The streaks of white on Jack's cheek turned pink, then dark, then crimson. Jack leapt out of bed, stumbled into his pants, threw on his shirt and barefoot ran out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Marie retched some more, then, wiping her chin, collapsed on the bed.

***

Running down the stairs Jack heard sirens in his head. What had happened, he was sure, was just this side of murder. He was crying when he opened his door and almost ran smack into his mother in the vestibule.

She grabbed his arms. "What happened!"

"Nothing, Mom!" He struggled to get past her, but she wouldn't let go.

"Don't tell me nothing!" she screamed. "You're crying, you're bleeding! Don't tell me nothing!"

Jack broke loose and ran to his room, his mother hot on his trail. He couldn't close the door on her. He sat on the corner of his bed, his head in his hands, trying to collect himself.

"Where are your shoes?" she screamed.

"Oh... Gaw-wd!" He let out an anguished cry, jumping up and hugging his mother, shaking and crying. She felt confused, angry and frightened. She sat him back down on his bed, trying to control herself.

"Jackie, what happened, where are your shoes?"

He gingerly touched his cheek. His fingers came away bloody. With a cool damp cloth she wiped away the blood.

"Who did this?" she asked.

Jack told her the whole story in graphic detail. She sat there ashen, horrified, hand over her mouth. When Jack got to the part about Marie blowing him, his mother stood up and in a wrathful and terrible voice said, "What is this woman's name!"

Jack didn't want to say, but he couldn't fight his mother. "Mane."

"Marie what?" she demanded.

"Marie De Coco."

"De Coco." She nodded with terrible knowledge. "De Coco."

She left the room and picked up the phone in the kitchen. "Information, give me a listing for a De Coco in Co-op City, please?"

"One moment. I have a Louis De Coco on—"

"That's it..."

***

Chubby lounged on the couch watching an old Robert Mitchum movie. Phyllis was out. Said she would be back around five.

Four forty-two. Chubby constantly kept checking the time, his guts jumping. Whenever Phyllis was out Chubby now counted the minutes, the seconds, for her return, like a housebroken dog who hadn't been walked all day.

The phone rang.

"'Lo."

"I would like to speak to Mr. De Coco, please."

"You got 'im." Chubby ate a tuna sandwich as he talked.

"Mr. De Coco, I won't give you my name. I'm a neighbor of yours. I'm calling you about your wife."

Chubby frowned. "What about 'er?"

"I think you should know that she's in the habit of seducing young men in the laundry room and bringing them up to your apartment and—"

"Who the fuck is this!" Chubby dropped his sandwich. His face was burning. Mrs. Cutler started to quiver with emotion.

"She brings them to your apartment and makes them do—"