Lying there middle of the night, head split open. My God, what a sick picture. His poor family. And I mean that. For all their millions, they’re poorer now. I’m not like Maria Magdalena, and I know you talked to her already. She’s tickled pink. Maybe her hair will turn red again, after all this. She’s got herself a bar now, a steady business, and all I got is clients. But don’t get me wrong, I’m not accusing that woman of anything. She’s not the type, Maria, she’s too holy, know what I mean? A spiritual person. No, without Ballz around, my clients could walk away, and I might not get any new ones. Maybe I ought to raise my fee and they’ll think I’m worth more. That’s what Ballz said I ought to do, never undersell yourself. I cared for that man, Officer, I really did, and I still do. So you got to understand this much, I admit it wasn’t all just business between us. I met his wife, too. And don’t look so surprised. She’s got real class, Chrissy Smith does, and great children, which makes her way human in my opinion. Someday, I’ll have kids, but not before I can support them all on my own. She’s a good woman, Chrissy. Even if her taste in interior design is kind of stuffy. And her mother, you meet her mother? The island empress? Talk about stuffy. She ought to be in a museum for stuffed dinosaurs. What do you think of their house in Brooklyn?”
“Quite a place. What were you doing there?”
“Dreckorating.” They stopped at the elevator, and Azalea produced her key ring. “Ballz asked me to do the job but said everything had to be their tastes, not mine. So don’t blame me for that old ugly shit. Blame Martha fucking Stewart, ex-con. Princess of chintzes.” They entered the elevator and rode back down. “You meet the kids, too? Should’ve. Show you another side of Ballz. Little sweethearts, all three of them, and he adored them. You know, he used to make their school lunches sometimes? He’s barely back in the house, being out all night, and there he is in the kitchen, chop chop, slice slice. Imagine that? A king like him making tuna fish sandwiches and ham and Swiss and egg salad, and packing pears and bananas and apples, and a thermos with hot milk and Ovaltine. No sweet sodas for those kids, no junk food neither, no way. And that’s the other angle of Ballz, part of the side I want to remember. But not an angle he showed much outside. If he had, he’d probably been killed even sooner.”
“By whom?”
“By whom? You kidding?” They stepped from the building out onto West Broadway, the sky still messy, wind whipping wet garbage along the gutters, pedestrians clutching at hats and collars. Azalea began waving for a taxi, any taxi. “Tell you what,” she said to Flo. “You got time to keep coming with me now? I mean, it can take all day to figure out that story, you know, by whom? I got my jobs, but you’re welcome to string along. And I’ll tell you what I can, Officer. And what I can’t, I can’t. What you pick up, you pick up. You just keep asking, but like I said, only an asshole would kill Ballz. And there’s enough assholes in New York to fill Yankee Stadium a hundred times over. Not that I know any.” An empty cab whizzed by, ignoring Azalea’s waving arms, and she flipped him the bird. “Like that cabbie driving blind. Ought to arrest him.” A second cab appeared and pulled over. They scrambled in. “Christ, that’s better,” said Azalea. “Works up an appetite rushing around like this.” She dug down in her satchel and produced another pill, yellow.
“
More
meds?” Flo said.
Azalea shook her head as she gulped mineral water. “Vitamins. Got to watch my diet. Ever see a fat designer? I’ll show you an unemployed designer.”
The cabbie, in a Pakistani accent, clipped tired tones, said: “Ladies? Ladies, where are we going?”
“Chelsea, please,” said Azalea. “West Twenty-Second, between Seventh and Eighth. I’ll point out the building when
“Quite a place. What were you doing there?”
“Dreckorating.” They stopped at the elevator, and Azalea produced her key ring. “Ballz asked me to do the job but said everything had to be their tastes, not mine. So don’t blame me for that old ugly shit. Blame Martha fucking Stewart, ex-con. Princess of chintzes.” They entered the elevator and rode back down. “You meet the kids, too? Should’ve. Show you another side of Ballz. Little sweethearts, all three of them, and he adored them. You know, he used to make their school lunches sometimes? He’s barely back in the house, being out all night, and there he is in the kitchen, chop chop, slice slice. Imagine that? A king like him making tuna fish sandwiches and ham and Swiss and egg salad, and packing pears and bananas and apples, and a thermos with hot milk and Ovaltine. No sweet sodas for those kids, no junk food neither, no way. And that’s the other angle of Ballz, part of the side I want to remember. But not an angle he showed much outside. If he had, he’d probably been killed even sooner.”
“By whom?”
“By whom? You kidding?” They stepped from the building out onto West Broadway, the sky still messy, wind whipping wet garbage along the gutters, pedestrians clutching at hats and collars. Azalea began waving for a taxi, any taxi. “Tell you what,” she said to Flo. “You got time to keep coming with me now? I mean, it can take all day to figure out that story, you know, by whom? I got my jobs, but you’re welcome to string along. And I’ll tell you what I can, Officer. And what I can’t, I can’t. What you pick up, you pick up. You just keep asking, but like I said, only an asshole would kill Ballz. And there’s enough assholes in New York to fill Yankee Stadium a hundred times over. Not that I know any.” An empty cab whizzed by, ignoring Azalea’s waving arms, and she flipped him the bird. “Like that cabbie driving blind. Ought to arrest him.” A second cab appeared and pulled over. They scrambled in. “Christ, that’s better,” said Azalea. “Works up an appetite rushing around like this.” She dug down in her satchel and produced another pill, yellow.
“
More
meds?” Flo said.
Azalea shook her head as she gulped mineral water. “Vitamins. Got to watch my diet. Ever see a fat designer? I’ll show you an unemployed designer.”
The cabbie, in a Pakistani accent, clipped tired tones, said: “Ladies? Ladies, where are we going?”
“Chelsea, please,” said Azalea. “West Twenty-Second, between Seventh and Eighth. I’ll point out the building when
Similar Books
