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PATIENCE MAY BE A VIRTUE, but allow me to state most clearly that it is one of those virtues created by those with wealth who have nothing to wait for. That, and it is a virtue of which I lack entirely. I walked on air for some time; playing the casinos with no real eye to whether I won or lost. (Though, by the cries of intoxicated admiration, I was inclined to believe my winning streak had not yet wavered from its harrowing plight.) Three days this occurred: three days wreaking of a lifestyle that would make any priest wince and every stockholder green with envy. I was a wealthy woman in my own right, though my novels seemed to have not yet been swallowed by the American markets. The gambling tables only served to fuel my ego. I watched the cool profit from my latest paper-bound feat nearly double in those three days. Hours, which might have been spent painstakingly wiping ink from my hands with the sweat of my brow, were now being spent making a comfortable living off of nothing but fate’s seemingly endless generosity.
After each indulgent evening, I returned to my hotel room with the expectation of some street vendor or cab driver to suddenly materialise from the pale, papered walls and sweep away an intricate disguise to reveal a man I had come to know far better than even myself. And yet, every evening, I ate with silence, walked with separation, and allowed day to slip into night with not but darkness. It was only after the night that the day once more arrived.
I had started my way to the casino, winding between the allies and taxicabs as I had learned to do, when I was struck with the realisation that it was unnecessary. It was useless to dodge from those constant shadows for the sole reason they had disappeared as assuredly into the night as the solemn ghosts of one’s mind. The street was not busy.
It was not even crowded. No. No, no, no. That could not be. That was simply—simply impossible. If neither side had believed it necessary to follow me any longer—oh, God! I heard it then; flooding my senses with fear.
Sirens.
I ran.
I sprinted along the streets toward the mechanical screams where oily smoke belched into the already hazy air. I dogged between people as though they were not but stationary wax. I continued foolishly, recklessly, and full of horror. And there before me my worst nightmare lay; shattered shards across the pavement in petrol reddened with blood. Keane’s car—or rather the one he had been borrowing from James—now resembled those unfortunate declarations of modern art. The bonnet had been smashed in. Glass windows shattered into knives, which had stabbed maliciously into the leather. The other automobile was in considerably better shape, or at least eligible for repair. The owner swarmed about as an injured bird; squalking over every dent and scratch as though his own flesh had been so abused. Off to the corner, lying by a stray police man who seemed to have a weaker stomach than one in his profession ought, was a motionless bundle swaddled entirely by heavy woolen blankets. I took in the approximate measurements of the parcel. An inch or two over six foot. Slender frame. A few wisps of grey hair stuck out from beneath the dark wrappings.
I must be quite clear that, female though I may very well be, I had never fainted in my life. But I would have at that moment had it not been for a strange desire to run. Adrenaline pulsed through my legs, insisting the reality splattered red before my eyes was not but a delusion gifted by the devil, and so enforced by those under his employ. It began as a slow, vicious retreat; each step burning through me as a steam engine hissing to go faster. I needed to escape. To hide.
To disappear.
I slowly backed into an alleyway without peeling my eyes from the horror of life. So much lost, and nothing to be gained. My shoulders bashed into several people, all voicing either concern or intense irritation. At last I was able to turn my back on what was to be the final scene of my short, and arguably useless life. That was what my life was. Useless. Dim in comparison to Keane’s accomplished career. Had it been me—had I been the motionless corpse impaled by glass—he would have survived. The world of psychology would have flourished. My life would have been worth something.
But it was not until I began to run from life that it began chasing me with heavy footsteps. My imagination had always been something beyond mortal control, yet the echo as I careened wildly along the hidden streets did not cease, no matter how hard I willed it to be so. In fact, the louder my own heart rattled through my ears, the greater the intensity of my rival’s pursuit. I wanted to scream; to spin around and shower them with an assault of carefully acquired curses harrolding to all across the earth. (I had, in fact, acquired a rather celebrated arsonal of German profanities during the war.) But there was no time to stop. No time to think. No time to breathe. No time. No time. No time. And when an unfortunate stagger lost that precious time, and his hand grabbed my wrist with a shattering twist, I did the only thing I felt logical to the occasion.
I lashed out with my fist.
I have always had a strong arm, and I admit I relished the sudden freedom as the hand instantly released me and flew upward to his cheekbone. A solid punch was always as valuable to me as my decidedly unladylike temperament. Had there been ropes around us and a clear mat, rather than brick walls and dirty streets, my assailant might have recovered his dignity and retreated deftly into the shadows, never to be seen again. But boxing rings are never supplied when convenient. He staggered back, one arm outstretched behind him, while the other still covered his face. He did not see the crate. His legs hit it with enough force to send him down against the pavement with multiple curses that ended with a rather familiar surname.
Mine.
I leapt forward when he did not move, fearing the worst brought by my own, bloodied hands. His legs remained bent and propped up on the overturned box of wood; however, where I expected a skull bashed in and a thin crimson stripe to be trickling from a slightly opened mouth, he had laced his fingers behind his head and stared up at me with a rather ironic smirk. His eyebrows had arched high on his forehead.
“You know, Lawrence, I believe you have just reminded me of one of the multiple reasons I have remained a bachelor.” Considering his precarious position, completed with his hat lying upside down a few feet from his head and the ill grace of his motions as he extracted his long legs from the crate, whatever disapproval he might have conveyed through those exceptionally blue eyes was strictly irreverent.
“Good lord, Keane, I am so glad to see you.” Keane maintains to this very day that, in some fit of “unfortunate femininity” I tackled him to the ground and “bloody well ruined” whatever dignity remained after flinging him backwards over that crate; however, I must accuse him of acute exaggeration. He was standing—or something very near to that—when I flung my arms around his neck. It was reassuring not to be pushed away, and twice so when the action was returned. His arms embraced me, awkwardly at first, then tight enough to warrant some bruising along my rib cage. It is in his stubbornness that he denies this, and in my own that adamantly assures you it was so. What a strange sight it must have been—immoral and scandalous—to have seen two masculine shadows drawn tightly together in the lights of dawn. All the strength I had clung to so ferociously in the past several weeks now drained into pavement beneath my shoes. I allowed my head to be pulled even closer into his shoulder. It was a comfortable silence between friends, for that is what we were: friends. Close friends. Old friends.
And yet, as I hesitantly considered excavating myself from his embrace, the words rushed from my mouth.
“Keane, I really am so wonderfully pleased to see you. That is, when I received your letter that said you were returning, and when I saw that accident and no one was following me and the blood and the body, I thought—”
“Yes, I can imagine what you thought.”
“Can you? But of course you can. Please don’t explain how it happened, though. Not now. I—I just want it to be over.” The constant thud of his heartbeat was overpowered briefly by that rich, deep chuckle I had so horribly missed.
“The mind is willing, but the heart aches at the consequences, eh?”
“You needn’t make it sound so repulsive. I admit that emotions may not be my forte in life, but it hardly means I am a heartless piece of stone. But why couldn’t you have secured a more practical enterance?”
“What? And have this touching scene in the midst of a busy street? The purpose of our plight is to rid the world of Sam Barker’s filthy grasp, not add to his collection with a possible affair of two men.” Keane reached up and touched the side of my head with a sense of mourning. “You will grow your hair back to its former length after this, won’t you? At least before it was long enough to be delightfully feminine, while this . . . Lawrence, you will always make a better woman than a man. Always.” I fought a thousand urges ranging from some snappish comment to something damnably emotional. The latter never having been a select choice of mine, and the first perhaps not the most prudent of plans, I settled on allowing my brain to notice the thin, dark shadow spotting Keane’s cheekbone.
“Oh, God, you’re bleeding. I’m sorry. If I had known it was you—”
“You would have no doubt had the same reaction.” My companion countered easily, releasing me enough to wipe his face with his handkerchief. “One ought never apologise for their strengths, just as one should not succumb to a constant fear on the chance it might invoke a weakness.” I smiled grimly.
“That rather sounds like something Mickey Cohen said when he was asking me about Sam Barker. Of course, it did take a bit of time to persuade him I was more loyal to him than I was the young millionaire.” The stained cloth paused just below Keane’s left eye.
“Why the devil was it necessary to state your loyalties?”
“Because Sam works for Jack Dragna and—heavens, Keane, what’s the matter?” I instinctively grasped my companion's arm in the fear he might have hit his head harder than either of us suspected, but he waved me away before my fingers had clung too tightly to his suit jacket.
“God,” He whispered, his voice near inaudible over the ideas being flung throughout his head. “God, have I blundered? Quickly, Lawrence. We must act quickly, or we may be too late. Come, put on your hat and we shall go to the hotel. There may be rough work ahead, and danger too, make no mistake. Breakfast can wait. There is a fixed amount of hours before dusk, and we must—I repeat myself—we must be ready. Come, Lawrence. Come. There is no time to waste. I fear there will be blood spilt tonight.”