Damaged Goods Read Online Free PDF Page B

Black candidates needed white liberals and a decent piece of the Jewish vote; white candidates had to hold their own in line while appealing to conservative Latinos, to Cubans and South Americans.
    “Doesn’t matter,” Leonora said. “Morgenthau’s gonna run again.” Robert Morgenthau was the Manhattan district attorney and would continue to be until he quit or died. “But I’m only forty. I can wait.”
    “Forty?” Betty stared at Leonora’s unlined face and shook her head. “It doesn’t seem possible.”
    “Is that a compliment?”
    Betty, to their mutual surprise, took the question seriously. “It’s more than the beauty, Leonora, though I admit I’d kill for those eyes. It’s the energy, the optimism. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you down.”
    Leonora eyed Betty speculatively. “Something’s bothering you, Ms. Haluka. And, being a former FBI agent and an experienced trial lawyer, I think you want to tell me about it.”
    Moodrow spent the next twenty minutes pretending to watch the Yankees pound the crap out of their ancient enemies, the Boston Red Sox, while he listened to Betty unburden herself in the kitchen. There was nothing, Moodrow knew, Leonora could say to make it better. Betty had to go through it, accept the pain, and come out the other side. He’d done it often enough in his own life, most recently eight years before when Greta Bloom, who’d been his friend and mentor for almost fifty years, had taken nine months to die of a stroke.
    For Betty, of course, the process was just beginning and Moodrow knew she was now more frightened than sorrowful, that she was still hoping for a miracle, hoping some steely-eyed surgeon with the hands of a concert pianist would put Marilyn back together.
    “Mr. Moodrow?” Betty was standing in the doorway. Her eyes were moist, her mascara smeared. “The doctor will see you now.”
    Moodrow let her pass without saying a word. He waited until the door to their bedroom closed behind her, then entered the kitchen and sat down.
    “I know I came at a bad time,” Leonora began.
    “This is true.”
    Leonora flashed a dazzling smile; a shake of her head rattled the beads worked into her braided hair. “Stanley, you’re a prick.”
    “This is also true,” Moodrow conceded. He spun on the chair, took a bottle of Wild Turkey from the cabinet behind him, poured three fingers of bourbon into a glass. “Actually, I gotta thank you. Betty needed to talk about her troubles and what I am, I guess, is good for other things.”
    “That’s not true.”
    Moodrow waved her off. “For now, it’s true.” He sipped at his drink, let the smoky liquid sit in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. “I don’t wanna be abrupt, Leonora, but as you can see, I got other things on my mind. So, as they say in the hood, whassup?”
    “Maybe I ought to come back tomorrow. This is fairly complicated.”
    “Leonora, you wouldn’t be sitting here if I was the one who picked up the phone. Meanwhile, Betty invited you, so I can’t very well kick you out.” He spun the glass on the table, looked down at his hands. “Maybe your timing wasn’t so bad, after all. Right now, I’m lookin’ for work.”
    “Don’t jump to conclusions. You might change your mind before I’m finished.” Higgins took a folder out of her briefcase, laid it on the table. “As you know, for the last several years I’ve been working as an unofficial liaison between the shelters for battered women and the Manhattan DA’s office. I help get orders of protection, push the cops to look for the husbands, talk to sentencing judges. It’s strictly voluntary, of course. I do it on my own time.”
    “For the brownie points?” Moodrow couldn’t help interrupting.
    “That’s part of it,” Higgins admitted, “but it’s also something I believe in. Most of the women I see have been in abusive relationships for years. They really don’t believe that law enforcement is on their side. Maybe