Chapter 4 - The Iron Signet
The next morning, the white serving jacket was gone from my closet.
In its place hung three sets of plain, heavy wool trousers, four silk shirts the color of dry sand, and a pair of leather loafers that had been cobbled by hand with my exact measurements stamped into the inner arch.
I didn't touch them. I put on my old black trousers, the ones with the frayed pockets, and walked down five flights of stairs into the gray drizzle of 14th Street.
Brenda met me at the door of the catering agency’s dispatch office in Long Island City. She didn't let me past the metal desk. She handed me a manila envelope containing three weeks' pay in cash and my tax forms.
"Brenda, what is this?"
"You're done, Em." She wouldn't look at my face. She was rearranging paperclips in a small magnetic tray with terrifying intensity. "Corporate called. The Sterling contract was pulled this morning. The whole agency lost the account because of that scene in the ballroom."
"Marcus was the one who made the scene!"
"Marcus doesn't have people with three-letter acronyms parked outside my dispatch door in black Suburbans, Emma," Brenda whispered, her eyes finally darting to the window that looked out over the rainy alley. "The owner told me that if you worked another shift here, our liquor license would be reviewed by the state board by noon. I have three kids in parochial school. Take the cash."
I walked back over the Pulaski Bridge in the rain.
The city was gray, loud, and indifferent. The water below the bridge looked like lead, churning with diesel from the tugboats. I had seven hundred dollars in the envelope, four hundred in my savings account, and twenty-eight days until the landlord on 14th Street changed the padlock on the downstairs door.
When I reached my stoop, Marcus was sitting on the top step.
He looked different than he had in the ballroom. His tuxedo had been replaced by a wet trench coat that had lost two buttons, and the florid arrogance had been stripped out of his face, replaced by a twitchy, feral desperation that made him look ten years older. He was smoking a cigarette down to the filter, his fingers stained yellow with nicotine.
"Emma," he said, scrambling to his feet as I reached the bottom step.
I stepped back into the street, my umbrella held low like a shield. "Get away from me, Marcus."
"We need to talk. Inside."
"We have nothing to talk about. The divorce is final. The brownstone is gone."
His eyes widened, then narrowed into slits. "He told you. That bastard told you."
"You used my name for a loan shark," I said, my voice dead. "You tried to sell my route to men who break legs for sport."
Marcus took three steps down, his shoe splashing dirty slush onto my hem. "You think he’s any better? You think Dante Caruso is some kind of knight? Emma, you're an idiot. You're an illiterate little waitress who thinks a man with an eight-million-dollar apartment wants her for her conversation!"
"Go home, Marcus."
"He bought my paper!" Marcus hissed, reaching for my arm.
I pulled back, but my heel caught in the grating of the sewer drain. I stumbled, my hip striking the iron handrail.
Marcus grabbed the front of my coat—the charcoal cashmere coat Dante had sent. His fingers twisted into the expensive wool, his face six inches from mine.
"He called me into an office in Maspeth this morning," Marcus whispered, his teeth chattering with rage or cold. "He had three men with him. They didn't hit me, Em. You know what they did? They made me sit in a chair while they shredded every promissory note I ever signed. And then he told me that if I ever looked in your direction again, he wouldn't kill me. He said he’d buy the firm where I work, fire every partner who ever gave me an account, and make sure I spent the next thirty years auditing laundromats in Utica."
"Good," I choked out, trying to pry his wet fingers off the coat. "That sounds like justice."
"He's using you to get to the commission!" Marcus shouted, his spit hitting my cheek. "The Caruso family wants the waterfront re-zoning. My firm handles the municipal bonds for the city council! He doesn't give a damn about your little catering job, Emma! He wants the leverage on my partners, and you're the stupid little key he's using to turn the lock!"
"Let go of the lady."
The voice came from behind me.
Not Dante. Paul.
The large man was standing on the sidewalk, holding an umbrella over his head with one hand. His other hand was buried deep inside his overcoat. He hadn't made a sound on the wet concrete.
Marcus let go of my wool as if the fabric had burst into flame. He backed up two steps, his hands raised, his eyes darting toward the corner where a second black sedan was idling with its parking lights on.
"I’m her ex-husband," Marcus stammered. "We're discussing family business."
"You have no family," Paul said. "The car is waiting, Miss Hayes."
"She isn't going anywhere with you!" Marcus yelled, though he took another step back toward Avenue A. "Emma, look at him! Look at who these people are! You think you were miserable with me? You think my temper was bad? These people don't yell, Em! They don't break dishes! They just put you in the ground!"
I looked at Marcus—at the weak, trembling line of his mouth, the cowardice that had masqueraded as authority for four years of my life.
Then I looked at Paul, whose face was as still and impassive as an iron wedge.
"Give me the umbrella, Paul," I said.
Paul blinked once, then handed me the curved wooden handle.
I turned back to Marcus. I took two steps forward until I was standing on the second step, looking down at him for the first time since the night he threw his wedding band into the garbage disposal to prove a point about my cooking.
"You're right about one thing, Marcus," I said, my voice dropping so low the rain almost covered it. "You were loud. You broke things. But you were small. You were always so small that you had to make me smaller just so you could look in the mirror."
"Emma—"
"If you ever touch my coat again," I said, "I won't call the police. I'll call Dante."
The name hit Marcus like a physical blow. His jaw worked, but no sound came out. He backed down the remaining steps, turned, and began to run—a clumsy, splashing jog through the gray slush toward the subway entrance on First Avenue.
I stood there in the rain until his wet trench coat disappeared around the corner.
"The car is warm, Miss Hayes," Paul said quietly behind me.
May you like
I looked down at the hem of the coat. A smear of street grime was on the charcoal wool where Marcus's boot had brushed it.
"Take me to him," I said.
