“Uh, I hate to be obvious, but this isn’t your home,” he reminded. “My name’s on the deed. And I didn’t have to set you up with the generous package I did.”
“I’m talkin’ to Frank about this,” she threatened with a pointing finger.
“No. You’re not! I told ya, he’s given his blessing.”
“What? You don’t want me to embarrass you?”
“I don’t want you to embarrassyourself,”he countered. “Look, take the package. You don’t have to move back in with your mother, you can mend fences with your sister, you can even take the cash and car and drive back out to Vegas if you want. Make a fresh start.”
“You’re a real bastard, you know that?”
“Goldie, one way or another, you’re leavin’ the picture.”
“What? Now you’re threatenin’ me?”
“You’renotgoing to Frank!” he reiterated.
She turned and hurried toward the front door, forgetting about her tote, wallet, and luggage.
“Oh,c’mon!”Markie called. “At least go look at the apartment. Here—” he said, returning to the counter between the living room and kitchen for a pencil and sticky note. “Lemme give you the keys and address.”
She ignored him and opened up the front door, leaving her condo keys on the foyer table.
After she slammed the door, Markie continued writing.
“She’s takin’ it well,” he muttered, sarcastically.
Out in the corridor, there was a hallway table across from the elevator with a leafy artificial fern on it. When Markie opened the condo door to chase after Goldie with the sticky note in one hand and a set of keys in the other, his eyes flew open, then he quickly ducked back inside and slammed the door just as the thrown fern smashed into it.
A minute later, Goldie arrived back in the lobby. Her face was a mess from running mascara, her eyes and nose were red, and she was teetering back and forth on the edges of wailing sorrow and seething anger. Stepping off the elevator, Bruno and Larry were both standing at the reception counter and staring at her.
“I’m really sorry, Miss Maraschino,” Larry offered.
“You both knew?” she asked, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “What am I sayin’? Ofcourseyou both knew.” She looked at Larry. “I’ve known you for about a year…” Then her eyes turnedto the larger man. “But you, Bruno. You’ve known me forever. You went to school with my sister. You couldn’t have given me the courtesy of a heads-up?”
“Take the package, Goldie,” he said simply.
She looked at Bruno, then at Larry, then shook her head.
“Welcome home, Goldie,” she said to herself, heading toward the front door. “Welcome home.”
Once outside, she crossed Mercer Street and hurriedly walked two blocks before the cold and drizzle started to affect her legs, hands, and wet face. She realized everything was in her tote: money, gloves, ID, and cell phone. She also realized she had no idea where she was going or what she was going to do. She had an older sister named Ellen in Upper Montclair, New Jersey, thirteen miles away. But she highly disapproved of the criminal element Goldie associated with and had cut off all communication with her. They had recently seen each other at her Uncle Luke’s funeral in Las Vegas, but Ellen had nothing but harsh words for her at the funeral home.
“Markie Santina sells drugs,” she’d said accusingly. “He extorts money, sells stolen merchandise, and he kills people, Goldie. Hekillspeople! If you’re with him, you’re no better!”
Then there was her mother, Carla, who lived in the Bronx. But she didn’t make much money, lived humbly, and, frankly, Goldie didn’t want to return to the same small bedroom and woman who pelted her with Catholic guilt. She loved her mom, but she didn’t want to go back to the same circumstances she had been in at seventeen. She also had a father, Tom. But he had remarried and moved to Pittsburgh, and she hadn’t spoken to him in two years. Any friends she had were either wives or girlfriends of Markie’s crew, but now she’d be ostracized. So, she finally stopped, looked around at the gray sky, realized how wet and cold she was, and decided to go back to the condo, get her tote, and at least go look at the apartment.
You don’t have a single damn option,she thought.You stupid, stupid bitch!
Defeated, she slowly turned around and started to walk back toward Mercer Street, sniffling, wiping her eyes, swallowing snot, and trying to think of something to say to Markie that would give her at least a morsel of dignity. She wished she hadn’t worn stilettos. She wished she had a hat and gloves and had not worn such a high skirt. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that when she got to Mercer Street and started to cross, she didn’t even notice the speeding dark blue Mazda going by. She walked right into its rear quarter panel as it passed. With a dull thud, the impact spun Goldie Maraschino around, and then she tumbled to the pavement, critically injured.
Two
LIKE THE CHERRY
When Goldie’s green eyes slowly opened, she had no idea how much time had passed. She remembered being struck by a car on Mercer Street. She remembered pain like running into a brick wall—but, after that, nothing. Now, she was lying on her back, and her eyes were slowly focusing on an overhead light fixture in a plaster ceiling she didn’t recognize. The lights were off, but there was enough daylight peeking in from the edges of the drawn curtains to give her an idea of the place. The room wasn’t very big. But it wasn’t a hospital room. It was more like a room in a boarding house. She was lying in a single bed with a patchwork quilt covering her. She slowly propped herself up by her elbows and looked around the unfamiliar room. Beyond the foot of the bed was a dresser with a rounded mirror above it. To the left was a small table with a chair that was supposed to serve as a desk, but the table had no drawers. She also noticed an overcoat tossed over the seat of the chair, and a purse sitting on top of the coat. There was a hard plastic case on the table.
“Where the hell am I?” she quietly asked. “Why aren’t I dead? Why don’t I hurt? This can’t be the new apartment… unless Markie rented me out some grandma’s attic.”
