Maid of the Mist Read Free Page B

yourself ?'
    'If you're not interested, it doesn't matter.'
    'Mark.'
    'Frank.'
    'At least give me a clue.'
    'I'd give you one, Frank, but I'm not much of a singer.'
    'What the fuck is that supposed to mean?'
    'I'm being cryptic. Come and see, Frank, you won't regret it.' He cut the line.

4
    Turner House was a three-storey building on Stanley Road. Year round it was a safe harbour for some eight to ten women. That night eight to ten women stared Corrigan down as he was admitted through a side door, then searched. There were jokes to be made about a woman patting him down, jokes about pistols and being pleased to see him, but it wasn't the time or the place so he kept his mouth shut and sucked some more on the breath fresheners he'd found in the glove compartment.
    Off to the left he could see a dining table littered with plates and maybe a dozen bottles of wine. 'Celebrating?' Corrigan asked.
    'Divorce came through,' said his searcher, a bulky woman with tattoos on her tattoos, who then led him down the hall to a small, cluttered office. 'Wait here,' she said.
    Corrigan took a seat. There were piles of folders on the desk, others spilled out of a filing cabinet behind it. One wall was entirely dominated by Polaroids of women. One half of the wall showed them with their black eyes and busted noses and swollen lips; in the other half they were smiling, confident, glasses raised, sisters together. He lifted the cover of the top file on the desk and . . .
    'I wouldn't, if I were you.'
    He sat back. 'Sorry, just. . .'
    'Just leave it alone.'
    Annie Spitz was tall, maybe six foot, too thin for her height. She'd a pair of spectacles perched halfway down a slightly bent nose, at the top of which was a thin scar where it had once been split. She wore a man's dinner jacket over a white open-necked shirt and black jeans. He'd seen her talking to the hookers on Ferry Street three or four times and reckoned she was either a pimp or a social worker.
    Corrigan stood and extended a hand. 'I'm Frank Corrigan . . .'
    'I know who you are.'
    'Maynard, of course . . .'
    'Maynard, of course. But also – I know who you are.' She looked at him over the top of her glasses, patting as she did the pile of folders. She let it hang in the air.
    'We're divorced now,' Corrigan felt compelled to say.
    'I know,' said Annie.
    He glanced at the wall. He felt like there were three hundred bitter women looking at him. Eventually he said: 'Do you mind if I smoke?'
    She shook her head. Then she pushed a heavy glass ashtray across the table. 'Do you know that ninety per cent of battered women smoke?' she said.
    'Before, during or after?'
    'Are you trying to be funny?'
    'No. I'm genuinely interested.'
    Annie drummed her fingers on the table. 'OK. You're here to see the swimmer.'
    Corrigan nodded. 'How's she doing?'
    'She's pretty shaken up. She's in her room.'
    'Has she said anything?'
    'Sure.'
    Corrigan leant forward. 'And?'
    'And how much?'
    'And how much what?'
    'How much are you paying?'
    'I thought I showed you my badge. Police business.'
    She nodded and repeated the question.
    Corrigan tutted. 'You'll be looking for a donation to Turner House. How much are you thinking of ?'
    'Twenty-five.'
    'That shouldn't be a problem.'
    'Per cent of whatever you make on the story.'
    'Whatever I make? Lady, I . . .'
    'And I wasn't born yesterday. Anyone survives going over the Falls, it's a licence to print money. We're a women's refuge. We need money to survive. She will need money to survive. I'm sure we can come to some arrangement.'
    Corrigan smiled. 'I suppose it's not unheard of for a few dollars to be offered for my co-operation. The question is, how would you ever know what I make from the story?'
    'Because I have the best lawyers and accountants in the state, because I've had all their wives in here at one time or another. They can't afford not to work for me. Do we have a deal?'
     
    She led him up two flights of stairs.
    Nicola had been seven months pregnant. He'd