Place in the City Read Free Page B

herself. Timy would look at her body and eat his heart out. Or maybe he liked fat. dark girls. She had to know.
    A little later, she went down and out of the store. Shutzey wasn’t outside, but she walked down the street hoping that she would meet him. But what she would do if she met him, she didn’t know.

O N THE same street, across from Meyer’s cigar store, and two houses from the corner, Shutzey had his place; in a brownstone three-story house, which he owned. That will give you an idea about Shutzey—thirty-five thousand dollars of real estate, clear. Top to bottom, he furnished it himself. And you wouldn’t know it was a house, because on the outside it was just as quiet and respectable as any other place on the street.
    Shutzey treated his whores right. Inside the front door, just as you entered, was the parlor, and behind that two sitting rooms, one in blue and one in yellow. Some of the girls lived upstairs, but not all of them; some had their own homes, and some had families, like Mary White. And some had husbands.
    But Shutzey’s place was always clean. The girls liked to sit in their kimonos in the parlor, smoke and talk; and they didn’t have to walk the streets. Sometimes they stood on. the corner with Shutzey, but that wasn’t street-walking. And he never sent them out to Coney Island, or up on the Drive when the ships came in, the way some of the pimps did.
    There were four or five girls in the parlor; they were full of smiles for Timy.
    â€œLay off,” he commanded.
    â€œIt’s on the house, Timy.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWhy don’t yu give us a break, Timy?”
    â€œIt’s Park Avenue or nothin’ fur him.”
    â€œLay off!”
    â€œAwright, girls—that’s enough,” Shutzey told them. He looked them over carefully, as if he had never seen any of them before, flicked the ashes from his cigar, and squinted; he called one over.
    â€œMinnie!”
    Timy shook his head. He slapped her buttocks; then he shook his head again.
    â€œGet Mary White,” Shutzey said, “an’ the rest of yu clear out.”
    When she walked in, she smiled, too. You had to, because Timy was a big man. He could make anyone, or break them too.
    â€œShe ain’t a chicken any more,” Timy whispered, “but she’s a hell of a woman, all right.”
    Mary stared at them. Something was up, and just on a day when she wanted to be home early, with the kids.
    â€œYu can pick up forty bucks,” Shutzey told her. “You just go along with Timy. That ain’t bad fur a night, forty bucks.”
    â€œA stag?”
    â€œYeah—but there ain’t nothin’ tu be afraid of. Timy’ll treat yu right.”
    â€œI know,” she said quietly.
    â€œCome on,” Timy said. Then they went out together. Shutzey chewed on his cigar, shook his head. Then he grinned. “Geesus,” he whispered.

T HE PRIEST said to John Edwards: “—All in two things, right and wrong. It’s hard to be a priest in New York; maybe it’s wrong—I don’t know. But good against evil remains, over everything.”
    â€œThe good doesn’t win. It’s chance.”
    â€œWe try. We believe,” the priest said.
    â€œI know—I don’t doubt you. Look at me, all gone. But if I had one ounce of your faith, only one small part of your belief in the lasting right of things—But I don’t have it, and what’s the use of talking about it? I don’t even have the will to live.”
    â€œYou have it.” The priest smiled. “Get out of here tonight. Walk in the snow and breath deeply. Start slowly, and learn to live—all over.”
    Then the priest went, and left alone, Edwards sank deeper into his chair. If he went out—Looking at the window, he saw the snowflakes tilting against the pane. Outside, New York was being purified. Snow would make the streets as white as a