Free Death in The Life by Dorothy Salisbury Davis Page B

slapping the hell out of one of them, taking back the money.
    At noon Julie locked up and headed into the Eighth Avenue traffic. The street was crazy with hookers trying to pick up lunch-time quickies. There wasn’t a cop in sight. Julie went on to Bourke’s Electrical Shop. It felt like a kind of oasis inside.
    Mr. Bourke was mending an old table lamp at the back of the shop. It looked so incongruous, that old fixture, when all around the shop were the modern appurtenances for stage and photography lighting. He glanced at her over his glasses and then back to the work in hand. His fingers were graceful and sure. They seemed to pirouette around the socket. “What can I do for you, Julie?”
    “I was wondering about the girl you sent to see me, Rita.”
    “I wouldn’t say I sent her exactly. She’s always looking for someone to talk to. She picked up one of your cards from there.” He indicated the Friend Julie cards alongside the cash register. “So I said why don’t you go see her? She’s a wise little person.”
    “Oh, boy.”
    “She hasn’t been in lately. I was wondering myself.”
    “Maybe she has gone home,” Julie said. “That’s what it was all about”
    “Most of them do, some time or other. But they drift back.” He put the brass casing around the electrical innards and said, “There, that’ll keep Mrs. Ryan out of the dark for a while.”
    “Is that her lamp?”
    He had caught the note of surprise in Julie’s voice.
    “She does talk, doesn’t she?”
    “Some.”
    “It gives her something to do. Now your friend Pete I have seen. Christmas tree lights in April. ‘Give me some stars, Philip Bourke,’ he says.” Mr. Bourke imitated Pete imitating an Irish brogue. “‘Give me an ocean of stars to fill an Irish heaven.’”
    “Will you go to see the play?”
    “I might since I’m a benefactor, you might say. Unless I have to stay open.”
    “At night?”
    “Some of my best customers are moonlighters. I don’t think I could stay in business without them.”
    “From Pete and me you couldn’t make much of a living, that’s for sure.”
    “The likes of you make the living worthwhile.”
    “Thanks,” Julie said, suddenly shy of him. She wanted to go, but not to run.
    “You’re a lovely little lady, I wouldn’t mind coming to you for advice myself.”
    “Don’t!” Which he could easily misunderstand. She sputtered and laughed, trying to explain. “I mean my advice is for fun, not serious. The heavy stuff is for doctors, which is what I told Rita.”
    “I understand.”
    “I guess what I mean is I’m best with strangers, people coming in for kicks.”
    Mr. Bourke just looked at her while he took off his glasses and polished them with a handkerchief that was as white as snow. “I suppose Mrs. Ryan is saying I’m worse than the whores. And maybe she’s right, but I don’t feel that way. They’re full of anger and hate and greed, and what I feel is love. It may be terrible to some people, but to me it’s tender.”
    Julie was in agony at his frankness. Which was ridiculous. She made herself stand and be silent. Yoga or Doctor. Or herself. She was rewarded by a sudden association: “Do you know the Greek poet Cavafy, Mr. Bourke?”
    “I’m not much of a reader, I’m afraid.”
    “I’ll bring you the book if you like. He has a lot to say about love.”
    “My kind of love.” A gentle mockery.
    “Yeah.”
    Mr. Bourke smiled as though he was the one being tolerant. And he was. “All right.”
    “Maybe I’ll see you at the Irish Theatre,” Julie said. She was on her way when Bourke called after her and came from behind the counter.
    “Stay a minute,” he said, peering over his glasses at the street. “We’re being observed by Mack and one of his girls. Don’t look around. That’s what he wants, the bastard. He’ll put on a special show for us.”
    But Julie did look around. In time to see the pimp slap a black girl across the face and then again, this time