by Lee Savino
“Hello?”
Sharo was at the door. It took three tries for her shaking self to undo the lock, and when she did, he came in before she asked him, ushering her to a couch with a strong hand, flipping on lights as he did. He poured her a drink and assured her Marcus was on his way. Darting out again, she heard voices in her foyer, and looked up in fear.
But it must have been one of Sharo’s acquaintances, because he was back with her quickly, a certain look on his face that told her that he was cautiously pleased with something.
“You okay?” In his deep voice and dark eyes, there was something of concern.
“Yes,” she said. “I think so.”
“Two of my men was outside the apartment, and I think he may have spotted him. They think he may have spotted them, and dived down into city transport. They’re still on the trail.” There it was again, a look of quiet smugness that suggested Sharo was sure he’d have his hands on the man soon. “You’ll never see him again.”
“He didn’t do anything,” she said. “Just scared me, that’s all. How— how did he find me?”
But Sharo’s face was now impassive, and he was suddenly no longer willing to speak. A few minutes later, Marcus arrived, and she was comforted, complimented and even cradled again. All the while Sharo watched, and Cora felt the silent, knowing glances between the man and his boss.
“Why don’t we stay in tonight, babe. Go order Greek; Sharo will pick it up for us.” She left the room reluctantly, feeling the eyes of two men on her. When she returned, they were standing close to one another, both faces were hard and strained, though she had heard no raised voices. As quiet as she was creeping back, she only heard Marcus mutter “Don’t let it happen again,” before he turned back to her, a cold but gracious host.
“Give Sharo the number so he can get the food.” As the bald man left the room, Marcus added, “I don’t want any delivery boy knowing where she lives.” The quiet fury on his face made her pause halfway to the couch, even when he put out his hand to call her to him. She remained where she was.
“Marcus,” she asked when Sharo had gone, “who is this guy?”
“I told you, kid. Just some dick off the streets who saw a goddess he can never touch and can’t get wise.” With a sigh he seated himself on the couch, staring off into nowhere, his face turned to stone. Finally he relaxed, started breathing again.
“Come here,” he said, and held out his hand again. Slowly she moved forward, took it, allowed him to pull her down onto the couch. He cradled her as he had when they had first met, arm around her, her head against his suit jacket. “I don’t want you scared,” he whispered, his lips right near her face, “Don’t think you aren’t safe. Nobody, I mean nobody,” she felt him tense up, angry, “touches my girl.”
They sat in silence for a time after this, and as the clock ticked the tension left his body. Cora could feel his breathing soften. She held herself very still, like a moth trapped against a lamp; feeling the danger, unable to break away. “You’ll be okay,” she heard him murmur, “I won’t let you out of my sight.”
Looking back, she didn’t know why it happened, but suddenly she saw the gleam of the black car, the shaved head of Sharo. “You already don’t,” she said sleepily, lulled by the rise and fall of the chest underneath her. Eyes almost closed, she was drifting when a sharp word pulled her awake.
“What?” His voice mixed with the doorbell; she pulled away.
“It’s okay,” Marcus said, his hands steadying her, “it’s only Sharo.” He mistook her anxiety and she let him, body still taut and held away from him, even though she was still so close her hair spilled over his suit. “Cora,” he repeated, and she relaxed. He seemed to have forgotten her foolish, whispered words, or dismissed them as naïve.
And this shocked her more than the fact he was having her followed. As he went to answer the door, her eyes followed, her heart pounding with something like anger. He thought she was clueless! He didn’t think she knew.
Moving to one corner of the couch and tucking her legs under her, she listened hard. Voices in the foyer—Marcus and another, no, two other men. Sharo? Or the other two, the ones who had been so conveniently close to her apartment? Why was he watching her?
“You okay?” Ubeli asked when he returned with a paper sack of food. Cora smiled and nodded, but it was a different girl Marcus found waiting for him on that couch. They set out the food, and before they tucked in, he asked again, “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” the answer was shaky, but sure. And the eyes she turned on him saw differently, now. Marcus didn’t notice.
“I told you, babe,” he said, “I’m going to take care of you.”
*
“I’d like to try to visit my aunt,” Cora said.
“I thought she’d moved.” Marcus was preoccupied, looking out at the cars they were creeping past. They were on their way to another night out, this time at Marcus’ new place of business, a nightclub and concert hall.
“She did,” Cora took a deep breath, “but I’d like to find her. It’s not like her to just disappear. She practically raised me when I was younger, before my mom took me out to the Midwest.”
“Nowheresville. I thought you were a country girl, through and through.”
“Not quite,” she found it in herself to smile. Marcus liked to tease her about this. “I was born near the city, in sight of the high rises.”
“Well, well,” this was enough to turn his head away from the passing traffic. He looked her up and down, “You’re a city girl, turns out.”
“Guess so.”
“Too bad,” he looked back out at traffic, but his hand was busy around her neck, “I kinda like pig tails.”
“And overalls,” she reminded him.
“Oh yeah, overalls.” He let out a whistle. “Sexy.”
They were still laughing, Cora’s aunt forgotten, when Sharo pulled up to the club’s entrance. Marcus was nearest the door, so Cora didn’t see what was happening when her boyfriend stopped short, half way out of the car, and started swearing at someone outside of it.
“Mr. Ubeli, Mr. Ubeli,” she heard someone shouting, and then the world turned white. Stunned and half blinded, she sat back, hearing the combined voices of both Sharo and Marcus rising over the hubbub, but unable to catch what was being said. It wasn’t until Marcus was back in the seat, the door slamming beside him, that she saw what had caused the fuss.
“Unbelievable,” Marcus said, along with a few more of his choice expressions. The front door slammed; Sharo had returned, and the car squealed away from the curb, leaving the curious crowd behind.
“Photographers?” she asked, confused. Marcus had curbed his cursing, but his lips were white as if only great control kept him from bursting out profanity. She looked back to the sidewalk flooded with light from the marquis. Sure enough, there were crowds of waiting press, some with microphones, others with cameras.
Marcus’ lips tightened. He jerked forward and hit the intercom button. “Get Thane on the phone,” he ordered. Cora hoped Thane was a lawyer, and not a thug like most of the men Marcus employed. “I want to know how sidewalk trash knows where I’m going to be.”
Cora sat silent. She had only seen Marcus like this the night the strange man had knocked on her apartment door. Somehow, even though it had nothing to do with her, this was worse. She dared not speak.
Suddenly, he turned on her. “Have you ever spoken to them?” he asked, his face so twisted she didn’t recognize him.
Mutely, she shook her head, but it wasn’t good enough for him.
“Did any of those rag writers approach you?”
“Marcus, no,” her voice came out a frightened cry. “I would never talk to them. I didn’t even tell anyone I had a date tonight. You didn’t tell me where we were going—you just said it was some new place.”
Marcus breathed out hard, through his nostrils. Silently, Sharo drove on through the streets of the city. In the alternating light and
shadow, the planes of Marcus’ cheeks seemed cut from black marble. “Of course you didn’t.” He said finally. “I’m sorry. You’d never betray me.”
Cora stared at him. Her lips trembled involuntarily, and Marcus cursed at himself. “Baby, I’m sorry.” He slid his arms around her and cupped her head, holding her to his chest. She could feel her heart beating rapidly, a frightened bird.
Marcus kissed her hair. “I lost my cool. I just wanted to make sure—”
“Boss.” Sharo’s voice rumbled from the front of the car. Cora felt Marcus’ head rise to meet his second in command’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Go back to the apartment,” Marcus ordered after a pause. “Get her home.” Sharo made the next right turn.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said when they pulled to the curb. He jumped out to open her door himself, as if he couldn’t wait for her to be gone. She went, biting her lip, wondering if she should say anything.
“I’m sorry,” he made a stiff attempt to salvage the mood. “We’ll try again tomorrow. I’ll get you early from work.”
“Can it be later?” she asked. “I’m volunteering at the animal rescue tomorrow.”
If it was possible, Marcus’ face turned a shade darker. “I thought you were going to stop doing that. We decided it wasn’t a good idea for you to be out so late.”
“I wouldn’t be walking home. You could pick me up there,” she pleaded, hoping he could hear her over his anger. “Please.”
He stared at her so long she was sure he wasn’t seeing her anymore. Finally he jerked his head: a nod. “Tomorrow night, then. Seven.” He ordered before the car door slammed. “Wait for Sharo; don’t walk home.”
*
“Have to get off early tonight,” Cora called to the back.
“Okay,” the cry came from Maeve, who ran the shelter. “Just start at the end and get as far as you can, cleaning. The bucket is in the closet, sponges and soap by the sink.”
Cora passed two hours in silence, cleaning cages the animals slept in. It was hard, dirty work. Somehow, though, she felt cleaner after doing it. Scrubbing reminded her of being a child, in a little rancher out west with her mom and step-dad where life was simple and full of honest, hard work. At the age of ten, it had been her job to scrub the floors of the house and the dairy.
The city is another world compared to home on the farm, she thought. She leaned forward and a bracelet slid down her arm. The stone set into the silver caught the light and blazed. The jewelry was new; she had forgotten to remove it before working. It was a simple piece, a silver chain that thickened into a setting for a fine, red stone. She had never seen anything so fine or delicate before, much less worn it unthinkingly on her arm.
Suddenly, she felt very homesick. She had spoken before to Marcus about visiting her aunt. He said all the right things about making arrangements, but nothing had come of it. He doesn’t want to let me go, she thought suddenly. The thought, which would have been quietly pleasing as a sign of his devotion a week ago, was now unsettling.
A long time later, Maeve found Cora sitting in one of the cages surrounded by cleaning supplies, one rubber glove on and the other off. The woman who ran the shelter had long red hair she mostly kept braided back. She came to check on her volunteer, briskly rebraiding the long auburn tresses threaded with grey.
“Cora,” Maeve called, and the young woman seemed to come awake. The hand without the glove was on her other arm, rubbing it as if the work had given her a rash.
“There’s a man out here, looking for you.”
Cora looked up at the clock. Seven o’clock.
“Oh,” she found a curse coming to her lips. Maeve’s eyes widened, although the older woman wouldn’t take offense at the word, she looked surprised to hear the normally prim volunteer use it. Shocked at herself, Cora brought her hand up to her lips to keep the word in. Maeve saw what she had been fiddling with—a small chain that encircled her left arm.
“You okay?”
“Yes, I’m just late, I better go.”
Maeve hesitated, “Are you sure? He’s kinda rough looking; I nearly sent him away. Are you sure you want to see him?”
“Yeah, it’s fine.” Cora mumbled, stripping off her apron.
Maeve looked at her critically. “Careful,” she finally said. “You’re a sweet girl, Cora. I hope you know how to take care of yourself.” She moved so Cora could go hang up her apron, but went on chatting. “This city is as dangerous as it ever was. I mean, look at this—“ The redhead held up a newspaper, the top one on the stack they’d be using to line the cages. “Known crime boss surfaces at club. The Underworld Emerges. Can you believe this? Mob men, right on 35th street! This was at the club that’s just opened, what’s the name?”
“Elysium,” Cora whispered. She had gone all still. She recognized the marquis in the picture splashed across the front page. Silently, Maeve handed her the newspaper so she could get a closer look. The photographer took the picture just as a black car was pulled right in front, and a familiar dark head was emerging from it into the marquis lights.
Maeve was watching her. “Take care of yourself,” she said gently.
Without asking what the woman meant, Cora turned away. “I have to go.”
Thoughts buzzing, Cora readied herself to meet Sharo, smoothing her hair with her fingers nervously. She would have to ask for a few extra minutes time to change out of her work clothes. Marcus wouldn’t be happy. Marcus didn’t like to be kept waiting. Marcus—
She took a deep breath, almost dizzy. Waiting until she had steadied, she opened the door.
The front of the rescue was a little shop for pet goods. Cora come out, an apology ready and on her lips even before she saw who it was that waited between the aisles of dog food. Rounding the corner, she stopped dead. The hair on the head of the waiting man was curly, brown. His back was to her, but at her voice he turned around.
Cora gasped. Instead of stepping back, she stepped forward in pity. “What happened to you?”
The man’s face was misshapen, bruises covering his face in mulit-colored patchwork. It was the man from the club, from her first night out in the city. She should run, or speed-dial Marcus on the cell phone he insisted she carry. But he wasn’t making any move to come closer, so she stayed.
“Did Sharo do this?” She asked, her heart beating hard.
“Yeah,” the man’s words were a mouthful of pain, spoken through all the bruises and swelling. “Boss don’t like it when a man oversteps his bounds.”
“What?” she whispered.
“I came to warn you,” he said. “Boss won’t like it, but you’ve got to get wise. That way, you’ll be ready.”
“Ready for what?”
The man shook his head, looking down. He squeezed his eyes shut as if this movement brought the pain to a head. Cora, heart soft from an afternoon of solitude, forgot about her plight. “Are you okay? You look like you might need to see a doctor.”
“No,” the man gasped. “Boss takes care of his own. I went there that night, I didn’t mean to—“
“Hurt me,” Cora finished his sentence, nodding soothingly. “I understand. I was just scared. I overreacted. What they did to you is my fault. I’m so sorry.”
This silenced him. He stared at her in disbelief.
“When I saw you outside my apartment,” she went on, but he shook his head. “No, not that time. The first time.”
She fell silent, but he didn’t bring himself to say more, so she continued, crossing her arms in front of her. “The night at the club, when we danced and then you drugged my drink and then tried to rape me. Look, thank you for coming,” she dismissed him, not unkindly. She felt conflicted, wanting to stand up for herself, yet feeling pity for the victim before her. “You need to go. Really, Sharo is coming to pick me up and he won’t like—”
“No— don’t go with him. Don’t trust him.”
“Don’t trust Sharo?”
“Him, Ubeli, any of them.
”
Cora just stared at him.
The man glanced out the window as if someone was following him. “Look, do what you want. I have to disappear. I just felt bad. I mean, I was the one who scouted you.” He shrugged, and coughed a little as the movement caused him pain. “So I wanted to warn you.”
Her head was spinning. “Wait a minute. Marcus and Sharo protected me. From you. Why should I trust you?”
Your aunt,” he started, and then the word caught in his mouth and he choked.
“My aunt? You mean you’ve spoken to her?” Cora waited as the man stopped coughing. He truly sounded horrible. She wondered if his injuries were all visible.
“Yeah. Saw her two days ago.”
“Where is she now?”
“She’s safe. A little worried for you. She asked me to tell you that she’ll go to the cops if you don’t come back. If he doesn’t let you go.”
“What? What do you mean?” Cora shook her head in confusion. Was this man sick from the blows to his head? “Who wouldn’t let me go?”
But the man was going through another bout of coughing. “Boss don’t like it when girls get away. He won’t let them go. That’s why, that first night—”
“The first night? The night we first…” she stumbled around for a better word, “met? When you drugged me. You were scouting me?”
“Those were my orders.”
“Wait,” she struggled to understand, “You took me to the car. You were going to—" She broke off because her informant/stalker/ former-would-be-rapist was shaking his head vigorously.
“There was a plan. They wanted you drugged, scared up, and brought in.” The wheezing around his words was cruel. “I didn’t think you’d run. But it still turned out, all according to plan.”
“Plan,” she said carefully, still holding on to disbelief. She looked up at the man for something dishonest, untrustworthy. All she saw there was a quiet pity, directed towards her.
“Thank you,” she said, and stepped backwards. The newspaper was still in her hands, she held it between them like a shield.
“Believe me,” the man said, looking worried. “I’ve got to go, but I wanted to make sure I told you the truth.”
