Let The Great World Spin: A Novel - By Colum McCann Page 0,29
husband, she said, had studied Persian poetry.
“Husband?”
I stopped on the street and gaped at her. Once, as a teenager, I had examined a piece of my skin on a glass slide, staring at it through a microscope: an amplitude of ridged canals striving beneath my eye, all pure surprise.
My intense disgust—so remarkable on other days—in that single moment turned into an awe for the fact that Tillie didn’t care at all. She jiggled her breasts and told me to get a grip. It was her ex-husband anyway. Yes, he had studied Persian poetry. Big fucking deal. He used to get a suite at the Sherry-Netherlands, she said. I assumed she was high. The world seemed to grow smaller around her, shrunken to the size of her eyes, painted purple and dark with eye shadow. I suddenly wanted to kiss her. My own wild, yea-saying overburst of American joy. I leaned towards her and she laughed, pushed me away.
A long pimped-up Ford Falcon pulled up at the curb and, without turning, Tillie said: “He already paid, man.”
We continued up the street, arm in arm. Under the Deegan she nestled her head against my chest. “Didn’t you, honey?” she said. “You already paid for the goodies?” She was rubbing her hand against me and it felt good. There’s no other way to say it. That’s how it felt. Good.
“Call me SweetCakes,” she said in an accent that loitered around her.
“You’re related to Jazzlyn, aren’t you?”
“What about it?”
“You’re her mother, right?”
“Shut up and pay me,” she said, touching the side of my face. Moments later there was the surprising condolence of her warm breath against my neck.
—
THE RAID BEGAN in the early morning, a Tuesday in August. Still dark. The cops lined up the paddy wagons in the streetlight shadows near the overpass. The girls didn’t seem to care half as much as Corrigan did. One or two dropped their handbags and ran towards the intersections, arms flailing, but there were more paddy wagons waiting there, doors open. The police tightened the handcuffs and herded the girls into the well of the dark vehicles. Only then could we hear any shouting—they leaned out, looking for their lipstick or their sunglasses or their stilettos. “Hey, I dropped my keyring!” said Jazzlyn. She was being helped into the wagon by her mother. Tillie was calm, as if it happened all the time, just another rising sun. She caught my eye, gave half a wink.
On the street, the cops sipped their coffees, smoked their cigarettes, shrugged. They called the girls by their names and nicknames. Foxy. Angie. Daisy. Raf. SweetCakes. Sugarpie. They knew the girls well and the crackdown was as lethargic as the day. The girls must have heard the rumor of it beforehand, and they had gotten rid of their needles and any other drug paraphernalia, dropped them down into the gutter. There’d been raids before, but never so complete a sweep.
“I want to know what’s happening to them,” said Corrigan, going cop to cop. “Where are they going?” He spun on his heels. “What are you arresting them for?”
“Stargazing,” said a cop, bashing into Corrigan’s shoulder.
I watched a long pink boa scarf get caught up in the wheels of a patrol car. It wrapped the wheelbase as if in affection, and bits of tufted pink spun in the air.
Corrigan took down a series of badge numbers. A tall female cop plucked the notebook out of his hand and shredded it slowly in front of him. “Look, you dumb Mick, they’ll be back soon, okay?”
“Where’re you taking them?”
“What’s it to you, buddy?”
“Where are you bringing them? Which station house?”
“Step back. Over there. Now.”
“Under what statute?” said Corrigan.
“Under the statute that I’ll kick your ass if you don’t.”
“All I want is an answer.”
“The answer’s seven,” the female cop said, staring Corrigan down. “The answer’s always seven. Get it?”
“No I don’t.”
“What are you, man, some sort of fruit or something?”
One of the sergeants swaggered up and shouted: “Somebody take care of Mr. Lovey-Dovey here.” Corrigan was pushed to the side of the road and told to stand on the curb. “We’ll lock you up if you say another word.”
I guided him aside. His face was red and his fists tightened. Veins thrummed at his temple. A new splotch had appeared on his neck. “Take it easy, okay, Corr? We’ll sort it out later. They’ll be better off in a station anyway. It’s not as if you actually like them being here.”