“Why’d she heave the table at you?”
Tom sighed heavily. “We had a discussion about the rent. She claims the tenants upstairs are four months behind.”
“She’s right about that,” Kerrigan murmured. “It adds up to more than a hundred dollars.”
“I know,” Tom admitted. “And we sure can use the cash. But I just don’t have the heart to put the pressure on them. Can’t squeeze money out of people when they don’t have it. Old Patrizzi ain’t worked for a year. And Cherenski’s wife is still in the hospital.”
“What about the others?”
“They’re all up the same creek. Last time I went upstairs to make collections, I heard so much grief it gave me the blues and I stayed drunk for three days.”
From one of the other rooms there was the sound of a door opening, then heavy footsteps approached through the hall. Kerrigan looked up to see Lola entering the parlor. She was a huge woman in her middle forties, with jet-black hair parted in the middle and pulled back tightly behind her ears. Weighing close to two hundred pounds, she had it distributed with emphasis high up front and in the rear, with an amazingly narrow waist and long legs that made her five feet nine seem much taller. She moved with a kind of challenge, as though flaunting her hips to the masculine gender and letting them know she was the kind of woman they had to fight for. The few who had dared had wound up with badly lacerated faces, for Lola was an accomplished mauler and she’d been employed as a bouncer in some of the roughest joints along the docks.
Her complexion was dark, and some Cherokee red showed distinctly when she was riled. Actually the Cherokee was mixed with French and Irish, with accent on the more explosive traits of each.
Lola moved toward the sofa, her hands on her hips, directing her full attention to Tom. Her booming lower-octave voice was like the thud of a heavy cudgel as she said, “You gonna go upstairs and collect that rent?”
“Now look, sweetheart. I told you—”