“Thank you, sir, but—”
“Just take it.”
He means it. From the tightness in his expression, I would be a fool to argue. I tuck the money back into my apron. “Thank you, sir.”
Bianca is seething. If her glare had teeth, I’d be in ribbons.
Then Mr. Carboni steps out of his room and into the corridor. We both move back. “I’d love to stay and chat with you two ladies, but I’m meeting an associate for an important discussion. This guy,” he says, jabbing a thumb into his chest, “is about to get rich beyond your wildest dreams.”
He bends down so he’s in my face. Something brown is stuck between his teeth, but I keep silent. I keep silent about the reek of old onions and whisky, too. I force myself to be still as a stone.
“Now you can clean the room and not worry about me getting in the way.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Then he does the unthinkable. He pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger and raises my face to his.
“A rich fella like me could use a beautiful woman like you on his arm, Rosie Ryan. I’d change your life. You’d be a queen. Think about it.”
I cannot see anything but the malevolence swimming behind those dark eyes, and I hear Granny quoting Proverbs.For they cannot rest until they do evil; they are robbed of sleep till they make someone stumble.
Mr. Carboni is not a good person. He is a right chancer and a snake, and even though I make his bed every day, I don’t believe he sleeps much. Mr. Carboni is used to getting whatever he wants, and doesn’t he have his eyes onme. I want them anywhere else but there. I hate to think of Bianca in danger, but truly, she can have him if she wants him.
He lets my chin go and pulls out his billfold. “Do a good job, Rosie Ryan.”
He thrusts a dollar bill at me, and I snatch it from his hand, half afraid that he’ll shove it down the front of my uniform. Then he breezes past, grand as you like, leaving Bianca and me to stare at each other with our mouths hanging open. Neither of us moves, but my chest feels ready to burst with the sobs I’ve been holding back. I still feel his fingers on my face, burning like a brand.
“Well,” Bianca says, folding her arms.
“Well yourself. Come along out of the corridor. ’Tis hardly the spot for a proper quarrel.”
“?‘You’d be aqueen,’” she echoes as we walk. “Where’d that come from? Does Damien know about you and Carboni?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve nothing to do with Mr. Carboni other than cleaning up after him, and you know it. The stuff you’re talking about, well now, that’s your area, not mine.” I despise this. She’s myfriend. We should not be tearing each other apart over men, of all things. “Speaking of which, what were you two talking about before I got there?”
“Not that it’s your business, but I was negotiating a loan to help pay for my father’s medical bills. They will be cutting off his leg soon. It keeps getting infected. So I thought I’d see if Mr. Carboni could help out. You know. Give it a try.”
I blink. “You’re negotiating with a gangster for a loan?”
She stares pointedly at the pocket where I’ve tucked the ten—eleven now—dollars. “Meanwhile, he’s giving you money for… for what exactly, Rosie?”
My face is hot, and that’s not fair, because I have nothing to be ashamed of.
“Nothing. For nothing. I don’t know what he’s thinking. But with you, oh, Bianca. I’ll tell you this much. He’ll charge a king’s ransom in interest. Don’t take his loan, all right? Promise me.”
“I ain’t gonna promise that.” But her voice is calmer now. She’s scared. I can hear it.
I frown at the door. “I’d better get his suite done before he comes back.”
“But what about you and all that money?”
I’ll not waste my time answering even one of her questions. I bluster past, into the suite, then I lock the door behind me and get to work. I clean like a whirlwind, my mind and my heartbeat going a mile a minute. In a blink, the ashtray is dumped and wiped out, the pillows on the sofa and armchair fluffed. There are no stacks of paper to place on Mr. Carboni’s desk, no brassieres to collect from underneath it. I head to the bedroom and make his bed, and as I’m folding the hospital corners, I pause. I’m going too fast. I must slow down and do a good job. But the reason I’m moving so quickly is that I’m terrified. I know what Mr. Carboni is doing, giving me money and going on with the “queen” business. That big, dangerous, probably murderous Italian gangster isflirtingwith me. What can I be doing about that? Tell me, would you? For I’m at my wit’s end.
My eye falls on the nightstand. I can’t stop myself when I reach for the drawer. It’s like a magnet has a hold on me. I hold my breath, then I slide open the drawer.
The gun is gone. In its place is a worn, black leather book and a pen. My fingers itch to touch the book. Sure, and it must be important. No one is in the room to stop me, but I spy around, just in case. I’m safe for now, but my heart keeps thumping like a herd of horses. I take the book from the drawer, and it falls open to a page about halfway through. A thin black silk ribbon holds Mr. Carboni’s place. I slide it out of the way.
All I see are columns of messy numbers and letters with no explanations. For the first few pages, the rows of entries are crossed off. I keep flipping pages, and I find more names. Some are crossed off or have a star drawn in the margin beside them. But listen. A few of them names are awfully familiar.
