They walked along the poorly lit path of the downtrodden New York City street in silence, though the town hardly knew a quiet moment and so he was left contented to listen to late-night arguments or the howls of rowdy drunkards from the bar across the street. His part of the city was hardly the razzle-dazzle of Times Square, though the center of the universe was so close that at times he could almost graze it. Yet, never enough, and every time, without fail, he fell just short of success.
Like a sore thumb, she stood out among the dilapidated architecture and tawdry clothing of those around her with her extravagant silk stockings and finely tailored blouse, boasting of luxuries he had only seen when he was a boy. If she acknowledged this blatant difference, he could not tell for ever since they left his place, she did not stop once to look at him.
The sounds of the city continued to flood the street and as they crossed an open window, a silky female voice serenaded them from a record player.
Who's sorry now?
Whose heart is achin' for breakin' each vow?
Who's sad and blue? Who's cryin' too?
Just like I cried over you
"Nice song," she uttered, not sparing a glance. "Connie Francis sang it just last year."
"Ah, so the lady speaks." He chuckled at her dirty glare. "Never heard it before, but in her defense, I haven't been paying much attention these days."
"What do you pay attention to, Mr. Butler? Besides the betting slips, I mean?"
"How did you…"
"I saw them on your desk."
A quick pass over her face would convince one of her indifference. But the tightness in her jaw, the slight jut forward, those harrowed eyes–under his experienced scrutiny she became a poor liar.
"You're lying. You lied about why you want this girl found too, and don't give me some sop about wanting to reunite her with her family. Last time I checked, she doesn't have one."
She glowered at him with a hatred so immense, so uncharacteristic and unreserved for first-time meetings.
"Just because you don't have one doesn't mean everyone else doesn't."
"You don't know one damn thing about me. Whatever your informant told you, tell him he can go straight to hell. And you're ignoring my question," he stopped walking and grabbed her wrist. "Where are we going anyways?"
"Why do you want to find the girl?"
"Don't play the innocent. I'm sure you know why. Now answer the question. Where in this god-forsaken city are you taking me to?"
She leaned in with cunning eyes and he caught a hint of her perfume. It was rather gentle for the image she was going for, a lemon verbena scent that struck him as familiar, though he hadn't a clue as to why.
"Are you familiar with Belle Watling's?"
I tried to warn you somehow
He scowled. "I wouldn't be caught dead in a seedy place like that."
Much to his surprise, she began to laugh derisively–hysterically–and through her fit there lay an undercurrent of repressed anger, of hurt and anguish.
You had your way
"You wouldn't? You seem the type though."
Now you must pay
"I was the type. But it was just another way to waste money."
I'm glad that you're sorry now
As the song ended, then came an unnerving silence that hung pronounced in the air, draped heavily over his shoulders. Never in his many years living there had he known such quiet.
"Why then? Why did you go to these… places?"
The unconscious lilt in her voice betrayed her naivety, so incredibly at odds with her rouge and silk and scarlet lips. Briefly, like a draft of wind, the phony roughness to her voice and the deep affectation of sultry quality was lifted and he heard a faint accent of Southern origin, not unlike his own. Her slip had gone unnoticed for she awaited breathlessly—the answer to her question seemed awfully important to her, her eyes gazing with such vivid intensity.
"Happy men, contented men—they aren't the sort who go to these kinds of places," was all he said and continued walking.
Her heels tapped against the sidewalk as she caught up. "You didn't answer my question."
"I'm not obliged to answer. But, in a way, I did. So, now you must answer my question. Why did you come to New York?"
"What?" she breathed out, stunned to have been found out so soon though quickly recovered, "I am not obliged to answer either!"
"Then I'm afraid we are at an impasse."
She shook her head, silently miming 'I don't understand you!' as she continued walking. He frowned. What was her aim? To seduce him–to entrap him? Perhaps it was an orchestration from the men he owed generous sums of money to, a tantalizing deception, though that did not explain the inexplicable contempt she had from the moment she laid eyes on him. Yet, despite it all, he still followed.
The talk ceased there and they ventured on, block after block, crosswalk after crosswalk, and soon the streetlamps and sidewalks blurred together as they strayed farther away from familiar ground. Past a certain street, he could not recognize a single bar, a single storefront. Being so far from the hearth, however deplorable it was, left him unsettled, and he wondered if it were too late to go back. But, deep within, he knew it was too late for him the moment she sauntered into his office. That this deal, her aim, somehow preceded him in ways he could not fathom.
Maybe he did know her and simply could not remember. He had certainly done it with purpose before.
Approaching a street corner, he leaned against the lamp post and watched the stream of cars drive past at a steady, uninterrupted pace.
"We could've taken a cab at least…" he muttered, glancing at his side discreetly to probe her ignited response. Much to his dismay, she wasn't there.
"The hell…" he turned around and his anger dissipated as he saw her right behind him, underneath a faded red awning, illuminated faintly by a flickering porch light. In patchy pale yellow lettering, it read Kennedy's Costumes & Alterations—the 'K' was missing. On the window display was a costume gown with a daring ruffled neckline and lace, the small wasp waist accentuated by the billowing yards of white patterned fabric. So large was the skirt that it pressed up against the glass and against the sides of the walls as if demanding escape from such inadequate confines. His head began to ache then and he watched through squinted eyes as her manicured hand reached out and brushed the glass before falling weakly to her side.
"A man," she whispered.
"What?"
"I came here because of a man."
She brought a hand to her face and wiped unceremoniously before crossing the street, ignoring his own bewilderment.
