‘Where do I find her?’
Schmidt started to shrug, and then held up a finger. ‘Wait, Ja! I think…’
He skipped away towards the office like a schoolboy. He was a peppery old man. He came back carrying a coloured brochure. I took the brochure. It was a travel piece about Italy. It had pictures of the red Ferrari racing cars.
‘She bring for Jo-Jo once,’ Schmidt said. He pointed to the line stamped on the back. ‘She work there.’
The address was: Trafalgar Travel Bureau, 52 West 46th Street.
‘Ja,’ Schmidt said. ‘She work there. You think…’
I never did learn what Schmidt was about to ask me. The telephone rang. He answered it. I saw the colour spread across his cherub face. When he put down the receiver he was red.
‘They beat Petey! Someone! In hospital by St Vincent’s!’
St Vincent’s was only a few blocks away.
I went out on the run.
Chapter 8
They told me that Petey would probably live. They also said that he would even see again. He wasn’t blind, it only looked that way. His face wasn’t a face now; it was a bandage.
‘Both eyes slam shut,’ the doctor said. ‘Nose busted, cheekbone, too. I never saw more bruises, I tell you.’
There were tubes in Petey, and bottles hanging all over that white room. I saw the morphine Syrette on the side table beside the bed where Petey was half propped up because of the internal injuries. They had broken both arms. The splinted and bandaged arms stuck straight out in front of the boy who had only white cloth where his face had been. But the real damage was the shattered ribs and the internal injuries from the kicks.
‘A very complete job,’ the doctor said. ‘I had a case on the Bowery once, but this is more complete.’
The police were there, of course, since it was pretty clear that Petey had not fallen down some stairs. It was Lieutenant Marx who let me into the room. One old cop agreed with the doctor that it was a hell of a good beating, but the old cop did not think it was professional.