Page 106 of If Looks Could Kill
I looked at their inky fingers. “Haven’t you slept, Freyda? Have you beenwriting?”
Both of them sat a bit taller. “We can sleep later,” Cora said. “We had work to do.”
Freyda fanned out a stack of paper. “Our magnum opus. We wrote all night.” She glanced at Cora. “Well, you did, since Mother Rosie confiscated my glasses.”
I took the pile from Freyda. “What is it?”
“An exposé,” she said. “The story of how we infiltrated a notorious Lower East Side prostitution ring trafficking in the flesh of Jewish girls.” She landed a heavy palm on the top of the pile. “Mother Rosie’s going to jail for this.” She sounded like one making a vow. “She’s never going to kidnap another girl and destroy her life again. So help me God.”
I wasn’t sure what to say.
“She’s rich, you know that?” Freyda said. “Lousy stinking rich. Diamonds and furs. All from girls like us.”
“Her clothes were elegant,” I said feebly. “I noticed that.”
“That’s not even the start of it.” Freyda’s expression looked like thunder. “She got rich off of my body. Cora’s body. Others like us.”
“I know.”
“It’s got to stop.” Freyda fidgeted with the cuff of her sweater. “Here’s where it ends.”
Cora retrieved the pages and arranged them into a neat pile. “Got any stamps?” she asked. “We’re sending it to theNew York Worldtoday.”
TheNew York World. Mr. Joseph Pulitzer’s paper.
“I don’t have any,” I told them, “but I can get some. In fact, I can stop at the post office and mail the article for you.” On reflection, I added, “You shouldn’t even leave this apartment.”
Freyda glanced helplessly at Cora, who shrugged.
“Please,” I said. “It’s the least I can do. Give me a task to help.”
Freyda sighed, then rose and bundled the pages into a manila envelope.
“Don’t lose this,” she warned. “This is the most dangerous, and most important, work I’ve ever done. Perhaps I’ll ever do.”
“I’ll mail it as soon as I leave here,” I promised. “Nellie Bly had better watch herself.”
Freyda wrote out Mr. Pulitzer’s name and the address of his paper on the envelope.
“Is this where you’ll stay?” I asked her. “Or will you head back to your family?”
Freyda glanced away.
“We’ll be here for a while,” Cora said. “Would you mail a letter for me?”
“Of course,” I told her.
“I haven’t got a stamp.”
“That’s all right,” I told her.
She handed me an envelope, addressed to a Mr. and Mrs. Kralik in Milford, Connecticut.
“Your parents,” I observed. “I guess you’ll be going home soon.”
Cora shrugged. “We’ll see.”
“There’s lots for Cora, here in New York,” Freyda said stoutly. “If she’d like to stay.”
