Her cyan hair is dirty from working with the machines and some strands start to fade into that bleached, greenish color underneath, a wind flares up, jacket flying as she lights her cigarette. I'm sitting next to her, she doesn't know my eyes are on her. Looking out to the city as if it belonged to her, she enjoys her break but it doesn't show, always attentive to the twisted world and the dangers that surround us.
He must think I can't feel his eyes on me. How foolish. Silence rests between us like an invisible wall, I'm sure that underneath that mask lays another one, just as plain, just as boring. I have to get back to work, time is running away. But Rohrschach does nothing, says nothing, asks for nothing, and it sure wasn't me that was so keen on meeting him.
Taking another drag I turn my head. "What the fuck do you want?" I say, wanting to get this over with.
It's sure he wants something, everybody wants something.
In the city underneath us screams a child.
It's true, I want something, she knows. And there is a reason why I'm asking her, a lone criminal that high-jacks cars with a TEC-9, only to bring them to a safe house and pimp them for the richs of the underground. The money she gets paid for three jobs would get her through the year, but there's a new car in her garage every two and a half weeks. It's said that she is a mastermind, many people wonder how she does all the work on her own. Maybe she doesn't, must check.
Apparently, she likes to be paid in cash, in bundles worth a grand and packed away in a white duffle bag. She also accepts life-long supplies of different kind of groceries, the cashier at the store around the corner already knows her. Sometimes, she tips him with one hundred dollar notes, and the happily married man and father of two takes them to go to the strip-club.
However, I don't want money.
"Need a car."
I eye him up, "Go to a salesman for a shit-ride. I don't sell to people who are broke."
Of course no one would sell him vehicles like mine, and of course he isn't broke, but curiosity pushes me to get to him. What are the risks? What am I getting into? The key is to know but not to care.
"I can pay you good money, don't worry," he has a deep voice, I could recognize it anywhere, "Need a look alike military truck, bullet-proof glass and enough space underneath the seats to store a middle-sized suitcase."
I flick my cigarette after a last drag. "One week," I say calmly, "Bullet-proof? What you're planning, it's dangerous, that much is sure. And you really want me to come with you."
He doesn't even look at me anymore. "I never said that."
And she laughs, snickers and mocks me again, knowing I could kill her with a simple push. Her feet dangle over the edge of the roof, I picture her slipping and hitting the concrete underneath. She wouldn't mind. In a way, she reminds me of the Comedian, aware of what this world has come to, the blood and lust fueling the people that walk it, the wrong that happens, but just not caring.
If something is dangerous, you might as well invite her immediately.