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They’re not allowed turn tricks.
    They weren’t turning tricks in here, were they?”
    “They were naked, Corrigan.”
    “No they weren’t.”
    “I’m telling you, man, they were naked.”
    “They don’t like cumbersome clothes,” he said with a little laugh. He palmed my shoulder, pushed me back on the couch. “Anyway, they must’ve been wearing shoes. It’s New York. You have to have good stilettos.”
    He put the kettle on, lined up the cups.
    “My very serious brother,” he said, but his chuckle died away as he turned the flame on the stove high. “Look, man, they’re desperate. I just want to give them a little spot that they can call their own. Get out of the heat. Splash some water on their faces.” His back was turned. I was re-McCa_9781400063734_4p_01_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:31 PM Page 27
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    minded of how, years before, he had drifted away from one of our afternoon strolls and got surrounded by the tide—Corrigan, isolated on a sandbar, tangled in light, voices from the shore drifting over him, calling his name. The kettle whistled, louder now and shrill. Even from the back he looked like he’d been knocked around. I said his name, once, twice.
    On the third time he snapped to, turned, smiled. It was almost the same as when he’d been a child—he looked up, waved, and returned waist-high through the water.
    “On your own here, Corr?”
    “Just for a while.”
    “No Brothers? No others with you?”
    “Oh, I’m getting to know the immemorial feelings,” he said. “The hunger, the thirst, being tired at the end of the day. I’ve started wondering if God’s around when I wake up in the middle of the night.”
    He seemed to be talking to a point over my shoulder. His eyes were deep and pouchy. “That’s what I like about God. You get to know Him by His occasional absence.”
    “You all right, Corr?”
    “Never better.”
    “So who beat you up?”
    He looked away. “I had a run- in with one of the pimps.”
    “Why?”
    “Because.”
    “Because why, man?”
    “Because he claimed I was taking up their time. Guy calls himself Birdhouse. Only got one good eye. Go figure. In he came, knocked on the door, said hello, called me brother this, brother that, real nice and polite, even hung his hat on the doorknob. Sat down on the sofa and looked up at the crucifix. Said he had a real appreciation for the holy life. Then produced a length of lead pipe that he’d ripped from the toilet. Imagine that.
    He’d been sitting there all that time, just letting my bathroom flood.”
    He shrugged.
    “But they still come around,” he said. “The girls. I don’t encourage it, really. I mean, what are they going to do? Pee on the street? It’s not much.
    Just a little gesture. A place they can use. A tinkling shop.”
    He arranged the tea and a plate of biscuits, went to his prayer kneeler—a simple piece of wood that he tucked behind him to support McCa_9781400063734_4p_01_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:31 PM Page 28
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    his body as he knelt—and gave his thanks to God for the biscuits, the tea, the appearance of his brother.
    He was still praying when the door swung hard and in marched three hookers. “Ooh, snowing in here,” cooed the parasol hooker as she stood under the fan. “Hi, I’m Tillie.” The heat oozed from her: little droplets of sweat on her forehead. She dropped her parasol on the table, looked at me with a half- grin. She was made up to be seen from a distance: she wore huge sunglasses with rose- colored rims and sparkly eye makeup.
    Another girl kissed Corrigan on the cheek, then started primping in the broken slice of mirror. The tallest, in a white tissue minidress, sat down beside me. She looked half Mexican, half black. She was taut and lithe: she could have been walking down a runway. “Hi,” she said, grinning.
    “I’m Jazzlyn. You can call me Jazz.”
    She was very young—seventeen or eighteen—with one green