Sequence of Events: Anarchy (conclusion)
The poor girl had been only distracted. By Boxer, of course.
Closing the door to the lobby phone booth, Rose wedged herself next to the box, rubbed her eyes…and these thoughts came to her. Boxer’s description was what the girl had given—
But to Joe, to Rose, in their old living room. Not to the police. Funny, I don’t remember her name. She was pushing the pram, walking Little Nick…
A picture of her grown son, still called so by his siblings, filled her mind’s eye for a moment, demanding resolution. And resolution, in spades, Rose told herself, she possessed. She need only think of Joe, the circle from which he had been crowding her aside.
Her sons were happy, though, it didn’t matter. Julie would be happy one day. Viola…
Had found her cock-of-the-walk. Like her mother, she would learn. Joseph Durco had made all these things happen, and he was punishing his wife, as though the ending must be her fault.
Nina…Nina, I think. In such a state, she had let go of Priscilla’s hand.
“Yeah, don’t play dumb. You get me fine. Five hundred bucks. These your own kids? I didn’t figure.”
The man scoffed at her denial. “That’s not your name, sure. Not the one you gave the people you work for, anyhow. Lady, I saw you jump. So lemme just say it again. Mr. Prosser wants his money.”
No, how could Rose have blamed poor Nina? Who would not have been shocked, and horrified, accosted this way? Boxer’s confederate had snatched Priscilla, while Nina’s face was buried in her handkerchief.
And I don’t know where she is now. What a sorry burden to carry through life. I was selfish, Rose thought. I can blame myself for that.
There wasn’t space enough, the way the director’s table bowed into an oval from its head, for Gersome, Rumbaugh, and Summers to berth themselves round Ethan at their ease.
“Rumbaugh, get out of my way. Summers, Jesus, I’m not gonna run. You can cuff me in a minute.”
Gersome grunted and shoved at his adversary, a minor satisfaction.
Summers inched between two pedestals topped by two Boston ferns, settling his trouser seat on the windowsill’s marble slab. “I don’t know why you would say so. I’ve got a few questions, that’s all…no authority in this city to arrest anyone.”
He said these things with a glance at Rumbaugh. Rumbaugh butted away Ethan’s chair, catching him in the back of the knees.
Summers went on. “This is a nice, private room, Mr. Gersome. I see a steno over there in the corner. Some of your friends here you’ve been doing business with might even help, jog your memory.”
(2016, Stephanie Foster)