Across the hall, in the flat opposite, they heard the Filipino hat-maker cursing his wife, a Porto Rican negress who swore back in Spanish, French and English.

“Lawd ’a’ mercy!” said Liza Jones. “Ah ain’t never heard such outlandish langwidge as dem two shoutin’. She sho’ make hell-fire wid dat mout’ o’ hern!”

But Ida wasn’t interested in other people’s troubles. She had dark suspicious thoughts of her own. With her chin resting on the palm of her big black hand which was pink on the inside, her hot smoky eyes looked restlessly up and down the street. Then she turned suddenly to Liza Jones.

“Ah’m nervouser dan a mule wid duh itch, Liza. Has yo’ got gin in duh house?”

Liza went to a closet and produced a bottle of gin. She poured a stiff drink for Ida and a smaller one for herself.

Big Ida, who was continually looking out the window, suddenly stiffened. The sedan she had seen before was back again and was stopping in front of the house. She could see Liverlips at the wheel. Pinhead opened the rear door when the car drew to the curb. A white woman, dressed very plainly, got out. She turned to Pinhead who appeared to give her directions. Then he sprang back in the car and drove off.

Ida got a glimpse of the face and blonde hair of the woman. Very quickly the visitor was up the steps and into the vestibule. Ida leapt up with an oath and rushed to open Liza’s parlor door into the hall. But by the time she had it open, the white woman was halfway up the first flight of stairs. Ida, breathing heavily, her nostrils distended, her hands clutching spasmodically, watched where she went. Yes—the woman was going right to Money Johnson. Ida swung back into Liza’s parlor, her lips drawn back to an ugly snarl, revealing two tarnished gold teeth.

“Ah knows it was dat dirty white trash! Yes, she’s up dere now. She’s up dere wid dat man. Lawd hab mercy on her soul, ’cause Ah’ll snatch duh eyes outen her head!”

Big Ida ranted up and down the parlor. Liza watched her with growing apprehension. She knew what Ida was like when she was aroused.

“Look yere, woman,” Liza Jones said to her, “whutcha goin’ on like dat fo’? Actin’ lak a mad baboon!”

Ida whipped up her skirt above her right knee and slipped a black-jack from out of her garter. She swung it in the air viciously, as though striking some imaginary victim. The force of her mighty, muscular shoulders was behind each blow. Liza got out of the way.

“Why did Ah let dat slut git pass me?”

Liza edged into a corner of the room.

“Hushup wid dat lowdown talk an’ put dat head-buster away. Ah’s scared o’ dem t’ings anyway.”