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ALL MY PRIDE—EVERY inch of disillusioned superiority—shattered in a single blast of teetering life meeting the solid wood of poorly crafted floorboards.
“Lawrence?” There was little true concern in the voice flickering over the creased edge of the morning newspaper, only a question created to stifle a bubble of impending laughter. I scraped myself off the floor, planted my hands on my hips, and glared down at the reclining man before me.
“Damn it, Keane, these blasted shoes have a heel two inches too high and absolutely no laces with which to keep them secured to my feet. I swear, if I sprain an ankle, you can be sure I will be chasing after you with a knife.”
“I would very much like to see that; galavanting about with a sprained ankle indeed. You might at least like to create a threat which may be less ridiculous and more logical: one to strike fear into your prey”
“You’re hardly prey. Besides, what good would I be to you limping around like an injured deer? None. May I please take them off now?”
“Do as you like.” I did. I tore the shoes from my wronged feet and flung the offending objects on the opposite end of the sofa from Keane. The heels were a vulgar red with a polished piece scarcely covering the toe and heel and a thin strap buckling over the top of the foot itself. Oriental women had their feet bound.
We had ours bent and broken.
I threw myself into a chair, which had no doubt suffered worse abuse in its time, and began rubbing my scraped ankles.
“Why couldn’t we stay at a hotel? This flat is hardly large enough to room a family of mice.” The newspaper slowly folded in half and Keane thrust it onto the low table between us before standing; pulling me to my feet with him.
“We may turn to a hotel when our act has reached perfection, but not before. Walls must be torn and rebuilt with precision, and, unlike Rome, we only have a matter of days. Now,” Keane towered over me, his greasy American brand pomade banishing much of the curl and wave from his hair. “Say it again. ‘Buy me a drink’.”
“Buy me . . . a drink?”
“No, Lawrence, it is not a question of whether or not you want a drink, but if the person will buy it for you. And try to sound more American. Britain will forgive you under the circumstances. Again.”
“Buy me a drink.”
“No inflection on the pronouns. Again.”
“Buy me a drink.”
“No. Again.”
“Damn it all! Buy. Me. A. Drink.” My companion’s arms jerked wildly into the air above his head before diving down for his cigarette case.
“No. No, that will not do. Tell me, what is this girl feeling?”
“What girl?”
“You, of course. Or whatever name you use for an acceptable alias.” I sighed, folding my arms across my chest with my fingers gripping painfully into the flesh of my arms.
“Well, what name would you like me to use?”
“Blast it all, I don’t give a damn what name you use as long as you respond to it.” I thought for a moment, my mind reeling through the thousands of proper nouns to possibly fit the occasion. It had to be something unique (not Elizabeth or Emma or Mary), but still retaining enough dignity to separate my character between a woman who takes pleasure in life and one who makes pleasure a profession. At last I glanced past my companion’s shoulder with an air I hoped to resemble nonchalance.
“How about I go by. . . Natasha?” So violent a reaction ought not ever befall the force of man. Keane’s fists slammed into his pockets as the roar of machine gun fire spat from his slightly opened mouth.
“Like hell you will! That name is no better than the calling card of a painted woman! Choose something else! Consuela?” I scoffed.
“I hardly look like a Consuela. And really, Keane, ‘like hell’? What an American thing to say. I do hope it isn’t catching.” My feeble attempt at humour met a wall of fire and was immediately burnt to ash as he stuffed the end of a cigarette hurriedly between his lips.
“Do what you like, but you are not using Natasha. I forbid it.”
“You do, do you?” I felt the singing flickers of a flame edge upward through my face. “Well then I have half a mind to do it. What do you have against the name anyway? It sounds incredibly interesting. Exotic even. Italian perhaps?”
“You’re wasting time. Say it again. ‘Buy me a drink.’”
“I won’t say that damnable phrase one more time until you get us out of this revolting apartment and into something more respectable. And don’t you make me walk around in those blasted shoes. They aren’t good for anything but sending one to the hospital. Besides, it’s late and I’m tired.” Keane dropped onto the sofa and ran his long, tapered hands up over his face and through the slick oil spill of his hair. I was particularly opposed to whatever that was he had started to grow over his lip.
“I know you’re tired, and no doubt your nerves are raw and broken in places that, in time, might invite some form of infectious insanity. You have made it quite clear those shoes ought to be burned and that I will feel your anger if—God forbid—you are required to wear them again. But think of what we are accomplishing here, Lawrence. We will be freeing James from his past sins, at least in a mortal sense, and Cohen and his like will no longer have any hold of him for as long as he stays away from those pills. Think—think of what good we can do, not only for him, but those in the same position. We are liberating his son and lover—wherever they may be. Think of it, Lawrence. Think of it.” I did. I thought long and hard over his words; words spoken with the unfaltering hope of a young boy who believed himself capable of saveing the world. Or at least all of humanity. Then again, he had that face that never seemed to age; never seemed to grow old. There was always a youthfulness to its features. For as long as I knew him, they were there, though be they smoothed over my wisdom’s sand. There was an aspiration to do such great and good things. Logic was a thorn viciously tearing through his flesh that his blood might spill onto the earth as a final plea for his dignity. I thought of it. I thought of those late hours when I heard Keane slip out the door and disappear until the early whispers of the morning. He would then sleep until lunch. A few hours followed rigorous study into our characters. Then the entire process repeated itself again. And again. And again.
Yes, I thought of it.
I sucked in a breath and gripped at the corners of my elbows with a vigor unfortunate to the fabric of my shirt.
“Keane, have you ever considered that you may have already placed yourself in danger. They have already tried to kill us once, not to mention their attempt to set the theatre alight. What makes you so damnably sure that no one in Cohen’s circle will recognise us?”
“Lawrence, what they are searching for is a name, and those can be easily changed or adapted. Did you hear my lecture at Princeton? ‘The mind better recognises titles than the strength of a single individual.’ So long as we conceal our names and I am not attributed my intellectual status, all will be well. Now, if you would repeat that phrase once more, I believe we can both get some well-earned rest.” I sighed, releasing my arms and throwing my hands above my head for exaggerated effect. But my companion would not falter. He never did; be it conviction or stubborn pride. When I feared he would insist I perform that poorly grammaticized line once more, I groaned, threw my head back, and surrendered the last few threads of my dignity.
“Wadda’ya say? Buy me a drink?” A light snapped to life behind his eyes, showering the blue pools with a twinkle I had seen rarely and welcomed easily.
“By God,” He whispered. “I think you’ve got it.”
“Have I? I feel ridiculous.” My companion cleared his throat and rose to his feet.
“That is to be expected. You are playing a part so far beneath you it drags in the gutter. It will crush your pride and turn it into dust for the worms. But listen to me, Lawrence, if a few days—a week—it may all be over and we can again return to our lives knowing we have achieved something noble in our absence.”
“Keane, if the rest of my costume is to be as hideous and demeaning as those shoes, I would hardly call this performance ‘noble’.”
My companion smiled gently. Damn it. I knew that smile, as I intimately knew the words that were to follow. Those great souls of the Romans and Greeks never ventured far from his lips, though they had been dead from the minds and hearts that knew them best.
“‘The noble man should either live with honor or die with honor.’ And what could possibly be more honorable than saving another human being? It has been a point of recognition and promotion for thousands of years. In the middle ages, saving another person’s life—especially one of considerable nobility—was an attribute of impending knighthood. In both recent wars we have seen that as well; heroes awarded medals for various shows of chivalry and courage in the face of something ought never to be experienced in a person’s lifetime. Yes, Lawrence, there is nothing nobler than assisting in the mortal salvation of one’s fellow men, or, in your case, women.” He had a point. Of course he did. His mind was always as well tuned as Mozart’s piano, honed to the finest degree that its performance might not be spoiled by some unforgivable moral fault. Such was the truth I had grown and flourished under through the passing years. And now I followed that same man in full knowledge we were soon to enter the den of lions.
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IF THE WHOLE OF AMERICA had one vice, it could be most easily found in the basement of an obnoxiously large, red brick building thrust carelessly upon the earth. From what I could discern through the dismal shadows of evening, a white-washed sign dangled above the main doorway. Keane threaded my arm firmly through his, steadying my ankles from the damnable heels and my mind from forming an escape that might free me from my impending fate. We descended a flight of concrete stairs bereft of all light, save that which is born from natural necessity. There was a gentle brush to my arm, a breath of warning, and the creak of a solid door with shattered shards of laughter leaking out into the night.
It was not enormous, nor quite so elaborate as those great places spotted through the breath of Europe. The entrance was not small, but I noted a brief bow of Keane’s lengthy frame as he led me forward into the chaos. That was the only way to describe it: the epitome of humanity’s wilderness. Dizzying swirls of women, dripping with sparse fabric and lipstick, dominated the room as tornadoes do the great plains. Their winds of flirtatious whispers left only a path of admirers ready for a single night’s exploits before turning to another pair of outstretched arms for comfort. I tugged self-consciously at the neckline of my dress; or rather, the lack of it. The thin material scarcely brushed my collarbone before dipping downward in a way that was neither tasteful, nor comfortable. Keane grabbed my freehand and gently tucked it over his arm that had previously secured my other limb. Though he was perhaps as fond of the confounded dress as I was, he at least needed not endure the humiliation of wearing it. To his credit; however, his masculinity compelled him to the facade of a cream-colored suit and thin, polka-dotted tie. His wavy hair was again slicked back against his head, which would be amended immediately after we recovered the photograph and retreated back into our lives.
The doorman, a grey-suited man with the solid outline of a firearm jutting out from his jacket, nodded to Keane as he pulled me into the seizure-inducing spectacle of lights and noise. I tried to overlook the occasional pair of greedy, masculine eyes dripping down to the inexpensive pendant dangling low beneath my neckline. I tried, but clearly not well enough, for we had only gone a matter of feet before my companion bent low over me with his lips a mere brush away from my ear.
“Remember to smile, Lawrence. You aren’t dying.”
“I might as well be. Do you realise how dipriciating this thing is? Oh, of course you don’t. You don’t have oversexed men ogling at your every move.” Keane had no time to retort before we arrived at one of the several gambling counters.
Recent converts to the little casino were required to fill out some sort of membership card, which Keane had obviously done some days before under the name of Leslie John McCormic. I too added my own created signature while my companion exchanged thick wads of bills for a wide selection of chips; not just tens or twenties, but colored disks equivalent to that of hundreds, or even thousands of dollars. As I returned the pen to the man behind the marble countertop, my companion glanced over my shoulder at the spidery ink sprawled across the card and gently grasped my arm as we motored out into the whirring hive of people.
“Ingrid Shearer?” He questioned, his voice bearing the light glimpse of amusement which tended to be reflected in that infamous twinkle shimmering within his blue eyes.
“Well, I decided, if you had the gull to be Leslie, I could be Ingrid. Quite logical, don’t you think?” His only answer was a throaty chuckle as we wandered aimlessly, students to the international art of lazy money-making. What might have been a large room felt incredibly confined as a constant stream of newcomers became woven into the fabric of the elite. The stench of cigar smoke made love with the unforgivable odor of cheap perfume. An adjacent room, considerably smaller but with better lighting, proved a haven for a throng of showgirls, who evidently performed at night, as well as day. Some strange man, floating quickly away from the docks of sobriety, jammed his elbow into Keane’s side; muttering out some slurred question no doubt derogatory, if not to the whole of my sex, then at least the line of prissy girls kicking their legs shamelessly below the multicolored lights. Keane’s voice fell dramatically from its English clip to something that might have harrolded from the ports of Boston.
“I don’t care for bare bodies unless I love them.” And so saying, I was again swept away into the throbbing clacks and curses at the heart of the casino.
It ought to have been disorientating, but I felt, if not steadied by Keane’s presence, then reassured. I watched politely as he leaned low against the craps table, tossing the dice languidly, as though the hundreds of dollars wavering in the balance were mere pennies one could lay across the train tracks. Eventually, when his pile had become increasingly bountiful, I moved off on my own with no intention of making a profit. I drank little, but feigned more, lost enough at the roulette wheels to secure a book’s imminent publication, and endured the sickening looks of half a dozen buffoons; illiterate to all but a deck of cards.
And yet I left the wheels with near five times my starting amount. With a motion that might have resembled some glimpse of intimacy, I moved across the room, slipped my winnings into Keane’s breast pocket, and whispered a vague destination caused by the wine and other fluids of the day. Where the roguish elegance of the main arenas had been dulled by the idiocracy of human greed, the halls leading to the washroom were lined with enormous mirrors framed in lights. I gently pried open the lavatory door and allowed my eyes to befall upon a room large enough for a sizable convention. Unfortunately, that also meant there was not but open space between myself and the couple mashing themselves into the other wall. The bleach-blonde woman screeched at my entrance, and while I grasped desperately at the faintest glimpse of an apology, the man pushed past me into the noise, leaving his necktie lying limp on the floor, along with my profuse embarrassment. The woman, save the shot burst of understandable surprise, appeared unshaken by the entire occurrence. Instead, she patted the back of her hair and pulled the thin straps of her dress from where they had slipped from her shoulders. With a quick adjustment the rest of her fawlty wardrobe, she made her own grand exit. The remnants of my horrified blush must have still flickered over my features when I again stationed myself at Keane’s side behind the craps table.
“When the devil happened to you?” His rich chuckle was heavily diluted by a sudden uproar announcing yet another glorious win. I leaned hard into his shoulder.
“How the hell haven’t the police found this place? It’s hardly inconspicuous.” Another chuckle shook my companion’s chest and he nodded his head toward a man slouched over in a nearby chair.
“Why don’t you ask that gentleman? No doubt, as commissioner, he should be able to provide you with a sufficient answer. And, as for the rest of your friendly neighborhood policemen, the facade upstairs fends them off rather well.”
“And what would that be? Some sort of church?”
“Close. Would you guess a temperance house?” I recoiled from him quickly as though he had landed a solid punch in my stomach.
“You’re joking?”
“Hardly. Now, if you are ready to leave,” Keane swept our combined winnings into his hands. “Would you care too . . . “ I shook my head. Violently.
“You go and cash those. I’ll be alright. Really. Meet you at the car?” He nodded and strode off toward one of the elaborate marble counters partially concealed by a few ecstatic men cradling some newfound success at the gaming tables. I smiled—my first real smile all evening—and slipped quickly toward the door.
The clean evening air struck me back a step as I emerged from the pit of filth. It always does one’s lungs good to escape from that revolting cigar smoke. Keane never seemed quite so affected by the heavy smog of tobacco. But, then again, the state of his own respiratory organs was hardly comendable.
I closed the gap between myself and the automobile in a series of conscious, balanced steps. No question about it: these shoes were to be pried from my legs. My tortured feet liberated, I sank back into the black leather and contented myself with the silence as I awaited Keane’s return. Other groups seemed ready to leave as well. I counted at least a dozen people rushing to their cars and speeding off into the waning night. Suddenly the driver’s door clicked open and Keane practically fell into the seat beside me.
“Well,” I sighed. “That was . . . ”
“Exhausting? Yes. No doubt we shall both sleep past noon.”
“By God, Keane, and you have done this every night for what? An entire week? It’s a miracle you’re not lying face down in a gutter somewhere.” My companion eased our mechanical steed out onto the abandoned streets.
“Yes, well, it will all be over soon. Oh, and for heaven’s sake, take a cigarette if you need it. Lord knows I do.” I headed his welcomed advice, slipped my hand carefully into his jacket pocket, and brought out his silver cigarette case. However, rather than rows of white, paper-wrapped cylinders, it had been stuffed with coins sizable in both weight and value. I glanced curiously at Keane, whose eyes wavered slightly from the road.
“When one gains much, much must be sacrificed, eh, Lawrence? No matter. Try the glove box. There should be some in there.” I opened the compartment and, true to his word, a package of the much needed tobacco lay casually atop a pile of other miscellaneous objects. I took one, rolling the paper slowly between my fingers before lighting it. What joy—what bliss—there was in that bitter smoke as the stale taste of vile sin was cleansed by the light brush of vanilla lingering through tobacco. Two long draws was all I needed and I handed the glowing cigarette to Keane, who immediately began pulling the life out of the flickering orange end. I dropped the coin-filled cigarette case into Keane’s pocket as I started lighting a second from the open package. I took a deep, luxurious puff before passing it off to my companion. In doing so, I caught a quick glance at the rearview mirror.
“How long has that Continental been following us?” He hissed into his cigarette, sending a white stream of smoke over his shoulder.
“A little over a mile. Relax, Lawrence. I am hardly a novice behind the wheel.”
“That may be so, but aren’t they getting rather close?” Just as I stated what must have been obvious to Keane long before, the black automobile charged forward into our rear, knocking me forward with dangerous vigor. A few inches further and my head would have smashed through the windshield. My shoulders were suddenly shoved back into the seats as Keane heaved the accelerator against the floor. He could have been a racecar driver. In another lifetime, he could have been many things. However, at that moment, he was not more than an extraordinary man driving against insanity.
The other car struck again, harder this time. From somewhere behind us came the blood-chilling cry of a bullet that met a cannon in one motion. Our vehicle lurched to one side, then the other. In a matter of forced breaths, we were careening out of control directly toward the bridge stretched over a river. The stale taste of vomit caught in my throat as Keane desperately tried to steady the car, not so much by his fingers soldering to the wheel, but an iron will determined we not tumble into the cold river as a ball of mangled metal and fire. My body hurled forward again, the vomit inching forward in my throat. But the world wasn’t moving anymore. The buildings remained stationary over the paved ground.
We had stopped.
The breath in my lungs caught for eternity before allowing me to break the silence with the first tentative hums of relief that had been held at bay by fear. Two men, both armed, stalked toward us with a purpose known all too well by those who have faced danger. Keane pushed open the driver door with his toe and, hands raised above his head, climbed out into the line of fire.
“Good evening, gentlemen. I trust you—”
“Cut the chit chat unless you want an extra hole in your head.” The man’s voice rattled like a tin of gravel, cutting the air with the constant abandonment of several consonants. Chicago, perhaps? The Bronx? The stomp of feet echoed through my ears as they moved ever closer to Keane.
“Where’s the girl?” The second man was definitely from Los Angeles.
“Girl?” A gun cocked its warning.
“Quit stalling, old man. Dark blonde hair. Red dress. Damn dame walked in on me when I was in the middle of some important business with a partner of mine.” Partner or lover? I thought—no, I knew—Keane would be ever the gentleman; denying everything to protect a woman’s dignity for entering a lavatory and finding two individuals deep in the dance created for the two sexes. I climbed out of the car and two guns immediately swiveled to attention.
It was difficult at first to recognise the man in the blue suit. But then, when you find someone in as vulnerable a position as I had, their face is hardly the first thing you notice. To my imagination’s utter shock, there were no unnatural markings spotting his face; no scars, bullet puckers, or acid burns. There wasn’t even a ruddiness remaining from adolescence. There was nothing but hot, lethal anger. He looked me over with eyes that were scarcely human. In two heavy strides, he had caught hold of my wrist with one hand while the other pressed the barrel of his pistol into my throat.
“You little bitch. Why, I odda shoot you here and now. In fact, that’s just what I’m gonna do.” He shoved me against the bridge’s cold rail with enough force that, had I been wearing those damnable shoes, I would have toppled over the edge head first. A gun was raised, cocked, and—
“Wait a second, Charlie.” My makeshift firing squad turned to his partner, the pistol still jammed into the hollow of my throat. “Let the old man do it. The police know us, ya’know?” The barrel moved from my face and swiveled to face Keane, who had no doubt been concocting ways to take down both men in a matter of seconds. I waited expectantly for some gentlemanly remark that would save him from performing so distasteful a task.
I had never been so wrong.
Keane stepped forward, both firearms trained stiffly on his chest. A third gun was placed in his hands and he—my dearest friend and confidant—lifted the weapon until the leering metal paused in sight of my forhead. The man removed from his role as executioner glared at my companion.
“And how do we know you won’t miss or make some other stupid mistake? Old fogey like you probably couldn’t hit a cow’s ass.”
BANG!
A gaudy hair pin exploded just above my ear. My brain, though rattled, was somehow able to comprehend Keane lowering the smoking gun toward the ground.
“So?” The Charlie chap scoffed. “You might have been aiming for her head and missed.”
“Really? Well then, would you like to see the other one?” Keane raised the gun again, steadied himself, and—
BANG!
Another broken pin fell to the bridge’s rough surface. God, if I survived this, Keane and I were going to have a stern talk about these William Tell fancies of his. My companion rubbed the warm trigger with the pad of his forfinger, as if turning over several ideas in his mind at once.
“If I’m going to do this, would you mind if I at least did it in my own way. It would be a shame to shoot her without some . . . enjoyment? At my age opportunities are scarce and certainly not cheap.” The two adjacent men chuckled at the throaty inclinations of my companion’s proposal and gifted him with a sharp nod. He handed the gun to the one nearest himself and rubbed his hands together; fingertips to palm, until I found myself inching back against the rail. Step by step he slowly approached, his eyes grabbing mine with an expression I had seen on the fiercest predators as they prepared to pounce upon their prey. When the distance between us had dwindled to nothing more than a few feet, he grabbed my shoulders and pulled me hard against him. His mouth clamped onto mine in something much too painful to be a kiss, and it certainly could not be favorable to even the most hopeless of romantics. Something cold slipped into the top of my dress, biting into my flesh as though warning of the imminent death to soon befall me. Just as I grew accustomed to the warmth of his dark suit or the burning danger of the situation, Keane pushed me back against the rail and returned to the men for the gun. As he checked the bullets, he turned slyly to them.
“You needn’t be concerned. I have already proved I am an exceptional shot. Have either of you read Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure? No? A pity. Well, I assure you gentlemen, Ingrid here will be as dead as the dear Claudio.” I knew my fate then. I knew it and allowed my chin to rise as those thousands of soldiers set to meet their maker. If I must die in the United States of America, the least I could do was be British and hold a stiff upper lip. Keane raised the pistol to my chest, cocked the trigger, and—