“He doesn’t know,” he said after a moment, as if offering a rationale for his leap from the top of the Empire State Building, and although she didn’t grasp it at once, for some reason the statement started her heart pounding in her chest. Was she keeping so many secrets, so many different kinds of guilty knowledge from the men in her life? “Who doesn’t know what?” she said. She reached, as if casually, to take an ashtray from the kitchen counter just behind Joe’s head. “Tommy. He doesn’t know … what I know. About me. And him. That I—” The ashtray—red and gold, stamped with the words EL MOROCCO
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