickly, “that was my stepfather’s name, Santoro, Dominick Santoro, he was a big contractor here in Miami, ask anybody. The Santoro Brothers? That was my stepfather.”

“Es Latino ?” Ernesto said. “Santoro? Es un nombre Latino ? He’s Spanish, your stepfather?”

“No, Italian,” Alice said. “My mother’s Italian, maybe that’s why she married him when my father died, who knows? My father was Irish,” she said proudly. And immediately thought, My father would kill me if he knew I was doing drugs. But her father was dead.

“Jenny Santoro,” Ernesto said, trying the name for size. Even though she could understand his English now, it still came out “Henny,” as if he was clearing his throat to spit.

“Yes,” Alice said, nodding, eager to please. “That’s what she was when she came to us. That was her father’s name, a wop, and he married my mother, but me and my sister didn’t take the name, we kept our own names. So that’s the story. I’m Alice Carmody, and my sister is Kate Carmody, and Jenny is Jenny Santoro, but sometimes she calls herself Jody Carmody. So now you got what you want, right?”

“Where is she?” Ernesto said.

“Jenny? She’s in LA,” Alice said. “I told you.”

“No,” he said.

“I’m telling you that’s where she is,” Alice said.

“You’re full of shit,” Ernesto said, and nodded at Domingo, and Domingo cut her.

Not a serious cut. Just a touch with the blade. Feather light, burning for an instant, and then wetness on her cheek, her hand coming up to touch the wetness, fingers coming away red, and all at once she felt a loosening of her bowels and thought she had soiled herself.

“Listen,” she said.

They looked at her.

There was blood on the knife blade.

“Listen, really,” she said. “Jenny’s a hooker, the last time I heard she was in LA, I mean it. If she’s back here in Florida, this is the first I’m hearing, I mean it. I talked to my sister yesterday, she didn’t mention nothing about Jenny being back, either. So, I mean it, I’m telling you the truth, put away the fucking knife, okay? I’m telling you the truth. I swear to God. Put away the knife, okay?”

Domingo did not put away the knife. He kept looking at her. There was a very sad expression on his face, as if it had pained him to cut her.

“Please put it away,” she said. “Okay? Please? You make me nervous with that knife, I mean it.”

“You want to get cut again?” Ernesto said.

“No,” she said quickly, “no, I don’t. Really.” She put her hands up defensively, fingers widespread, palms out. “Really, you don’t have to cut me,” she said.

“We don’t want to cut you again,” Ernesto said.

“I know you don’t,” she said, “So don’t, okay?”

“Where is she?” Ernesto said.

“I don’t know where she is, I mean it,” Alice said. “If she’s in Florida, that’s news to me. Look, if I knew where she was I’d tell you in a minute, why wouldn’t I? I never liked her, I’d tell you in a minute. I just don’t know, that’s the truth. So, guys, you know, I’m supposed to meet somebody, I’m late now, I’m overdue, you know what I mean? So if we’re finished here...”

“The sister in Orlando,” Ernesto said. “Where?”

“Aw, come on, guys,” Alice said.

“Her address,” Ernesto said.

“ She don’t know, either,” Alice said. “You don’t want to bother her.”

“Cut her,” he said to Domingo.

“No, don’t!” Alice said. “She lives near Disney World, I’ll get you the address, I’ve got it in my book, put the knife away, okay?”

“Get the address,” Ernesto said.

David Larkin didn’t like fags. They made him nervous. He always suspected they were trying to touch him. Or stand too close to him. He believed all the stories people told about homosexuals, that if you didn’t watch your eight-year-old son, they would take down his pants and bugger him. He believed there was a great homosexual conspiracy to turn the whole world gay. Homosexuals were worse than Communists in that respect.

The worst thing about Larkin’s fears was that he could never be absolutely sure who was gay and who wasn’t. He’d get a bead on some guy he thought was a fairy, and next thing you knew he’d see the guy in a restaurant and the guy was with a gorgeous blonde whose tits were spilling out the front of her dress. Down here, the girls wore next to nothing, it drove a man crazy. It was Florida did it to them. The sun boiled their brains, they right away ripped off all their clothes.

Once, Larkin met a guy he thought was as straight as an arrow, tried to fix him up with a girl who would fuck a sea slug, the guy said, “Thanks, I dress to the right.” Meaning he wore his cock on the right-hand side of his pants. Meaning he was a fairy. Not that all fairies wore their cocks that way, this was just the guy’s way of speaking. At least, Larkin didn’t think they wore their cocks that way, he sure as hell didn’t know . But maybe they did. Maybe that was a way all the fairies of the world had of identifying each other, the way they dressed their cocks, right or left. Who the hell knew? It was all very complicated.