Devlin didn’t get around to asking her that question until two weeks later, and when Maryellen laughed at it, he laughed, too. They were in bed, exhausted. By then, he wasn’t sure if he cared about what she had done or was doing or would do. He was seeing other women. She didn’t know it, or wasn’t going to let on. There was no doubt now that she liked him, and he liked that. Maryellen was a beautiful girl, curvy, with wonderful hips. But she was vain, too: she worried constantly about getting fat, like a grandmother now dead, and she liked to look at herself, even in bed, raising one leg and then the other, examining their curves. She didn’t think he knew what she was doing, but he was taking it in, all of it. She was uninhibited, often outrageous—but then moody, dependent at times, even clinging. She had an explosive, violent temper. She screamed, her face red with rage. He was beginning to understand that she had to cry after such episodes; once, she cried for two hours. He timed her, but that was the depth of his involvement. He deliberately kept himself distant from her emotionally, drawing back more with every outburst. She knew it. He could see that in her eyes. But she was merciless—or wanted to be.

“You’re not the biggest guy I’ve ever been with, you know.”

He laughed in her face. He didn’t want her to see that her coarseness stung. Tears came to her eyes. Tears of shame, she said.

He had had moments with rich girls in the past, but he had always known that he wasn’t going to be around for long. With Maryellen Brennan, he was beginning to wonder. Accommodating her idiosyncrasies could open big-time doors for Frank Devlin. He had been seeing Jim Brennan’s name in the papers since childhood—Brennan, the multimillionaire party power broker, wheeler-dealer, opportunist, influence peddler, fixer, and even world-class crook. Maybe Devlin’s father was right about Jim Brennan, seducer of scores of women over the decades, but the fact was that he was the only man in the borough of Queens who could guarantee you an audience with the Pope. In six weeks, Devlin had actually spoken to Jim Brennan only once. Brennan was in black tie, on the front walk of his Jamaica Estates place, stepping toward a waiting limousine as Devlin arrived to pick up Maryellen. Brennan paused, a fat cigar clenched tightly in his teeth.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I the fuck am Frank Devlin.”

Brennan eyed him for a long time and then got into the limo.