The Boss Needs A Fix

Carol had an awful feeling that someone was following her.  She heard footsteps.  Whispering voices flitted by her ears like moths.  Fearing the shadows and unnerved by the cave-like alleys, she glanced back repeatedly, but could see no one.  Nothing was behind her but a long, dark, deserted city street.

She had never chanced coming home from the diner that way because Babs had drummed it into her to choose safety over convenience.  “You won’t get home any quicker if you have to take a detour through the morgue,” she had said while drawing out a safe route.  But Carol didn’t have money to spare for the subway, and taking a shortcut down La Fayette Street was so much faster.  Just this once, she promised herself.  Babs will never find out.

The lights had gone out just as she passed the point where turning back and going another way would still have meant walking in the dark for blocks.  It looked like the electricity was off for the whole neighborhood.

She walked faster for a little ways.  The footsteps started up again.  She glanced back and stopped short, turning around to stare up the street behind her.  About two blocks back, the streetlights were back on and shabby apartment windows threw out patchworks of amber.  As she watched, another streetlamp came on.  She paused expectantly, hoping the lights would come back on down where she was, too.

Before she could turn around again, there was movement right behind her.  She felt the hair over the back of her neck move aside as if blown by a wind, but the warm summer air was dead still.  She smelled cigarette smoke curling around her face.

She ran.  She didn’t even look; she just took off back toward the light.  When she got about twenty yards from the first lit streetlamp, it clicked off and the lighted windows nearby blew out like candles.  Darkness rolled down the street ahead of her.

She winced and threw her hands up as she glanced over her shoulder expecting to see someone closing in on her.  But there was no one.  She stopped and tried to listen above her panting breath and pounding heart.  She realized her purse had dropped as she took off.  Maybe that was all he’d wanted, she thought.  She stood there trying to calm herself and get her breath back.

Suddenly it was dead quiet.  There were no cars, no voices, no dogs barking or radios playing, no doors slamming or any of a thousand different noises that filled the background in the city at night.  It was as if she’d gone deaf and was feeling the sound of her own breath and her pounding heart from the inside.  Without warning, cold, rolling cramps grabbed hold of her deep down, like the worst menstrual cramps she’d ever had.  It was as if a cold hand had ahold of her uterus, her ovaries, squeezing and examining.  She uttered a quiet, bewildered moan and grabbed at her belly, expecting a rush of blood to course down her thighs.

Instead, all the sounds rushed back onto the street and a single streetlamp, the one directly above her, came on with the intensity of a surgeon’s spotlight.  The cramping stopped as quickly as it had begun.  Footsteps began coming toward her slow and steady – a man’s walk.  She spun around inside the circle of bright light, but she couldn’t tell which direction the sound came from.  She strained her eyes trying to penetrate the darkness beyond the border of the streetlamp.

A skeletal face with glittering eyes emerged out of the blackness and a bony hand brought a cigarette to its grinning mouth.  She slammed her back up against the lamppost in fright.  She gasped so hard it made her choke and cough.  But as she stared at the gruesome skull, it became clear that it was a thin, hard-looking man that stood before her drawing on a cigarette, his face highlighted and shadowed by the harsh lamplight.  He blew out a long stream of smoke that rushed at her like a thick white snake and stared as she struggled to catch her breath.

“Did I startle you, Miss?  My apologies.”  His voice was cold with an edge of sneer in it.  She said nothing, still coughing and gasping for breath.

“A pretty young girl like you shouldn’t be out on such a long dark street alone.”  He tsked and took another drag off his cigarette, “Unless of course… you’re working?”  Taking in her cheap, simple dress and sensible shoes, he shook his head.  “But no, you don’t look like the type.”  He studied her while she trembled, trying to get her composure back.

She forced out a small, shaky voice, “Let me pass.”

His eyebrows shot up in amusement and he gave an exaggerated shrug, “Of course.”  He stepped aside with a sweep of his hand, but as she lurched by him, he reached out and ran his cold, claw like fingers along her arm.  She shrieked at his touch.  “This is a dangerous neighborhood,” he hissed at her as she stepped out of the light and ran back down the street.

“I’d be happy to escort you, young lady,” he called after her.  He listened to her heels clattering away in answer.  He chuckled and moved off in the opposite direction.

As Mr. G walked away beneath the darkened streetlamps, he pondered the miracle of ovaries.  All those perfect tiny eggs, each one unique and filled with raw potential.  It was marvelous, really.  You could make anything you wanted from their substance; it was the ultimate medium.  The energy of life itself in concentrated form.  Smaller than insect eyes, protected, internal, beautifully contained.  So efficiently packaged.  Not like testicles.  Now that was just bad planning.  Horrible design.

But then, what were the blundering tadpoles of men compared to the perfection of ova?  It was the only thing women were good for, but it was something.  He pictured ovaries in his mind, carefully opened to reveal tightly packed individual lives, red and luscious, like pomegranate seeds ready to be harvested.
 
He heard the woman scream once, sharply.  Good boy, Chester, he thought as he continued down the street and wondered if the Boss’ sleep would be restless with pain and anticipation that night.  He hoped so.

They Left Her In An Alley

Ruby sat up straight, leaning forward slightly in her seat on the bus, trying not to sweat. The heat of the coming day had let itself be known right away and she did not want to ruin her dress with perspiration stains. Nice dresses didn’t come from nowhere, she had to save up long and treat them like royalty. She’d paid dearly for the turquoise-colored sundress that until then had never seen the sun.

She would take it off and put it in Lux to soak as soon as she got home. Then she would take a bath. Her nerves were shot, but a long cool bath would set her straight. What had that poor, dead girl in the alley been planning on doing when she got home? Maybe soak her feet? Waitressing was hard on the feet…

She felt shaky and stripped of the top layer of her skin as the bus lumbered along. You know you’re a ghoul when an hour or so of morning sunlight makes you feel like you’ve had a day at the beach, she thought. She tried to remember the last time she’d been out at this time of the morning and came up blank. The bus was so goddamn slow with all the cars on the road. Daytime had far too many people in it. She sighed. It was going to take her twice as long to get home.

The bus pulled up to a stop and the exchange of bodies took place. She couldn’t help noticing that a different sort of crowd rode uptown later in the morning. Not the domestics and laborers she was accustomed to seeing. So many young, or recently young people, scrubbed and stiff. All of them were white, the back of the bus was empty. Where were they all headed? Office desks uptown, surely. But what did they do all day?

She glanced over at a very young man with smooth shiny cheeks and oiled brown hair so neatly combed you could see the tracks left by the comb’s teeth. He felt her eyes, looked up at her and stared briefly, then turned away quickly and she watched his ears go red.

She tried to picture him working; the desk, the papers… the what? She couldn’t finish the image. Instead her mind automatically started to assess his sexual tastes. What was his button? Panties, she guessed. He was so young; she bet he still peeked at his sisters… He was straining his peripheral vision to see her while he pretended to stare just off center.

She could see his pulse beating in the side of his neck. She stared at the spot. The girl in the alley, her throat was cut there, right there…

His skin bulged with each beat until a lump the size of a marble strained, then split open. Blood gushed out over his shoulder. He lost his battle with himself and glanced back at her, smiling shyly while his immaculate white collar turned scarlet and his shiny cheeks drained of color.

She grabbed hold of the seat ahead of her and put her head down, squeezed her eyes shut, and breathed slow and deep. Her heart was racing and her fingers quickly went numb. I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine, she breathed in and out, I’m fine…

After a moment she opened her eyes and forced herself to look at the boy. He had turned away and was looking out of the window, his smooth young neck unmarred. She stared down at her lap for a few minutes, smoothing and re-smoothing the fabric of her dress, letting the color soak into her eyes. Color always helped… turquoise and all the shades of sky and water. She could live without so much, but not color, that was a life or death need.

When she finally felt calm again, she glanced around at the women, like a flock of sparrows scattered throughout the bus, and was struck by their dull tones, plain unadorned features, not a one of them making the most of her looks. A woman a couple of rows back had nice bone structure and the kind of eyes that probably would have opened up and sparkled with the tiniest touch of make up, or even a bit of color in a scarf. What was she wearing? Mushroom beige? Could you even consider that a color?

She, too, caught Ruby looking at her, but instead of embarrassment, the woman gave her a glare of disapproval and a deliberate turn of the head.

She was used to that look – that "how dare you call so much attention to yourself" look. It had nothing to do with morality. Ruby didn’t look like a straight-up whore on or off the streets. Or at least she didn’t think she did. She tried not to; that’s why she bought nice dresses and good quality accessories. She wore make up, but didn’t showgirl it. She showed off her figure, but didn’t flash too much bare skin. No, it was something else.

It seemed to her that it was her color that other women resented, the red hair, the bright white skin, the blue eyes. People couldn’t help but look at her. They could look away, but she left afterimages in their eyes. Ruby drew attention. She always had. She was so used to being looked at that she had to try to imagine what it would be like not to be noticed. Like not really being out in the world? Like being a ghost, she thought. Like being untouchable. Safely out of reach.

Was that it? Were they trying to be like those little brown sparrows that hop around under bushes, darting out now and then to peck up a crumb? Don’t see me, nothing here for you. Don’t hurt me, I’m small and quiet, I’m not trying to draw any attention. Protect me; I’m good and pure. She saw a cat in her mind spring out of nowhere and swipe at a sparrow before it could fly away. With one quick motion the bird was in the cat’s mouth, little bird bones crunching, feathered wings lost of flight in pitiless jaw, shiny eyes, cheep, cheep…

She burst into tears. People stared; uncomfortable glances passed between a few, but all quickly ignored her as she struggled to stop crying. She pawed desperately through her purse for a hankie, her head bent down and to the side, the tears dropping straight out of her eyes onto the floor. If you’d have shed a tear… the detective had said. She found the hankie and covered her face, trying to hide behind twelve square inches of linen. I’d have offered comfort to you, if you had shed a tear…

We'll Just Talk About The Murder

Agent Ramiel walked around the corner to his nondescript black Ford, got in and drove two blocks away from the crime scene.  The details were burned into his eyes like afterimages.  The detective's words kept coming up in his mind like an irritating song, "She was a nice girl, a waitress.  She wasn't a whore."

He parked in front of Clark’s drugstore, killed the engine and sat there watching the red-and-blue neon mortar and pestle sign blink and spin while he waited.  He wondered if his would-be informant would actually show up, she was new, someone referred by a friend to his under the table network of eyes on the street.

He needn't have worried.  Ten minutes later a striking young woman with improbable red hair paused next to his car.  She wore an equally vibrant shade of red lipstick and an attractive turquoise colored summer dress.  He glanced at her neutrally and watched while she rummaged through her red handbag and pulled out a compact.

He rolled down his window as she powdered her nose.  “Excuse me, Miss, did you make a phone call earlier this morning?”

She met his eyes over the edge of her compact.  “Maybe, who’s asking?” she answered cautiously, scanning the sidewalk and windows around them.  Her hands were shaking and her vivid blue eyes were glassy.

“I’m Agent Ramiel.  Have you had your breakfast?  There’s a diner a few blocks away from here, isn’t there?”

She pulled out a tube of lipstick and tried to reapply it with slow, forced nonchalance, but her lips quivered and she messed up the line.  “Goddamn it,” she cursed under her breath.  “I don’t think I’m ever gonna eat breakfast again.”  She capped the lipstick hastily, dropped it back in her purse and pulled out a handkerchief to dab away the errant color.

“I understand,” he said kindly.  “How about a cup of coffee then?  It will get us off the street and we can talk a bit.”

She glanced up suspiciously, the handkerchief half way to her mouth.  “Nobody said anything about talking.”  She glanced around nervously, “I made the call, I get a reward.  Right?”  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back again.  Her red patent leather pumps, while fetching to the eye, appeared to be cruel on the arches.  “Anyhow, it’s way past my bedtime, if you catch my meaning.”

He smiled.  Her coloring made her look like a painted carousel pony in the early morning sunlight.  “Having a cup of coffee would be more discreet then standing next to my car and taking money through the window.”

She frowned and snapped her compact closed.  He had her there.  

“Please talk to me, I won’t take very much of your time and I’ll pay extra, Miss…?”

She hesitated.  “Ruby.  Just Ruby.”  

He tipped his hat.  “Pleasure to meet you Ruby, my name is Ramiel, Agent Ramiel.”  

“Yeah, you told me already,” she commented, as she narrowed her eyes and looked over the interior of his car in an appraising manner.  Her gaze seemed to note each item and weigh it in some personal scheme of judgement--his camera case beside him on the seat, a fine, well-used brown leather satchel, open and brimming with files, the day's newspaper hastily refolded, his light weight grey suit coat laid over the back of the passenger seat.  The car was clean, but he became aware of how very lived in it must appear to her.  He thought it was a good thing she couldn't see inside the trunk.

She abruptly met his eyes again and seemed to continue her assessment.  “I didn’t believe you were for real when Belinda told me about you.”  She dropped her compact back in her purse.  “How do you know her?  You a trick?”

He glanced at her upper lip, at the place where the lipstick had gone astray over the edge. She’d forgotten to fix it.  He had an urge to reach out and smooth the line with his finger.  He met her eyes with a calm, steady gaze.  “No.  I’m just a friend.”

She nodded and looked away, perhaps unconvinced, scanning the street again for observers.  “The nearest diner’s called Jack Flap’s.  It’s three blocks down, one to the left.”

He leaned over to unlock the passenger door.  “Don’t bother,” she said quickly.  He looked up at her, puzzled.   

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, mister, if you think I’m getting in a car with you.”  She turned briskly and started walking.  She didn’t look like her feet hurt once she started moving. “I’ll meet you there,” she said over her shoulder.  

He watched her go and thought about Belinda as he started up his car.