Date: Wed, 27 Feb 2008 20:19:33 -0800 (PST) From: Matt Wess Subject: The Color Red: Part Two The brunette permits no time for me to wallow in my past. He tugs on a pair of shoes, fixes his hair in the cracked mirror, and we are on our way. Deborah still sits in the hallway; no longer dragging on a cigarette, instead her index finger alluringly traces her lip-stick-smeared lips. The brunette is right - she is still hanging onto his false promise and does not say a word to us as we pass, she only winks. None of the other tenants pay attention to us as we descend down a few levels, not even the young couple who is passionately making out in the corner of the stairwell. The brunette casually steps over them, but I can barely peel my eyes off of them. They are completely clothed, though the guy has his hand up her skirt and she is moaning slightly. As I travel down the stairs, following the brunette, I glance back up at the couple; her head is rolling back in pleasure, her red hair dangling freely. She catches sight of me, but is not fazed. The red head is in a state of pure ecstasy with his hand up her skirt that she bites her bottom lip and lifts her head off her shoulders to look back at him. I am hot around the collar. My blood is rising; the crotch of my pants tightens at my stiffness. I wonder how I could possibly get used to this life style, when the brunette says, "You're not used to this open life style, are you?" He pulls back the deadbolt to the front door and opens the door for me. "No," I admit, stepping outside into the summer heat. "Is it that apparent?" The brunette does not have any problem lying either, "Yes," he says, heavily shutting the large steel door behind him. "But don't worry - it's apparent in every newbie we get." I am, as far as I can tell, the oldest male virgin on the face of the earth. Certainly no on else my age, nineteen, is willing to admit it. Even the brunette has claimed victory, although I'm inclined to believe the closest he's ever come to a naked woman or man was between the covers of one of his eight-pagers. It is, then, ironic that when I made my escape and attempted to find shelter I stumbled upon a building that serves something along the lines of a whore house - where everyone has had sex at least once. But I sound like a damn desperate person - as the brunette described to me earlier today. We're standing in a tight alleyway, the sun beating down on us without any mercy. I glance up at the facade of the building we just exited - trying to pick up a defining characteristic in it - something that would make me feel more acquainted, but like every building post-economic depression - the facade was a depressing gray, with boarded windows - giving the impression that no one lived in there. I follow the brunette down the alley - and once we get to the main street - he suddenly shoves me flat up against the wall. At first I am completely taken aback, but then I notice the police cruiser passing within feet of us. They were going at a strolling pace - looking for mischief. Once the cruiser is gone - the brunette releases me. He fixes his hair, explaining to me, "The police would wonder why a pair of us would be leaving a 'deserted' alleyway. Our area of living is about as popular with the police as speakeasies are. They'll haul our asses to jail." We walk along the main road for a good amount of time - passing mostly stores that have been shut down or liquidated by the bank. The managers sit outside on the front stoop of the stores that have survived, tempting costumers, calling out, "Got no money? We'll take anything you're willing to sell!" At one store a couple of remaining flapper girls exit, arms hooked together. They catch sight of the brunette and me and start giggling. The taller of the two provides a wiggle of the fingers towards the brunette and is then yanked forward, by her giggling partner. The brunette is smiling smugly, his hands shoved deeply in his trousers. After a few more minutes of walking - we come upon an open coffee shop. Once again, the owner is standing outside - tempting passerby's and is more than delighted to see that he has captured our interest. "Well, hullo there," he beams a toothless smile at us. "What have you come to buy today?" The brunette pulls out his pockets. "Sorry - bud - I got no money." The manager frowns. "Then why you bothering to come 'round? I don't want no loiterers taking up space for my paying costumers." "Business," the brunette says coolly, stepping forward. "Some of the people we are meeting are your paying costumers." I provide an apologetic smile to the manager, signifying that I don't have any money as well. He watches us from the door as we cross the tiny, musty coffee shop to a wooden table in the corner. The Andrew Sisters are crackling through a nearby radio; an additional worker is standing behind the counter, arms crossed, as he watches the group of us suspiciously. There are at least four others sitting around the table, before the brunette and I join ranks. I'm searching in vain for loose change to buy what pastry is offered when my eyes come to an abrupt stop on woman. She looks so much like a girl I once knew I catch my breath - the plane of her face, the curl of her blonde hair, eyelashes long and full. Her legs are turned sideways on a chair they are long, her hips full, her chest a stupefaction. She is smoking pensively on a cigarette. Her sharp eyes narrow and train on me. A few people are in the progress of greeting the brunette (whose name I pick up from the others and then suddenly remember is August) when the girl speaks up, "Who's the kid?" she asks, blowing out smoke. August speaks right up, "Oh this here is - is..." his voice fades away. "Jacob," I say to the table at large. August claps my back, "Of course! That's it! Jacob!" The others begin to quickly welcome me, except the girl who continues on, "Why's he here?" The other members fall silent and turn their gaze on August. She waits for an answer, then says waving her cigarette in the air impatiently, "I asked a simple question, August. Why's he here?" "He's my new roommate at the Velvet Lounge," he says softly, so that the worker could not hear him over the radio. She takes another pensive drag on her cigarette, sizing August up. "I always took you for the type of liking to screwing girls - not guys. You continue to surprise me, August." August is completely red. "He's not my roommate in that sense, Lucinda" he hisses across the table. The blonde named Lucinda continues to provide her look of skepticism, but August continues along, his eyes meeting everyone at the table, "Anyway - Jacob's new to the area - thought we could get him better acquainted to the area and allow him to help out on tonight's excursion." There are a few approving nods, then: "No," Lucinda says flatly. "What do you mean 'no'?" August repeats. Lucinda snubs out her cigarette. "What has sleeping with guys recently inhibit your ability to understand English? I said 'no' and I mean 'no'. These plans have been carefully laid out before - I don't plan to have some fresh come along and spoil them." She leans back in her chair, saying dismissively, "Take him to the circus - it's going to be in town shortly." "I'm not a child. I can handle whatever it is that you are planning," I suddenly speak up. I feel an immediate disliking towards Lucinda. "I've probably been through a hell of a lot more than you have in life." "Uh, Jacob..." August is saying under his breath. I now realize that Lucinda is starring daggers at me. I stop short, push back my chair, and begin to march away from the table. "All right, kid," Lucinda suddenly calls out composedly. She lights up another cigarette. "You think you can handle it - then I'll give you your chance tonight." I provide a mirthless chuckle, "I'm not asking for a chance - August invited me over to this joint, doll - he said nothing about having to gain approval from some bearcat." Lucinda remains at an angle on her chair, puffing rhythmically, absorbing my heated words. I'm ready to turn and walk away - and head back to Velvet - when Lucinda lazily signals me to sit back down. I do so hesitantly, aware that all eyes are on me - including the worker. A blonde lock of hair escapes from its place and bounces in front of Lucinda's face. She pushes it away, saying, "You're a no bullshit kind of guy - we could use your type." Lucinda pushes the pack of cigarettes across the table. "Have a cig," she offers. I decline, saying, "I'm not a smoker." She reaches across the table, wrapping her fiery red finger nails around the pack. "For now," she says, catching my eyes behind a loose blonde lock. Another guy sitting at the table clears his throat. I noticed him upon my arrival, but now I get a better look at him: he's about 5'7", my height, age, a slim figure; it has been awhile since he has shaven. He pushes his felt fedora hat back a little bit on his head and asks, "You know how to drive a car?" I only realize that the question was directed towards me when August kicks me under a table. I spring to life, saying, "Yes." No. The kid nods once in approval. "He can be our driver," he addresses Lucinda. "The more people we have on the inside - the better." Lucinda's chin is resting on the palm of her hand, with the cigarette wedged between her middle and index finger. Smoke oozes from the end. She is still studying me. "Only if Mr.," she pauses, "I'm sorry, darling, what did you say your last name was?" "I didn't," I respond promptly. "Well, then, what is it?" Privacy is important to me - so I tell her the lie I've been telling everyone else, "Paige." "Right - Mr. Jacob Page," Lucinda says, "If you think you are reputable driver then you are in. Barry - give him the keys to the car," she speaks to the kid in the felt fedora hat. As he sifts through his pockets for the keys, Lucinda starts to ramble off what is expected of me, "You will drive this car back to Velvet, but park it at least two streets away. You will pick us up at midnight tonight at this very spot - no sooner or no later." She takes her last drag on her cigarette, "We'll fill you in once we are in the car - Barry where the hell are those car keys?" She slams her hand flat down on the table and turns sharply towards him. He has completely emptied out his pockets and is now patting down his pats, the color slowly draining from his face. "Oh for Christ's sake," Lucinda mutters. Somewhere outside a car backfires - all of us are on our feet - Lucinda leads the way out of the coffee shop, pushing aside the disgruntled manager. "Hey!" she shouts, strutting across the street towards a car parked at the curb. "Hey! Just what the hell do you think you're doing! That's my car!" The wind is whipping her billowing skirt as she approaches the car - pausing briefly to let another honking car pass between them. More than just our group starts to gather around - Lucinda is still shouting at the driver. The summer wind that whispers through the city carries her words, "Hey, buddy! Just what do you think you're doing!" She is close enough to yank open the drivers door and as she does so - someone splits from the crowd and runs out into traffic - causing a car to swerve and miss him. "No, wait!" August calls. She already has the door open before August reaches her. A body tumbles out of the driver's seat - dead. August drops to his knees to check for a pulse, while Lucinda takes a step backward, covering mouth. A few emergency whispers break out among the crowd - the remaining group that had sat around the coffee table hurried forward, including Barry and myself. "Who is this, Lucinda?" Barry questions. Lucinda just shakes her head. August's head snaps up at the sound of wailing sirens. As if she just snaps back into reality - Lucinda scoops down quickly and picks up off of the drivers seat a note. She shoves it down her blouse, saying to all of us, "Our cover is blown - we can't go tonight. Not a word to the bull, got it? Some freak tried to steal our car - someone else bumped him off. That's our story - no more details." her cool eyes land directly upon me. "Welcome to New York City, kid."