Secret Isaac Read Free

look. The letter “D” had been scratched into her face. Christ. A scarlet letter on Forty-third Street.
    â€œMiss, you can’t stay here. The cops are fond of this corner. You’d better shove up to Forty-fifth.”
    â€œI can’t.” She smiled, and that gruesome letter wriggled on her cheek. “I don’t have a union card. The other girls would bite my ass.”
    â€œWho’s looking after you?”
    â€œMartin McBride.” The smile ended, and the “D” corrected itself.
    â€œWell, this Martin is an idiot. Is he the one who put you in the street?”
    The scarred beauty turned agitated.
    â€œMister, take me somewhere, or go away. Martin doesn’t like me talking to strangers.”
    She didn’t have a bimbo’s voice, and it confused the old bum. He had no plans to undress her. “What’s your name?”
    â€œAnnie.”
    â€œAnnie what?”
    â€œIsn’t Annie enough for you?” she said. “It’s Annie Powell.”
    He smuggled her into a French restaurant on Forty-eighth Street, Au Tunnel. The headwaiter was frightened to throw him out. The old bum had twenties in his pocket and a Diners Club card.
    Annie Powell laughed. “God, you’re crazy.”
    â€œWho’s Martin McBride?”
    â€œSomebody’s uncle,” she said. “That’s all.”
    The old man pointed to the scar. “Did he do that?”
    â€œNo.”
    They drank a muscatel, had scallops, green beans, trout, and a chocolate mousse.
    â€œMister, how are you going to make me earn this meal? I might not be kinky enough for you.” He hadn’t told her his name.
    The bum gave her forty dollars. “Do me a favor, Annie Powell. Stay off the street for the rest of the night.”

    The old man was irritated. He’d gone to his hotel room, but he couldn’t sleep. He had visions of Annie being pawed by bull-dykes in some detention cell. “Shit,” he said. He put on his clothes, and walked downtown to Centre Street. It was the site of the old, neglected Police Headquarters. Its rooms were abandoned now. The Police had moved to a giant red monolith in Chinatown. Only a few extraneous cops watched the floors of Centre Street, for rats and other vermin. Most of the files were removed. Even the photo unit in the basement was gone. There was a guard at the main desk, but the old man had no trouble getting into the building. He didn’t have to flash any identification card. He went up to the third floor, walked through a clutch of rooms, and entered an office with an oak door. The office had a telephone. It was the only phone in the building that worked. He dialed the new Headquarters and shouted into the phone. “I told you,” he said. “A cunt named Annie Powell. If she’s taken off the street, if she’s bothered, if she’s touched, I’ll flop the whole pussy patrol. And find out who this Martin McBride is. Does he have a nephew with a name that begins with a big D?… yes, a D … like dumb … or dim … or dead.”
    He hung up the phone, and managed to fall asleep. He didn’t have much of a rest. A boy from the Mayor’s office rang him up. His Honor had fled the coop again, walked out of Gracie Mansion in his pajamas on a midnight stroll.
    The old bum took a cab uptown. He had the cabbie rake the streets around Carl Schurz Park. Then he got off. His Honor, Mayor Sam, had gone down to Cherokee Place. He didn’t seem deprived in striped pajamas and a red silk robe. When he saw the old bum he began to weep. He was sixty-nine, and he’d turned senile on the Democratic Party over the past two years.
    â€œLaddie, what happened to you?”
    â€œIt’s nothing, Your Honor,” the old bum said. “Just the clothes I’m wearing.”
    â€œYou gave me a fright,” the Mayor said. “We have to fatten you up.”
    His own aides accused