It happens the morning after the severed hand appears on their kitchen table. Marie is inconsolable for the rest of the night; Richard stays up with her until well after midnight, when she finally falls asleep, and then sits in the kitchen chair with shotgun in hand daring the perpetrator to give it another try. The next person stupid enough to knock on the Harrows' door would be leaving in a state unfortunate enough to make Richard look like Valentino.
He wakes up at six to a note in Marie's neat handwriting. It reads:
I need some time. Don't come looking for me.
He springs from the chair and sprints down the hall to the street, calling for her as best he can. She's nowhere to be found. None of the neighbors have seen her.
Neither have any of her friends, when he asks around. Nothing from Janice, Lydia, Nancy, not even Angela has had any word. He sits in the Darmodys' sunroom, head in his hands.
"I've looked everywhere…I can think of. She didn't have any…money with her that I know of. The cash…that we keep in the house was still there. She can't have gone far." He looks up at Jimmy, who's leaning against the wall.
"So either someone's lying to me, or something's…happened." He chokes on the word, unable to keep images of all the terrible ends that could have potentially found Marie out of his head; having visited a few of those ends on people personally, his imagination has a lot of room to run wild. Jimmy lays a hand on his shoulder.
"She'll come back, Richard. She loves you very much." Richard isn't so sure.
He spends the next two days scouring the city before he gives up. Marie's hidden herself well; whichever one of her friends is helping her won't roll over, and he can't think of anywhere else she'd go. He knocks back another glass of whiskey before tugging on his coat and stumbling out the door, not really knowing where he intends to go, but if Marie can just leave then he can damn well go too.
He ends up at Babette's, staring into the bottom of a glass like it's holding out on him about a secret hoard of Ireland's finest. He still doesn't eat or drink in public if he can avoid it, but these are special circumstances.
It's been a while since he's been out alone; he's always been with either Jimmy or Marie for the past year or so. He'd forgotten how it felt to be able to move about as he pleased, not having to consider if another person was too hot or too cold or if they needed to sit down or if it was time to move to the VIP room to do some schmoozing or plot a heist.
He had also forgotten how entirely possible it is to be lonely even in a crowd, but he is very stubbornly not thinking about that right now. Instead he sits at the bar with no real agenda, racking his brain for any person or place his wife might have thought to turn to.
He's ashamed to admit that the fact that his wife has contacts that he doesn't bothers him only slightly less than the fact that she's gone in the first place.
A high-pitched scream of a giggle tears through his head, and he turns around to find himself face-to-face with a thoroughly sauced prostitute. He draws back in disgust; she smells terrible, like that bathtub gin Doyle experiments with in his free time and too much perfume. He's pushed aside as she stumbles past, her headdress slipping off her hair. He's about to turn back to the bar to order another drink when the thought hits him.
Elizabeth.
Marie leans her head against Elizabeth's window, watching the passers-by on the street as they go about their business. The sun is just beginning to set; Elizabeth will have to leave soon, and Marie will have to move to the empty room next door while she works. She's been here three days, not knowing of any other place Richard wouldn't immediately think to look; Elizabeth doesn't operate under Jimmy's hierarchy of whorehouses, and Marie trusts her with her life.
She turns to watch Elizabeth get dressed, powdering the bruises on her thighs and breasts before putting on her brassiere and rolling on her stockings, fastening them carefully to her garters. She snaps one playfully and winks at Marie before wiggling into her dress, a shimmering gold thing covered in fringe that looked more like one of Marie's shifts than a dress.
"I'm sorry I've been here so long. I promise I'll be gone by tomorrow. Richard is probably going insane trying to find me." Her stomach drops at the thought of her husband and she closes her eyes. She hears the soft swish and rustle of beads, and then Elizabeth is beside her, an arm wrapped around her waist.
"It's alright, honey. You can stay a while longer." Elizabeth gives her a tight squeeze and then pulls her towards the bed.
"C'mon, help me tidy up." They strip the bed entirely (except for what appears, Marie notes, to be a rubber sheet over the mattress) and remake it with fresh sheets from a box underneath the bed. As they're smoothing the quilt over the whole thing, Elizabeth chuckles and shakes her head.
"Y'know, I'm surprised he hasn't thought to come here already. He's usually a fella who knows his onions, at least in the finding people business."" Marie folds and tucks a corner and glances at Elizabeth, who's wandered away and is straightening the tubes of rouge on her vanity table.
"How do you mean?"
"He knows we're friends, and he's been here before. He ain't exactly a stranger around here." Something cold and hard sticks in Marie's chest. She stares at Elizabeth, who flinches when she turns around.
"Oh god, Marie, I don't mean…not me. I've never had him, and he hasn't been with any of the girls here since he met you. It was years and years ago. And some of the girls work for Darmody; he comes around to collect money, is all."
Marie sits on the bed heavily, her heart pounding. She's not sure why this revelation is so upsetting; Richard is a man, after all, and men are bound to visit a prostitute or two in their lives, and of course he has to stop by as part of his job. What's running a whorehouse given that dismemberment appears to be on the menu? But this is her husband. Elizabeth perches on the bed next to her and takes her hand.
A sudden pounding on the door causes them both to jump. Elizabeth pulls a small snub-nosed revolver from the nightstand and levels it at the door, Marie following close behind her. They look at each other, wide-eyed, until a familiar voice calls out.
"Marie. Marie, let me in. I know…you're here." Elizabeth walks to the door and opens it carefully to reveal Richard, stiff and unsure; he'd clearly not expected to be let in without opposition. He steps in and scans the room, then focuses on Marie. He's swaying a bit. Probably drunk, she realizes.
"Where the…hell have you been?" She crosses her arms defensively and stares him down. He stares back. Elizabeth moves to Marie's side, still clutching her pistol. Marie touches her hand lightly and shakes her hand, and Elizabeth tucks it into a garter.
"I've been right here. I told you not to come looking for me." Richard gestures around the room.
"This isn't a place…for a married woman, much…less a pregnant one. I want…you to come…home." He's definitely drunk; the clicks and hums that punctuate his speech at odd intervals get more frequent the more the drinks. She cocks her head and glares at him.
"You mean a respectable woman." Richard looks away, suitably chastened. There's a moment of icy silence before she continues.
"That's exactly why I came here, because it wouldn't occur to you to look. Let me guess, you tried Angela first. Then Lydia, then Janice, then Nancy, then you called my cousins." Richard looks back at her now, anger and hurt clearly showing.
"You…shouldn't have left." She feels a stab of guilt, but the image of blackening fingers and oozing blood flashes through her mind and she sways a bit, sickened by the thought. He steps forward to steady her, but she throws up a hand, fingertips resting lightly on his chest, stopping him short.
"Why was there a hand on our table, Richard? Are the things I hear about you true?" He covers her hand with his own, gripping it gently.
"I thought…something had…happened to you." She pulls her hand away and the hurt flares in his face again.
"Why, because the people you work with are the kind of people who leave dismembered bodies in other people's kitchens?" He glances at Elizabeth, who is standing back and staring at them in shock. She can see him closing off, the way he does when he's had a hell of a day at work or the memories of the war are particularly bad, trying to compartmentalize for both their sakes.
"We shouldn't be…having this conversation here." She sighs and runs a hand over her face.
"Fine." She turns to Elizabeth and kisses her on the cheek, trying to reassure her that going home won't result in bodily harm.
"Thank you, Elizabeth."
Richard sobers up some on the walk home, and their entrance to the flat is so bizarrely normal under the circumstances that Marie feels like she's in some kind of dream. He still escorts her carefully up the stairs so she doesn't fall; they help each other with their coats, and she gets him a glass of water and an aspirin before sitting down. There's a long silence in which he contemplates his glass and she considers the merits of falling asleep in their bed versus in the chair (the bed is more comfortable, whereas the chair means she won't have to stand on her aching feet). She's startled out of her thoughts when he suddenly speaks, his voice more gravelly than usual.
"Ask me."
"Ask you what?" He leaves his post at the counter and pulls out the chair next to her, setting it so he's facing her directly.
"You want…to know, so ask. Anything you want. This one…time, I'll answer." Marie runs through the questions in her head, unable to decide which to start with. Richard waits patiently, watching her as she fidgets in front of him. There's one single question looming in the back of her mind that won't go away; she may as well begin there.
"Have you killed people?"
"Yes." Marie closes her eyes, trying to hold back tears. The detachment with which he answers scares her, as if he were talking about the weather and not murdering other human beings. When she finally looks at him, he's watching her with concern.
"So you're, what, a hit man?" He shakes his head.
"Point man."
"What's the difference?" He continues watching her, as if trying to gauge how much more she can take before answering. She squirms slightly under the scrutiny.
"Hit man only kills people. Point man…gets things done. Arranges things. I'm…Jimmy's point man." She glances towards the center of the room; the table is gone. He must have gotten rid of it during her absence. The image of the hand comes back into her mind, and she shivers at the thought of someone breaking in, someone with knives and guns and less of a conscience about women and children than Richard. This time it had only been a hand. She turns back to him, shaking slightly.
"Will we be safe? Because so help me God, Richard, if I ever come home to another hand on my table…or if something happens to endanger our child, I am leaving you for good." He silently takes her hand and turns it palm-up, lightly tracing the lines of her skin as though he's reading her fortune.
"I can't promise things…won't happen. But I will do everything I…can to make sure you and the baby are…safe." He draws her hand to his lips and kisses it, and they sit there for a long while in silence.
She speaks first.
"Do you know who did it?" He raises an eyebrow and stands, offering a hand to help her up. She's going on four months now, and the dizzy spells are getting worse. They begin walking towards the bedroom, his arm around her waist.
"I have…some ideas." She drops to the bed with a sigh and kicks off her shoes, too tired to remove the rest of her clothes. He evidently feels the same, having taken off only his vest. She rolls onto her left side, the only comfortable position she can find lately, and stares at the wall.
"What will you do?" The mask clatters onto the nightstand and the bed dips, Richard's warm bulk solid behind her. He doesn't wrap himself around her like he normally would.
"I'll take care of it."
The first time he has to shoot someone afterwards, he hesitates.
It's at a warehouse in the woods; he and Jimmy are interrogating a runner whose load had gotten hijacked under suspicious circumstances; low-level stuff, except that Jimmy suspected treachery on Luciano's part, and wanted to be there to hear it in person.
The rube manages to slip his ropes and get away, and Richard picks up his Springfield to nail the bastard to a tree. Except when he goes to squeeze the trigger, he hears Marie's voice (Have you killed people?), and his own answering back: Yes.
By the time he takes the shot the kid's moved, and he has to regain his bead and try again. It takes him two more rounds before he finally gets him, a perfect headshot from 400 yards across a clearing. He motions for two of the grunts to go pick up the body, and turns around to find Jimmy looking at him strangely.
"Since when do you miss?" He ducks his head and ejects the empty cartridge, reloading it by muscle memory alone.
"Sorry." They watchs the body being dragged back for a moment before hopping into the car to leave. Several miles later, after the sun had all but disappeared from the horizon, Jimmy turns to him in realization.
"You told her." Richard sighs in frustration.
"Steiner left a…hand on my kitchen table. What the hell was I…supposed to say?" Jimmy shrugs, apparently drawing a blank. There's not much one can say to explain mysterious body parts appearing in the house, apparently.
"She…doesn't like it. What I do." Jimmy shakes his head, smiling to himself, and lights a cigarette.
"They never do." Richard pulls over in front of Jimmy's house, handing him the keys and shouldering his own things. He begins to walk away, but turns back suddenly, unable to stop the question forming on his tongue.
"What would you…do, if Angela found out?" Jimmy looks at him for a long moment.
"I really don't know."
He slides into bed well past midnight, hoping Marie is already asleep. Unfortunately, luck isn't on his side; she turns over, wide awake, and shifts uncomfortably. He turns to face her and they lay studying each other in the faint light filtering in through the curtains, the last few days weighing heavily on them both. He reaches out and strokes the side of her face, pleased when she closes her eyes and leans into the touch.
"I…don't enjoy it." She doesn't bother opening her eyes, already drifting off.
"What?" He leans up on one elbow. She sits up, cross-legged, to face him.
"Killing. I do it if someone gets…in the way of a job, or if they're…threatening me, or Jimmy. That's it, Marie. It's…not personal." She looks at her hands in her lap, twisting her wedding ring around on her finger; it's a tiny sapphire, all he could afford at the time, but she refuses to let him buy her a bigger one. Sentimental value, she claims. It catches the moonlight despite its size, sparkling with each rotation.
"If it brings you home, then you do what you need to." She keeps twisting the ring, refusing to look at him. He tilts his head, trying to catch a glimpse of her face, confused.
"What?" She stops, finally, and looks up at him.
"What do you mean, what?" He can read the agitation in her face, though she's struggling to hide it.
"You're still upset." She scoffs and climbs over him to get off the bed, grabbing her robe off the bedpost and wrapping it around herself. He rolls over and sits on the edge, watching her braid her hair. She looks at the mirror instead of at him.
"Elizabeth says you used to visit some of the girls there." He pushes his hair back from his face, his exhausted mind not quite comprehending why she's bringing the subject up.
"I did, a long…time ago. Women weren't…exactly knocking down my door…back then." Realization suddenly strikes him, and he stands, walking over to her. He takes her by the arm and gently spins her around to face him.
"You're jealous." Her jaw clenches and she glares at him, flushing red. He smiles at her and wraps and arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. She resists at first, before relenting and burying her face into his neck. He runs his fingers through her hair, undoing the braid, and she thumps a fist against his chest in annoyance.
"I have not…been, nor will I ever be, unfaithful…to you. You're my wife. I love…you." She lets out a shuddering breath, and when she looks up at him she's wiping away tears.
"You threw out the table." He lets out a rasping laugh.
"We'll buy another. I was…thinking of getting a house." She looks around their crowded little flat, stuffed to the brim with baby furniture, and sighs.
"That's probably for the best."