Graverobber stood in the street, hands planted on the edge of his pockets, glaring up at the penthouse where he and the kid had been put up. Fuck, maybe the Senator had a point and it was creepy to refer to the fuckable little ingenue as "kid." Then again, old habits die hard. She wouldn't be there, making it very much not home. The bed would be empty, the air quiet without her tinny voice, her boots not strewn on the floor for him to trip over. A bleak thought, indeed. There was nowhere else to go, unfortunately, and so he strode up to the entrance... to make eye contact with a burly guard bearing a stun gun, a shiny badge flashing on his hip. Graverobber skidded to a halt.
"I wouldn't," the guard said. An ugly man, with a Charlie Chaplin mustache and a gut like a hibernating bear, he covered his profound ugliness with cologne that smelled like tobacco and apricots.
"You gonna stop me?" he sneered, curling his lip.
"That's what they're paying me for," he agreed, running his thumb over his gun like a beloved pet. He looked like the sort who enjoyed making people squeal and thrash like red-blooded swine.
"I live here," he said, exasperated.
"Yeah? Go tell it to the papers. I'm sure they'd be on the side of a criminal and a cradlerobber. Leave the girl alone."
If he'd had any faith in the heart of man, he'd have told him that he couldn't do that, not in his lifetime. Why, for love, of course. He was all she had in the entire world, and all he had faith in was her heart. This society conspired against them in the most insidious ways, tearing and pricking at their confidence, but couldn't separate what they had from the fabric of their lives. She loved him. He knew it. She had to know he loved her. He'd left Sanitarium Island for her, only for her.
He could rough up this guy, easy, he told himself. What was a black eye in the face of Shilo's well-being? What was a bloody lip if it meant he could kiss her goodnight? All it would take was one punch to the head to knock him prone, knock him out cold.
Of course, if this guy went down, ten more would show up in his place with real guns. He was no use to her riddled with holes.
There was nothing for it save to turn around and beat a graceful retreat with the eyes of the law's henchman on him. He didn't bother turning around until he had disappeared into an underground subway. No one bothered following him. Out of sight and out of mind, someone like him wasn't important enough to put a tail on. He glowered and swore to the heavens he'd prove the bastards wrong, every one of them. They were all fools, truly, to underestimate him. In the end, he and Shilo would be together.
He'd have to make something of himself in this new world of the United States. For starters, he needed to come up with some cash. Towards sunset, he was sitting in a nook underneath the city, rifling through his ill-begotten cash. There was nothing like a wad of green to make a man feel bold, the smell of government trickling down into deserving pockets. Damn right he deserved it. Right now he wanted meat, something he didn't have to dig half-eaten out of the trash.
On his way out, he caught sight of himself in a broad puddle of rainwater, the very same puddle that splashed his coat and wet his boot and pant leg on the right side when he inadvertently stepped right into it. It rained clean, pure water here across the sea, the better to feed the green grass and growing trees. His reflection gave him pause in the worst way: his hair matted, face smudged with dirt, clothes damp. He couldn't have smelled great either. To check, he lifted an arm and ducked his head, coughing in response to the acrid odor assailing his nostrils. Graverobber was one ripe old man, in no state to win any damsel's heart.
A sojourn to and stripped down splash in a public fountain and the necessity of new clothes in the form of a tailor-made suit did wonders to lift his spirits and tuck his assets back into place. The men, women, and assorted others tending to his exterior could barely keep their hands to themselves, an undeniable fact that made him a little smug. With his hair freshly dyed all the vibrant colors of the rainbow and combed smooth down his back, he easily caught the attention of those he passed on the street as he sauntered and explored the city. These attentions were encouraged by his easy grin and an errant wink. He could have sworn one woman fainted dead away. No one knew the name of the mysterious, charming fellow known a world over as Graverobber. He could finally see why Shilo enjoyed shopping and pampering herself; he felt a new man in a new life. It left just enough money for a juicy steak and gravy fries, plus dessert and a trip to the theater. Whistling, he ambled downtown.
Reality came crashing in with him sitting in a plush booth by candlelight, watching a veiled woman sing on the spotlit stage. She crooned about lost innocence and, of course, he thought about Shilo, in a recovery room, being fed poisonous lies and hidden painkillers. His jaw ached and realized he was clenching it hard enough to give him a headache.
Here he was, being as much a spoiled dandy as that fucking pompous Senator, acting like he didn't have a care in the world. It was a mirage of being a bachelor, as if that was what he wanted anymore. The only thing he wanted was for her to be safe and happy... and living with him, of course. He couldn't very well let her go after all they'd been through together. The steak was suddenly no more than dead flesh in his mouth, however tender a morsel it was. He couldn't finish it, and left with most of it in a bag. Passing a homeless man on the street, he set the leftovers along with twenty dollars at his feet. Enough to put him up for the night, maybe. Fucker didn't even look up at him, only grunted.
However, this left Graverobber with empty pockets until he could get more with the next grift. He'd go back to the nook he'd found in the underground, with the rumble of the subway and the lights from the station eking in. Less comfortable nights had been spent in worse places in his life, though not in as dour of a mood. Luckily his mind was agile and he could navigate his way back in the dark, though the paths he trod that day were new to him. That was a skill he'd honed through years of mischief and skullduggery.
Until.
He heard the click clack of heels behind him. When he turned a corner, they turned with him. When he slowed, they slowed. Not a cop, for he'd never heard of a pig busting through a door in pumps, therefore most likely no one to fear. He was nearing the end of his patience. The city had been cruel and kind, but right then he wanted to be left alone with his thoughts to make his next plan.
"What do you want?" he demanded, turning around and grabbing her by the arm so she couldn't slip away.
The singer from the restaurant stared back at him, seemingly unafraid. She didn't even have the decency to tremble. When curiosity got the better of him and he peeled back the black, lace veil, her beauty was obvious, the sort that came from good, blue-blooded breeding rather than engineered on the edge of a knife, the exception being a carved upturn in her nose. Blonde hair streaked with silver fell in fluid wisps to her collar. She wore a trench coat to protect her waifish form from the chill or, more likely, from unwanted eyes.
A younger man in terms of experience rather than years, one who had been through less turmoil and been less in love with an elusive goth girl, would have swept her off her feet and into a nearby alley at once. Instead he threw down the gloved arm held aloft between them and repeated, angrier than ever, "I said, what do you want? You deaf?"
"You really have no idea who I am," she said, mystified. Her eyes were a steel grey and unwavering in focus.
"Forgive me, I'm new in town," he sneered.
"My name is Beatrice. I saw what you did for that beggar. It was unusual," she said. "I wanted to thank you for an unexpected gesture of humanity."
"Funny. You'd be the first." He snorted and leaned back on one leg to look her over. She came from money. "You don't know who I am?"
"Sure. You came here with Shilo Wallace, the survivor of the Genetic Opera. I won't lie to you, Graverobber; you impress me."
"Oh?" Then you're a fool, he thought to himself. A fool who clutched at the fame and notoriety sticking to others and reckoned charity meant a damn thing to the world.
"Yes. If I'm correct, and I'm sure I am, you and Miss Wallace are done for as a couple. She's too important politically even for a reformed, polished criminal. But I don't have that problem. In fact, we could use someone like you. Come by the Moonlight Sonata and ask for me if you're intrigued. If not, then it was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Graverobber." She smiled, the kind with lips stretched to show all her teeth.
Cheshire Cat, he thought, disarmed by that smile. That made Shilo little Alice, tumbling through this Wonderland. Exactly like the Cheshire Cat, the moment he wasn't paying attention Beatrice disappeared, leaving nothing behind but an unsettled impression and the remnants of lilac perfume.
Shilo had never believed in a God that touched people's lives, so she didn't know who she prayed to when she prayed for Graverobber to come back. Every hour, drifting in and out with her finger stubbornly avoiding the dial to up the dosage, she looked for him at her bedside. The Senator was a constant, making the recovery room as serene as possible. It was hard to resent him simply for being there for her.
It didn't stop her from trying.
At her request, he helped her avoid the temptation to medicate, even when her stitches were tight, even when she swore she could feel her heart breaking. It will pass, he told her, and then they played hangman, chess, jacks. He ate the crusts off her ham and cheese sandwich and helped take the lid off her tapioca pudding when her hands shook too much to negotiate packaging.
The resentment eased. It had been a full day and not a terrible one. The Senator put down the phone with a heavy sigh. "I didn't want to tell you this," he said.
"Tell me anyways," she said. "Is it about Graverobber?"
He nodded, grim. "He hasn't been back at your residence. No one knows where he is."
Though she knew it was foolish, she blamed herself. He was traumatized by losing friends and loved ones to surgery, and she'd consented to surgery without fully talking it through with him. In his mind, it would be a betrayal.
Her father had told her that nothing ever lasts in this world. The pain in her chest had nothing to do with having gone under the knife, not this time. This was all emotion, raw and ripping out of her heart. She thought he had been different, the man she loved. She thought he loved her enough to go through hell. One hospital visit had been enough to shatter that illusion.
Swallowing tears, she looked at the Senator and said, "It doesn't matter. I had a good day."
"Really?" he said, and smiled.