Luckily, he’d been able to talk with a young woman named Anna, who not only knew the address but offered to accompany him, should he need her to do so. Declining, he found the meeting and now waited, as he had for the previous hour, for Monica to emerge.
At the first trickle of female voices, Max flattened himself against the back side of a massive tree, but the women who spilled out from the top of the staircase turned in the opposite direction, so absorbed in conversation that they would not have noticed him anyway.
Following them came a full minute of emptiness when he could have walked away, but then the staccato of a familiar step caught his attention, and there she was, hitting the final step at nearly a full-out run, then stopping at the top to catch her breath.
Slowly, with just a hint of trepidation, he approached her, coming up behind as she stopped, her hand on top of the iron banister.
“How’d it go?”
Though the question itself was innocuous, his appearance must have been anything but, because Monica’s resulting scream was so shrill, it ricocheted off the surrounding buildings. Acting on some instinct to stifle the sound, Max grabbed her, pulling her close and covering her mouth with his gloved hand.
For such a small thing, she was surprisingly strong, as evidenced by her efforts to wrest herself from his grasp, and he was about to let her go when an onslaught of footsteps and female shouts rose from the stairwell, and his own fear caused him to cinch tighter.
“It’s all right—” The pain of a set of sharp teeth clamping down through his glove kept him from saying anything more. Max released Monica, sending her spinning away from him until they faced each other, their breath panted puffs between them.
“Do you know this guy?” asked one of the two young women who came to stand flank-to-flank with Monica.
“It’s me,” he said, drawing his scarf lower and raising his hat. “Max.”
“Aw,” the other girl cooed. “He calls her Max. That’s cute.”
“I’m all right,” Monica said, stepping away from the balustrade. “I know him.”
Confused by the girl’s comment about her name, Max attempted to further clarify the situation. “Yes. I’m her b—”
“My brother,” Monica said. “He startled me is all. He’s here to see me home. Ma don’t like it if I’m out too late on my own.”
The crowd of girls, now grown to a dozen, hit a unanimous note of understanding and began whispering among themselves. Their hands might have been cupped around their mouths, but they made little effort to hide the fact that their eyes cut straight to him.
“And, ladies,” Monica continued with a sharp swing of her purse, “he’s single, loves Jesus, and I guarantee has never whistled at a girl from his car.” She walked over and lightly socked his arm. “Isn’t that right, big brother?”
“Absolutely,” he said, beginning to enjoy the idea of an enraptured audience. “But then again, I don’t have a car.”
The street rang with the peal of women’s laughter, and Max stood a little taller, allowing himself to smile along with them as if he hadn’t been the originator of the joke.
“Oh, brother,” Monica said in a tone that had no familial connotation whatsoever. She tucked her arm in his and turned him toward the street, calling, “’Night, ladies,” over her shoulder as they walked.
“Yes, good night,” he called too, keeping his head turned until a yank on his arm got his attention.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed into his sleeve.
“Why do they think your name is Max?”
“I told them my name was Maxine. You know, to protect my anonymity.”
“Clever.”
They were still whispering, though they’d long left the range of being heard by anybody who would care about their conversation.
“You haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?”
“I haven’t heard a word from you since we spoke in my office. I didn’t know if you were intending to do the story or not.”
“So you’re checking up on me?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“So you worry about my safety whether I’m going to speakeasies or drinking coffee with spinsters?”
“You could see it that way, I suppose. Or maybe I’d just like to know if you intend to do your job or not.”
“I’ll have a column ready for next week’s paper.”
That should have been enough to satisfy him, but she was looking up with such mischief in her eyes, he had to pry a little deeper.
“First impression?”
“Sweet girls.”
He laughed. “You speak as if you have such an advantage of age. I’ll wager at least half of those women are older than you by three years or more.”
“Maybe I’m lumping myself in with them.”
She was doing it again—flirting, though by now he wondered if she had any consciousness of doing so. Almost like a nervous tic. And as such, he must learn to ignore it, lest it lead him down a path that neither of them intended.
“Well,” he said, “since everybody thinks I’m escorting you home, I suppose I ought to do so.”
“How gallant.”
He ignored her sarcasm. “Are we heading the right way?”
“It’s early yet. No need to go straight home, is there? How about I show you a little bit of our fair city first?”
“It’s dark.”
“It’s beautiful, especially by moonlight. Or streetlight at least. Hides the dirt. And all those big white buildings—”
“Are closed and locked up.”
“Oh, who cares about what goes on inside. Bunch of old men in suits trying to hide their lies.”
“This seems to be a strange place to live for someone so averse to politics.”
“I don’t hate politics; I simply find them endlessly amusing. If you like, I can take you to a few places where you’ll see the leopards in their true spots.”
Tempting. That was the word. Not the idea of unveiling elected officials but simply spending time with her. A light snow was falling—so light it was barely noticeable until a particular flake fell on an eyelash or cheek. Nonetheless, she tucked herself against him as if they were walking headlong into a blizzard. It was a quiet neighborhood, save for the occasional puttering automobile. She would have been perfectly safe without him, maybe more so if he were given the occasion to follow through on some of his less gentlemanly thoughts. The experience of the past few minutes had taught him that the best weapon against those thoughts was to keep talking.
“Tell me more about this evening.”
“Nope.” She made a slicing motion with her free hand. “It’ll ruin my writing. I need to let everything soak for a while, write down my thoughts and the bits and pieces I want to get perfect.”
Now there was a relief. “All the more reason to get you straight home.”
“You would think so.”
Her response sounded more like a trap than a concession, so he chose to ignore it and instead regale her with all the details he knew of Tony’s current story.
“Poor dog,” she said, surprising him with her sympathy. “I have a six-toed cat who comes around my place sometimes.”
“Six toes?”
“Maybe more. Hard to tell. And he’s not really mine. I don’t know if he belongs to anybody. He must have a particular home in the winter. I’d like to think so, anyway. Someplace with a blanket bed, maybe bowls of warm milk at night. He quits showing around so much when it turns cold. I guess it’s one of the reasons I’m looking forward to spring.”
“If he’s that footloose, you might want to be on the lookout for some six-toed kitten you could have as your very own.”
She laughed. “Oh no. I’m not ready for that kind of responsibility. I can’t even keep a boyfriend, let alone—”
She stopped abruptly, as if surprised herself at the turn in topic, and he chose not to press.
The snow continued to be lazy�
�fat and wet, each flake dissolving the minute it touched the surface of the sidewalk or a sleeve. Though they were far from alone, something about the intermittent snow made their surroundings feel like silence, and they continued walking at a slow, even pace, Max shortening his steps to match hers.
“I’ll bet you don’t have nights like this in California,” she said after a time.
He answered, “Not even close,” encompassing a lot of things. No snow, naturally, rarely cold enough to see one’s breath, and never a night walking with a woman nestled beside him.
“Do you miss it yet?”
“No. Not really. I wasn’t there long enough to think of it as home. In fact, I don’t think anybody’s been there long enough to think of it as home. Everything’s too new. Too perfect.”
“How can anything be too perfect?”
“Take this, for example.” He pointed at the line of railcar track embedded in the street. “A hundred and fifty years ago, this very street was probably nothing more than a dirt road. Then maybe cobbled. Then paved. During all that time, men drove horse-drawn buggies up and down and up and down, until the electric streetcar came along.”
“Thank goodness it did, or I’d never get anywhere.”
“But the streetcar required electricity. And that meant poles and wires, cluttering up the sky.” They’d come to a corner. He stopped and reached his free hand high and wide. “Just look at how beautiful this is.”
“Like diamonds on velvet.”
Her face was raised up, looking far beyond him. A single snowflake was melting among her thick black eyelashes. It was all he could do not to kiss her, and if she’d glanced his way, he would have lost that battle for sure. To be safe, he returned his attention to the sky.
“Imagine if that was marred by a bunch of wires. So now the power source is below us. Hidden, invisible, and ultimately more efficient.”
“How do you know all this?” She sounded less impressed than he’d hoped.
“I found some papers in Uncle Edward’s things. Apparently he was quite active in the movement to clean up the system.”
“Really?” Now she sounded impressed. “I never would have thought he’d care about something like that.”
“He chose to live in a neighborhood outside of the rail service. Maybe his own form of protest?”
“Maybe,” she said. Then, “Speak of the devil.”
The piercing beams of the railcar rounded the corner, and Monica grabbed his hand, running them to the opposite side of the street, where they’d board.
“Is this the right line to your place?” he asked as they waited for the car to reach its electric, screeching halt.
“I’ll have to make a change at Fourteenth.” She was on her way toward the steps, pulling her gloves off with her teeth before plunging her hand into her coat pocket. She was about to drop a nickel in the slot and ride away.
“Wait.” Max clumsily eased himself between Monica and the car, fishing out two nickels of his own. “No sense my taking a cab from here. It’ll cost a fortune.”
“See? That’s why you need a car.”
Not even the bulk of her coat could completely hide her form as she ascended the steps. He couldn’t possibly trust himself with a car.
They disembarked together ten minutes later in an area decidedly different from where they’d boarded. Darker, rougher, where men and women moved like shadows.
“Changing lines?” he asked, trying to appear casual, though he inwardly cringed at the company.
“Eventually.” She had no problem looking confident, and he suddenly knew what her neighborhood mice felt when confronted with her wayward six-toed cat. “I thought I’d show you a little bit of your new city that you might not see on your own. This is C Street.”
He instantly understood. “No, thank you. I’d rather just see you home.”
“I don’t feel like going home yet.” She was walking in front of him, only backward. Fearless of stumbling. “It’s early. And I haven’t been out in nearly a week. Just because I’m writing your silly assignment doesn’t mean I have to give up all my fun, does it?”
He took a quick look around and lowered his voice. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go into those places alone.”
“So go with me.”
“I think that’s a worse idea.”
“You’re not even a little curious?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“You’re right. But a little curiosity never hurt anyone.”
“How do you know? It might have killed my cat.”
He realized he’d been following her, matching step for step like some one-way impromptu tango. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Take a chance with me.” She was actually beckoning with her fingers. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Arrest.” He poised his finger as if to tick off multiple examples.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Beyond that—” he planted his feet—“it’s just not something I do. Drink, that is. Not even if it were legal. Which it’s not.”
“Is it a Christian thing? ‘Whatsoever things are pure’ and all that?”
“That’s part of it.” They were standing in front of a crowded diner, not exactly the place he’d ever thought he’d be sharing his faith. “Why don’t we go in there? Get a cup of coffee, maybe something to eat. I’m starved.”
“I’m not.” A glint had come to Monica’s eye, something like what he’d seen in his office. A cold sheeting like she was freezing right in front of him. “But you go on ahead.”
She had turned and gone five steps away before he caught up and grabbed her elbow.
“Monica, I said I don’t want you to go in there alone.”
She wheeled around. “Then prove it.”
Her words and posture issued a challenge, and any choice to do otherwise fell away.
“You won’t be sorry,” she said without a hint of gloating at her obvious victory.
They continued past another diner, a Chinese restaurant, a pawnshop, and a cigar store—all of which appeared to be open for business despite the fact that the hour was approaching ten. Nobody on the streets seemed to have any inclination to go home, but even in these few moments they appeared much less threatening. Still, he would have felt better seeing even one police officer patrolling, especially when the street grew darker and narrower, when the warmth of yellow-lit storefronts bathed in streetlights became rows of three-story walk-ups with windows more dark than not.
He walked behind Monica, telling himself it was for her protection, as he would be able to see any potential attacker from a block away. He didn’t tell her as much, though, for fear that she would either be offended or once again call his bluff by throwing herself into danger.
“This is it,” she said without any preliminary hint that they were closing in. How she distinguished this particular house from the others was beyond him, as it was too dark to see any painted numbers and more than one had a dim light shining above the porch.
“How do you know?”
She looked at him like he was an idiot. “I’ve been here before.”
Straight up the steps she went. Max would have preferred to lead the way just in case some armed gangster stood behind the door. But when he mentioned the possibility, she laughed.
“You’ve been reading too many dime novels, Mr. Moore.”
“If you’ll recall,” he whispered, hoping she’d follow his example in doing so, “we had an armed gangster in our offices not long ago.”
She rolled her eyes and tsked. “I am never going to live that down, am I? Trust me, the gangsters only come out if you don’t know the code. Still want to go first?”
“No.”
Taking on the posture of an orator, she said, “‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; or close the wall up with our English dead.’”
Shakespeare again. He’d have to bone up if he wanted to keep
up with her conversation. “It’s the American dead that worry me.”
She cupped her palm against his cheek. “‘In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility: but when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger.’”
“The war’s over,” he said, though her passion was coming close to kindling a mirrored one in him.
“The one over there, maybe. But there are a million battles right under our noses, and you don’t even see it. Now, come on, tiger.”
She rang the front bell, and a few seconds later, the door was opened by a woman with skin the color of freshly brewed coffee. She wore a red dress and a sequined headband wrapped around a mass of sleek, black curls. A ribbon of smoke curled from a cigarette in a long, thin ivory holder.
“Monica, baby,” she said in a voice rich as cream.
“Celine.” Monica stood tiptoe as the woman bent to exchange a kiss on each cheek. When the kisses were over, she said, “This is Max.”
“Max, eh? Short for Maximilian?” Celine brought the ivory cigarette holder to her lips and took a long drag while studying him from head to toe and back.
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” He wasn’t sure if he should offer a kiss similar to Monica’s greeting, and even though her right hand was occupied with smoking, he extended his anyway, waiting patiently for her to return the gesture.
“And how long have we known Max?”
“Awhile,” Monica said. “He’s practically family.”
“Well,” Celine said after another long look, proving she wasn’t at all convinced, “I’d walk you in, but there’s no one else right now to watch the front.”
“Slow night?”
Celine shrugged. “It’s early yet.”
Monica grabbed his hand. “Come on. This is one of my favorite places.”
They proceeded up the stairs, and as they passed the open doors of the bedrooms, he realized they were in somebody’s actual home. He knew of restaurants with secret back rooms and underground clubs, but here there were framed photographs on the walls and quilt-covered beds. A new, dark idea struck.
All for a Story Page 15
