foot. He held still.
I went knocking on doors.
I must have knocked on forty doors, concentrating on the dreadful little apartments one story above the abandoned, urine-sodden shops, the apartments that faced the street and whose windows opened only ten or twelve feet above the sidewalk, before I hit Mrs. Gottfried. I’d been rejected in various dialects of English and Spanish before Mrs. Gottfried peered out at me through a door featuring no fewer than three slip-chains on the inside and said, “So? Nu? ”
It was a new dialect, at any rate. “I’d like to talk to you,” I said.
“I paid the water,” she said. Her face was so narrow that I could see most of it through the two inches of cracked door, and her bright black eyes regarded me with enough distrust to suggest several lifetimes of unrelieved betrayal.
“It’s not about the water,” I said, searching through my repertoire of ingenuous facial expressions to find one that would reassure her. I failed.
“So go away,” she said, trying to close the door. When she couldn’t, she looked down and saw my foot wedged between the doorjamb and the edge of the door.
“Move the foot,” she said. “You don’t move the foot, I call the cops.” The accent might have been Polish.
“Call them,” I said. “Call Lieutenant Al Hammond downtown and tell him that Simeon Grist is here. I’ll wait. I’ll even move my foot and let you close the door if you want, as long as you promise to open it and talk to me after you finish with the cops.”
“Cops I don’t like,” she said. “I seen enough kinds of cops to know they’re all the same.” Then she squinted up at me. “You’re no cop. Cops don’t say ‘cop.’”
“No, I’m not. I’m a private detective.”
“What’s it to me?”
“I’ve been hired by a woman whose father was burned to death on this street.”
“Abraham Winston,” she said. “All the papers. I can read English.”
“Weinstein,” I said. “Abraham Weinstein.”
She looked down at the gnarled fingers wrapped around the door. “Well, I figured that,” she said. “Please. Abraham? My kids changed their name, too. Now it’s Godfrey. Fitting in, huh?”
“I saw him before he died.”
“Ach, the pain,” she said, “I can imagine.”
“His daughter saw it, too.”
She kicked my shoe with a tiny black-clad foot. “So come in,” she said.
The apartment was tiny and dim, crowded with dark, heavy furniture. There were carpets everywhere, and a smell of cooking in the air. Mrs. Gottfried was thinner than a lost hope. She gestured me toward the chunky sofa.
“So sit,” she said. “Hungry?”
“No,” I said.
“Me, too,” she said. “I cook for the smell. Smell is the sense closest to memory, do you know that? That was Freud, hah? I cook to remember. When it’s finished cooking, I give it to them.” She pointed at the window, in the general direction of the homeless. “I been hungry, I know what it’s like.”
“Have the cops asked you questions?”
“No.” She sat beside me, slowly and experimentally, as though she wasn’t sure her body was up to it. “They tried. I looked out through the little hole I had somebody put in the door, I saw the uniforms. I hate uniforms, so I went away and let them knock.”
“That was why you wouldn’t talk to them? Because of the uniforms?”
She looked at me as though I were the youngest and most innocent human being on earth. Then she stretched out her right arm and showed me the number tattooed on it. There was something formal about the gesture, like a lady at the Viennese Opera demonstrating the quality of her full-length silk gloves.
“371332,” she said without looking at it. “It’s a big number. They all wore uniforms. How neat their uniforms were, and how dirty we were. That was part of what was so terrible. When I got brought to New York, when it was all over, I couldn’t take the bus. The man in the uniform scared me. I couldn’t even walk,
I went knocking on doors.
I must have knocked on forty doors, concentrating on the dreadful little apartments one story above the abandoned, urine-sodden shops, the apartments that faced the street and whose windows opened only ten or twelve feet above the sidewalk, before I hit Mrs. Gottfried. I’d been rejected in various dialects of English and Spanish before Mrs. Gottfried peered out at me through a door featuring no fewer than three slip-chains on the inside and said, “So? Nu? ”
It was a new dialect, at any rate. “I’d like to talk to you,” I said.
“I paid the water,” she said. Her face was so narrow that I could see most of it through the two inches of cracked door, and her bright black eyes regarded me with enough distrust to suggest several lifetimes of unrelieved betrayal.
“It’s not about the water,” I said, searching through my repertoire of ingenuous facial expressions to find one that would reassure her. I failed.
“So go away,” she said, trying to close the door. When she couldn’t, she looked down and saw my foot wedged between the doorjamb and the edge of the door.
“Move the foot,” she said. “You don’t move the foot, I call the cops.” The accent might have been Polish.
“Call them,” I said. “Call Lieutenant Al Hammond downtown and tell him that Simeon Grist is here. I’ll wait. I’ll even move my foot and let you close the door if you want, as long as you promise to open it and talk to me after you finish with the cops.”
“Cops I don’t like,” she said. “I seen enough kinds of cops to know they’re all the same.” Then she squinted up at me. “You’re no cop. Cops don’t say ‘cop.’”
“No, I’m not. I’m a private detective.”
“What’s it to me?”
“I’ve been hired by a woman whose father was burned to death on this street.”
“Abraham Winston,” she said. “All the papers. I can read English.”
“Weinstein,” I said. “Abraham Weinstein.”
She looked down at the gnarled fingers wrapped around the door. “Well, I figured that,” she said. “Please. Abraham? My kids changed their name, too. Now it’s Godfrey. Fitting in, huh?”
“I saw him before he died.”
“Ach, the pain,” she said, “I can imagine.”
“His daughter saw it, too.”
She kicked my shoe with a tiny black-clad foot. “So come in,” she said.
The apartment was tiny and dim, crowded with dark, heavy furniture. There were carpets everywhere, and a smell of cooking in the air. Mrs. Gottfried was thinner than a lost hope. She gestured me toward the chunky sofa.
“So sit,” she said. “Hungry?”
“No,” I said.
“Me, too,” she said. “I cook for the smell. Smell is the sense closest to memory, do you know that? That was Freud, hah? I cook to remember. When it’s finished cooking, I give it to them.” She pointed at the window, in the general direction of the homeless. “I been hungry, I know what it’s like.”
“Have the cops asked you questions?”
“No.” She sat beside me, slowly and experimentally, as though she wasn’t sure her body was up to it. “They tried. I looked out through the little hole I had somebody put in the door, I saw the uniforms. I hate uniforms, so I went away and let them knock.”
“That was why you wouldn’t talk to them? Because of the uniforms?”
She looked at me as though I were the youngest and most innocent human being on earth. Then she stretched out her right arm and showed me the number tattooed on it. There was something formal about the gesture, like a lady at the Viennese Opera demonstrating the quality of her full-length silk gloves.
“371332,” she said without looking at it. “It’s a big number. They all wore uniforms. How neat their uniforms were, and how dirty we were. That was part of what was so terrible. When I got brought to New York, when it was all over, I couldn’t take the bus. The man in the uniform scared me. I couldn’t even walk,
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