We talked of the streets, lanes, and yards of our birthplace, she hailing every name I uttered with outbursts of wistful enthusiasm.
I wondered whether she knew of my mother's sensational death, but I never disclosed my identity to her, though she, on her part, told me with impetuous frankness the whole story of her life.
"You are a Talmudist, aren't you?" she asked.
"How do you know?"
"How do I know! As if it could not be seen by your face." A little later she said: "I am sorry you came here. Honest. You should have stayed at home and stuck to your holy books. It would have been a thousand times better than coming to America and calling on girls like myself. Honest."
She was known as Argentine Rachael.
It was from her that I first heard of the relations existing between the underworld and the police of New York. But then my idea of the Russian police had always been associated in my mind with everything cruel and dishonest, so the corruption of the New York police did not seem to be anything unusual
One day she said to me: "If you want a good street corner for your cart I can fix it for you. I know Cuff-Button Leary."
"Who is he?"
"Why, have you never heard about him?' "Is he a big police officer?"