"How many Doms you know personally?" Donner asked her.
"I don't know any Doms," the girl said. She had a tiny voice, tinged with an unmistakable Southern accent. Scratch Ohio, Willis thought, substitute Arkansas or Tennessee.
"She don't know any Doms," Donner said, and chukled.
"How about you, Fats? You know any?"
"That's all you're giving me?" Donner asked. "Man, you're really generous."
"He lost a lot of money on the chamionship fight two weeks ago."
"Everybody I
"He's broke right now. He's trying to promote some scratch," Willis said.
"Dom, huh?"
"Yeah."
"From this part of the city?"
"A friend of his lives in Riverhead," Willis said.
"What's the friend's name?"
"La Bresca. Tony La Bresca."
"What about
"No record."
"You think this Dom done time?"
"I've got no idea. He seems to have tipped to a caper that's coming off."
"Is that what you're interested in? The caper?"
"Yes. According to him, the buzz is all over town."
"There's always some buzz or other that's all over town," Donner said. "What the hell are you doing there, Mercy?"
"Just fixing things," Mercy said.
"Get the hell away from there, you make me nervous."
"I was just fixing the things in the fridge," Mercy said.
"I hate that Southern accent," Donner said. "Don't you hate Southern accents?" he asked Willis.
"I don't mind them," Willis said.
"Can't even understand her half the time. Sounds as if she's got shit in her mouth."
The girl closed the refrigerator door and went to the closet. She opened the door and began moving around empty hangers.
"
"Just straightening things," she said.
"You want me to kick you out in the street bare-assed?" Donner asked.
"No," she said softly.
"Then cut it out."
"All right."
"Anyway, it's time you got dressed."
"All right."
"Go on, go get dressed. What time is it?" he asked Willis.
"Almost noon," Willis said.
"Sure, go get dressed," Donner said.
"All right," the girl said, and went into the other room.
"Damn little bitch," Donner said, "hardly worth keeping around."
"I thought she was your daughter," Willis said.
"Oh, is that what you thought?" Donner asked, and again he grinned.
"Willis restrained a sudden impulse. He sighed and said, "So what do you think?"
"I don't think nothing yet, man. Zero so far."
"Well, you want some time on it?"
"How much of a sweat are you in?"
"We need whatever we can get as soon as we can get it."
"What's the caper sound like?"
"Maybe extortion."
"Dom, huh?"
"Dom," Willis repeated.
"That'd be for Dominick, right?"
"Yes."
"Well, let me listen around, who knows?"
The girl came out of the other room. She was wearing a miniskirt and white mesh stockings, a low-cut purple blouse. There was a smear of bright red lipstick on her mouth, green eyeshadow on her eyelids.
"You going down now?" Donner asked.
"Yes," she answered.
"Put on your coat."
"All right," she said.
"And take your bag."
"I will."
"Don't come back empty, baby," Donner said.
"I won't," she said, and moved toward the door.
"I'm going too," Willis said.
"I'll give you a buzz."
"Okay, but try to move fast, will you?" Willis said.
"It's I hate to go out when it's so fucking cold," Donner answered.
The girl was on the hallway steps, below Willis, walking down without any sense of haste, buttoning her coat, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Willis caught up with her and said, "Where are you from, Mercy?"
"Ask Fats," she answered.
"I'm asking
"You fuzz?"
"That's right."
"Georgia," she said.
"When'd you get up here?"
"Two months ago."
"How old are you?"
"Sixteen."
"What the hell are you doing with a man like Fats Donner?" Willis asked.
"I don't know," she said. She would not look into his face. She kept her head bent as they went down the steps to the street. As Willis opened the door leading outside, a blast of frigid air rushed into the hallway.
"Why don't you get out?" he said.
The girl looked up at him.
"Where would I go?" she asked, and then left him on the stoop, walking up the street with a practiced swing, the bag dangling from her shoulder, her high heels clicking along the pavement.
At two o'clock that afternoon, the seventeen-year-old girl who had been in the convertible that crashed the river barrier died without gaining consciousness.
The Buena Vista Hospital record read simply: Death secondary to head injury.
The squadroom phone began jangling early Monday morning.
The first call was from a reporter on the city's austere morning daily. He asked to speak to whoever was in charge of the squad and, when told that Lieutenant Byrnes was not in at the moment, asked to speak to whoever was in command.
"This is Detective 2nd/Grade Meyer Meyer," he was told. "I suppose I'm in command at the moment."
"Detective Meyer," the reporter said, "this is Carlyle Butterford, I wanted to check out a possible story."
