2.15.2002 [Evening]

Something I'm writing for a friend of mine.

*****

Chicago, 1941.

He met her where men down on their luck always meet the women that'll make or break them. He had three bucks in his wallet, a gun and a pack of cards. She had blonde hair, slender wrists, and when she slid her eyes over the barful of society's rejects, her eyes were the sort that could kill a man with grief.

She was the kind of dame his brother Joe used to warn him about. Dangerous dames. No good for a man's health. Innocent as an angel and much too pretty for their own good. Girls like her, his brother always said, they'll never belong to an honest hardworkin' man. All they answer to is cold hard cash, and the hand that holds the cash is usually brother to the hand that held the tommy-gun. Talk to her once and you'll come away missing her for the rest of your life. Talk to her twice, buy her a drink, and you'll be six feet under and forgotten before you're even cold. Remember that, kid. It'll keep you alive longer.

Clever, his brother, but not clever enough to save himself when he was staring up at Mr. Colt .45's one black eye.

Bad thoughts.

Someone had come to stand beside him. He didn't have to look up to recognize the perfume he'd never smelled before. "Mind if I sit down?" she asked, and without waiting for an answer, did. "Bartender, scotch on the rocks."

He sized her up with a sidelong glance. He was deep in his cups and his head was starting to throb. "I hate girls who always get their way."

"I hate fellows who can't tell business from pleasure." The answer came quicker than he thought, the tone harder. The bartender mopped up moodily at the far end, casting a pointed glance at the clock, which read quarter to three in the morning. Closing time. "I have a job for you."

"I'm not in the business anymore," he replied without looking up.

She touched the bulge at his back, beneath his coat, and he stiffened. "You still carry a gun." Drawing back, "You still act like anyone who touches you might shoot you."

"Someone's always lookin' to shoot you, lady. One way or another. I ain't gonna kill your boyfriend for you."

"It's not my boyfriend."

"I ain't gonna kill nobody for nobody."

"Not even for this?"

She held her clutch-purse out to him and he took it. He looked inside, expressionless, closed it after a moment and handed it back.

"That don't belong to you."

"It doesn't belong to you, either." Her fingernails tapped the clasp. "Not yet." A beat. "You're desperate to have it back, Mister. I can see it in your eyes. And you're just as desperate for cash. I saw you gambling. I saw you losing. I have what you want, and I have a lot of money. I'll have a lot more when the job is done."

"That what it's about? Money?"

"No," she said, and something in her tone made him look up. "But that's none of your business. You'll be well paid. Name your sum."

"You asking me to put a price on a life?"

"I'm asking you to put a price on your gun."

"Whatever the pawnshop gives me." He drained his drink and stood. "Word of advice, lady. Don't hire a man who loses at cards to kill your boyfriend. He'll need all the luck he can get."

He was almost past her and she was almost out of his life when she looked him in the eye and said, "The man in the fedora had four aces up his sleeve."

He stopped. "You saw."

"I'm not looking for a loser. I'm looking for a man with a little bit of honor. Enough to keep from calling out a man who cheats at cards so he can buy his kids dinner. Maybe enough to save a girl in trouble over her head."

He laughed and dropped his last three bills on the counter. "I'm buying you your drink. That's all the honor you'll get out of me. But if you want the job done, I can do it. I want five grand up front. Ten grand after the deed's done."

Her eyebrows rose. "Exorbitantly expensive."

"The little lady knows her numbers a little too well, I think."

"Three and eight."

"Four and nine."

"Done." Money changed hands, filthy amounts of cash right out of her dainty little purse, right then and there. Someone's fate was sealed. "You'll find him at 229 Vicar St. He's home after nine weekdays."

"You want it done soon?"

"The sooner the better."

He paused, just for a moment. Later on he wouldn't be able to say why. Maybe it was the cold certainty in her voice. Maybe he had a soft spot for soft-skinned blondes with hard hearts. He asked, "You know what you're gettin' into, right? That gun ain't for show."

There was no hesitation. She wasn't even looking at him. "Just kill him, Mister," she murmured. "Don't waste my time."

So it began. Rain, asphalt, night-trains and smoking guns.

*****