Prologue: Perchance to Dream

Dreams.

Her slender shoulders relaxed into the comfortably worn brown leather of the wide bucket seat inside ‘96 midnight black Jeep Cherokee, but her long, lithe body refused to release its pent up tension. Her smooth muscles were still clenched ready to service the split second demands of her reflexes. The painfully artic December air assaulted her senses, spreading over her the small pockets of exposed skin, settling on it, seeping its way right through her slightly olive-toned flesh and down into her bones. But, she didn’t mind being cold. She had survived worse. Cold winter weather was not going to stop her. Nothing ever did. Her alert, azure eyes were completely focused. There was a mission to complete.

She watched. It was what she did best. Trapping her mark within her unremitting gaze was the first step, and the hardest. After that part of it was done, it was only a matter of minimal effort and disappearing into the crowd, another faceless person. Back to the normalcy of what people referred to as real life. Not that she even knew what that felt like; the prospect of such a life having left her years earlier.

Her tired, tense body needed a nice long stretch. Her strong legs, hidden underneath sensibly thick black slacks, had been in the same position for a little over two hours. Her firm thigh muscles were beginning to ache, not mention her joints, her lower back, and, well, every other part of her body. The cold chill in the air was not helping, only adding to her increasing discomfort and her equally increasing foul mood. She shifted a bit back into the grooved seat and cursed when she felt the thousand little needles attack her lower area. Moving her body into a more comfortable position, she looked at her watch for the first time in over an hour. She rubbed her eyes and tried to relax again.

Her dark brow furrowed above the intense glare of her arctic, clear eyes which traveled a few feet away, across the dimly lit, quiet black concrete, three-laned, street known as Pitkin Avenue. The wide roadway was only three miles north of the dividing line between Brooklyn and Queens, and only ten miles away from Jamaica Bay.

She watched the four, large neatly embossed, glass doors as they shimmered in the severe, fluorescent street lights. The obnoxiously large, flashing red sign just above the awning read, GateView Hotel. The ‘l’ however was burned out, so it actually read “hote.” She wasn’t exactly sure what the “view” was supposed to be considering low brick and concrete buildings surrounded the establishment on all sides.

Sickly, brown potted plants, barely surviving one of the coldest winters in Northeast history, stood guard on either side of the doors, while a long discolored cherry red carpet assaulted the eyes and urged the guests to step inside. To finish off the look, rusty, faded brass handles spoke to the “cost effectiveness” of this centrally located establishment, a few exits from the crown jewel of New York City air traffic, JFK International Airport. They do always know how to pick ‘em, she thought to herself. She had seen local dives like this from here to Colorado, but each old, motel always had its own unique style. They always pretended to be something more than they were, with only marginal degrees of success.

Bono’s raspy voice ebbed into the light melody of The Edge’s guitar riffs which caused the vehicle to vibrate. The brass-horned orchestration filled the roomy interior of four door car, causing its single passenger to involuntarily tap her tapered fingers on the driver’s side arm rest. After only a few seconds of modest, wistful indulgence, she turned the radio dial toward the higher frequencies as she absently muttered, “No angels here, Bono.” Her alerted consciousness finally settling on the more sedate, soothing sounds of soft strings. She leaned back fully into the driver’s seat leather as her sapphire eyes resumed their hunt.

Dusk had finally settled over the city. A light fog rolled overhead blocking any possibility of seeing the sky this night. Not that there would be really much to see. She remembered looking skyward often as a child and wondering why there was nothing but unbreakable black on a clear night; nothing like those star-filled skies she saw in movies.

Here it was twenty years later, looking up into the same unforgiving sky she thought she left behind, and she had yet to see a single star. She wondered if New Yorkers even knew what they were missing. It wasn’t until she moved to a small suburb just outside of Boston a few days shy of her eighth birthday when she saw her first geninue star. New Yorkers were lucky if they saw one or two stars burn through the thick layer pollution in the upper atmosphere. Those stars were special. They were fighters; their light pushing away everything in their path, just like most people walking around on the ground below.

Smiling at her own use of such a lame metaphor, she looked out toward the horizon. There was just enough visibility to see the sky gradually take on cerise hue which seemed to signal the arrival of a coming snow shower. The weatherman had promised a few inches on the ground by early morning.

She couldn’t remember that last time she had seen snow fall. It had to have been over a years, maybe longer. She had managed to avoid the winter’s cold until she had decided to pay a visit to the Big Apple. She had not been here since before... before... in a long time. A strong gust of wind moved such thoughts out of her mind. She did not like to think about what was. A trip down memory lane always did leave her feeling a bit hollow. Come to think about it, she really didn’t like to think about the future either. No one ever has any idea what the next minute of their lives had in store. She knew from personal experience that life always had a way of surprising you, completely side-swiping you with something you could never have expected. Instead, she found herself always living in a prepetual present. Her life consisted of the next breath, the next heartbeat. And if that didn’t come, she knew she wouldn’t fight it. The low-lying, gray clouds blew westward across the small pockets of visible, red horizon as the arctic air settled in for the long night.

Exhaling sharply, she flinched when she saw a cloud of white vapor escape her mouth. Her fingers had grown numb from the chilled air inside the car having turned off the engine more than half an hour ago when she realized she had less than a tank-full to get her back into the city. She curled her hands into tight fists within her cashmere-lined, chestnut coat pockets hoping that she would get some feeling back in their tips soon. The smoothing sounds of Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, K were replaced by a soft spoken disk jockey stating the obvious, the temperature was just below freezing. She rolled her eyes and let her head fall against the slightly fogged up glass of the driver’s side window. Wiping away the excess mist with her coat sleeve, she immediately sat up. Locking her eyes on the solitary figure, a slow smile involuntarily danced across her face.

A round man with a receding hairline, red ears, and short legs clad in black slacks stood just outside the Hotel’s entrance. His long tweed coat hung just above his ankles emphasizing his small stature. He took one last puff of a thick cigar before his lungs let out a deep, sickening cough. He stomped the remaining ambers out with his booted foot. Carrying one large suitcase and a silver-plated briefcase, which shimmered in the harsh flood lights of the hotel’s vestibule, the man casually looked around the outskirts of the establishment, and then more cautiously toward its immediate surroundings. The quiet, darkened streets seemed to calm his trepidation. With no one in the proximate vicinity, he pushed the glass door open with his backside, his body finding much needed relief from the cold winter evening.

Trapped, she thought to herself.

The hard part over over.

And now, she had to get ready.

The hotel lobby was bathed in soft white light, emphasizing the walls decorated with cream flowered wallpaper. The ruby carpeted floors looked to be in better condition then the carpet outside. A glistening glass chandelier hung just above the slick, black front desk adding a certain aura of refinement to the establishment. The lobby was populated by older people in brown and black sweaters playing cards and assorted board games on red, sloped sofas adjacent to a long line of darkly tinned windows, while an instrumental version of “On Broadway” played over the PA system. The hotel hummed with activity. Casual conversation populated pockets of the floor as stray whispers and muffled laughter moved through the air. The hotel was full of life.

Shifting his body weight from one foot to the other, the small man anxiously waited for his reservations to be called up on the hotel’s computer. So preoccupied with the moments of waiting, he barely noticed the tall, lone figure vaguely out of place now seated on a maroon loveseat casually thumbing through a three-day old newspaper. He had no idea he was being watched.

A pair of blue eyes took every insignficant movement into account, looking for anything that might be used to her advantage. She noticed the way he seemed to favor his left side rather than his right. A slight bump was visible just above the waistband of his black trousers. Judging from its shape, she knew it had to be a small caliber revolver. Couldn’t be more than .33. Six chambered probably. Definitely not automatic. His dark eyes focused for a moment above his head before the desk attendent’s voice spoke clearly above the noise of her surroundings.

“Yes, Mr. Roberts. Non-smoking double bed deluxe.” He was about to protest the non-smoking part, but he was too concerned about disappearing into the privacy of his room, away from the watchful eye of security cameras. The last thing he needed was to have his picture taken. He just wanted to disappear. One more day and I’m home free, he thought to himself. The young woman’s pleasant voice called him back from such thoughts. “That will be room 219, sir. Take the left elevator bank up one flight and hang a left. It’s the first door.” A chipper young woman with light blond hair pulled back into a sensibly pony tail pointed toward the elevators before handing the short man the small room key.

“When’s checkout,” the man asked in a low, hoarse voice damaged from years of his three-pack-a-day habit.

“12 p.m., sir. If there is anything more I can help you with, please don’t hesitate to call the front desk.”

The man simply nodded, a bit annoyed by the woman’s pleasant, all-too sickening tone, but he shrugged off the feeling and made his way toward the left elevator bank. Pressing the ‘UP’ button repeatedly, he was about to take the stairway when the elevator doors opened with a decisive ding.

She watched. Room 219. She folded the Daily News back in half throwing it causally onto to a black marble imitation coffee table. She leaned back against the soft cushions of the loveseat trying to appear as “in place” as possible. She had to think. Her blue eyes glanced upward for surveillance cameras she knew were there. She only noticed one directly behind the front desk. Because of its odd angle, the camera’s range was probably no more than a few feet in front of the desk. The front desk attendant fumbled with random pieces of paper before letting loose an irritated sigh as the phone rang. Piece of cake, she thought to herself as she walked to the elevator bank and pressed the up button.

===========================

“I wasn’t going to take any chances. His goons are everywhere.” Although the sign above his head clearly said in big red letters “THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING,” the man held a Winston cigarette in between his short, fat fingers casually flicking the excess ash of its orange tip into a plastic cup provided by the hotel. “It’s not your ass that is on the line, here. You have no idea what that sick fuck is capable of. I shouldn’t even be doing this...” He paused to let a long, exasperated breath escape his thin lips before taking another drag of the cigarette. The smoke escaped out of the side of his mouth a few moments later before he continued to talk. “Just remember our deal. That’s all. I’ve got what you need to put that goddamn son of bitch in jail for about twenty fucking lifetimes. That mother-fucker just screwed over the wrong guy.... Tomorrow. 2pm.” He nodded stamping out the cigarette in the make-shift ash tray before fishing into the crumpled white packet for another cigarette. “Yeah, I’ll be there. I wanna disappear. Some place warm. Hawaii maybe. I’ve never been there.” He lit the cigarette and quickly inhaled satisfying his body’s almost innate, constant nicotine craving. “No. No excuses just make it happen. I know what you fucking feds are capable of. Listen, if you want this. If you want the Czar, you’d better ...now..” he grinned, “that’s what I like to hear.” He hung up before taking another, long drag of his third cigarette in fifteen minutes.

Lying back on the lumpy, but wide double bed, he reached into his breast pocket and removed the last cigarette from the rumpled packet. Even though he still had one lit, he knew he would have to venture down to the lobby to get a fresh pack before the night was out. Cursing, he threw the empty container on the floor before leaning back and putting the cigarette back between his lips. The man then leaned over one last time and dialed nine on the phone. “Yeah, room service. Can you send up something light? I don’t know. You got roast beef sandwiches. Okay and a light beer. Room 219. Thanks.”

Closing his tired, chestnut eyes, he thought about all he was leaving behind. The life he had built over the course of almost fifteen years. Oh, who are you shitting? Your wife is cheating on you, your kids could give a fuck if you ever came back. Fuck, even the dog hates you. Loosening his blue necktie, he kicked off his old winter boots which landed on the stained tanned carpet by the foot of the bed with a thud. The noise has a strangely comforting effecting. He knew in a few short hours the last thing he would be needing was heavy boots. He settled more comfortably into the bed taking a final long drag of his cigarette. Thoughts of white, sandy beaches mixed with a fair dose of beautifully bikinied woman eased him into a peacefuly slumber.

The comforting silence of sleep was broken what it seemed like a few moments after he closed his eyes. His ears faintly registered a loud knock at the door. He looked at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. He had been out for almost twenty minutes. His sandwich. He had completely forgotten about it. Rubbing his blurred eyes, he staggered from the wide, double bed grabbing a rolled up wad of cash from the room’s desk. Anxiety getting the better of him, he wondered... “Who’s there,” he called straightening out his thining, dark hair in the long vanity mirror just above the small wooden desk.

“Mr. Roberts. Room service, sir. Sandwich and a beer,” the loud, clear voice called from just beyond the white door.

Remembering that his small caliber, black revolver was prominently displayed on the neatly made bed next to him, he unlocked the hotel door’s heavy chain latch and turned around to remove the offending piece from sight. “Come in. Door’s open.” Tucking the weapon into his waistband, an alarm bell went off in his head when he heard the hotel door click closed.

“Oh, Frank. Thought you’d be smarter than that. Not even checking through the peephole. Pretty fucking stupid. I would think a man on the run would have more sense than that.” The cool, calm female voice held a tinge of amusement hidden underneath its matter-of-fact tone.

It’s now or never, Frank thought to himself as he quickly removed the weapon from his waistband and turned to face his attacker. His attacker had other plans. Long fingers held his arm like a iron vise stopping its forward motion. The other hand latched on to Frank’s forearm. Her slender thumb pressed powerfully between the bone of his arm. Frank struggled, but his hand seemed to magically loose its grip on the gun. The strong hand then jerked his wrist violently backwards. The gun fell to the floor as a loud scream was silenced by an immediate, solid punch to the face. Then, the tall, slender assailant grabbed the front of his shirt and delivered a hard knee to his stomach and two headbutts to his forehead and nose. Frank fell back onto the bed holding his nose and cradling his broken wrist tightly against his chest. He could feel the unmistakable crunch of broken bone as air struggled to get through his nostrils.

Calmly and causally, his attacker bent down to pick up the disguarded revolver unphased by the carnage she had just caused her victim. With a precise flick of her wrist, she opened the gun’s chamber. Fully loaded with six bullets, she noted. “You fucking bitch...my nose. My nose.” A slight raise of her dark eyebrow was the only sign she was even paying attention to his rantings. She stretched to her full height and grabbed his bloody shirt again tossing him harshly against the wall.

“Choose you words wisely, Frank. They could be your last.” She wrapped her long, slender fingers around his thick neck pushing them ever so slightly against his windpipe. She continued to tighten her hold until it was clear he was going to pass out. She let go as he slid down the wall coughing.

Looking at his attacker for the first time in the dim light of his room, something within him knew he was dead. Her shoulder length brown hair framed her almond-shaped face, but it was her arctic blue eyes that sent chills down his spine. They were squarely leveled at him, looking right through him. Who could have known behind those classical beautiful features, there was the mind of a cold, calculating assassin. The Czar did always hire the best. His eyes travelled to her hands. Encased in midnight black leather gloves, they wrapped themselves around his revolver. He knew his life, like his gun, was in her hands.

Wearing casual, black slacks and a dark brown jacket, she looked like the picture of passivity, but her eyes held the key to her motives, a window to her darker soul. A frightening scowl played across her lips daring him to fight back. The coldness he found within her unmerciful glare made him shudder. It was probably the last sight a lot of people saw before meeting their maker.

“Now, if you play this right Frank and you might just walk outta here alive. You got me,” she hissed out between her clenched jaw. He nodded in understanding before she unceremoniously jerked him up by his necktie. Pinning him against the wall with her powerful forearm, she searched him quickly for any more weapons before aiming the gun between his eyes. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what,” he said innocently.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Frank,” she said harshly, spitting out each word with a frightening degree of menace. She waited for a response, but when none was readily forecoming, she slapped him hard across the face with the butt of the gun. “Where... is... it,” she emphasized each word with a slight shake of the barrel. “Don’t make me ask again.”

Cowering against the wall, his palms flat against its warm surface, Frank knew one thing for sure, there was little chance he would make it out of this situation alive no matter what this fucking cunt said. He wasn’t about to be very forthcoming with information if he knew there would be little in it for him. “Why the fuck should I tell you, you fucking bitch?” he said with more confidence than he actually possessed. The intense pain emanating from the bridge of his nose made it diffcult to breath. “You’re going to kill me anyway. Might as well make you work for whatever that low-life, cock-sucker’s paying you.” He smiled. He knew his life was safe if he still possessed what she was looking for.

Her lips curled into a sinister grin. She slapped him again with her free hand, the leather stinging just as much as the steel. She wrapped her strong hands around his throat closing off his air way once again. He was beginning to gag. The taste of his own blood running into his mouth from several cuts on his face only added to unpleasantness. “Oh, a smart guy, huh? I think you have all the answers. I could kill you right now. I know where it is. I know.” His round face turned a slight shade of blue before she let go.

But, she wasn’t done with him yet. Killing him now would be too easy, and hardly as much fun. She wanted to see him break down, knowing his life was about to end, begging for it. She always did like to see them beg as if they could reach her, appeal to a side that had long since died.

She moved the gun underneath his chin making sure to trap him within her sight. The cold steel against his skin could not stop the flow of sweat which ran down his temples. She knew this was the first step toward his realization... the moments of his life were drawing to a close. “Sure, you’re going to die. But there’s the easy way,” she said softly. She cocked the gun. Frank flinched and closed his eyes silently uttering a desperate prayer to a God he stopped believing in long ago.

He opened his eyes when he realized her fingers has not squeezed the trigger. She smiled. Then, without warning and with efficiency of movement, she thrusted a hard knee upward straight into his groin. Sliding down the wall, Frank cupped his injured area as he desperately gasped for air. “Or there’s the hard way. Just imagine two bullets right where you are feelin’ it right now. Gotta imagine that would hurt. If the shock didn’t kill you, the loss of blood sure would.”

Frank took a deep breath trying to calm the overwhelming pain settling into his body. He wiped the steady stream of blood making its way down his cheeks and nose. He spit up some warm blood which had managed to find its way into his mouth. He looked up to see the tall woman smiling over him. He knew she could make his remaining time on this Earth very painful. She seemed to be enjoying herself. “The briefcase,” he managed to get out before the pain in his groin returned. “Everything’s there. There’s a bank card in there too. I’ve got about three hundred fifty thousand saved up. Take it. It’s yours.” On to step two, she thought to herself, bargining. “Just leave me. I’ll disappear. No one will have to know.”

She had heard it all. Most people offered her money, jewelry and cars, but she was never swayed. She had a job to do and nothing had ever gotten in the way of her performing her duty. “Money means nothing to me right now.”

“Take it,” he pleaded. “Take it. I’ve got two more accounts just like it. You can have those too.”

Lowering the revolver, she walked over to the chrone-plated case he had pointed to. Immediately, however, she motioned from him to get up. “Open it,” she commanded before slowly backing away from the bed. “Let’s see if you’re at least smart enough to tell the truth.” She could sense his fear. And she knew, he was telling the truth. But this display of power was all part of the fun. His death, like all those who came before, was about power and control.

Her hand slowly removed a small metal piece from her coat pocket. Glancing down at the contents of the briefcase, she knew she had what she wanted. There was only one thing left to do. Her fingers brought the piece toward the barrel of the gun. In a slow, delibrate manner, she screwed the black silencer to the outside rim of the gun.

Frank heard the silencer screwed into place. He closed his eyes hoping to stop the tears which began to form in his eyes. He knew his life was over. His mind flashed to his two kids and his wife. Frank wiped the tears from his eyes and held up a single zip disk in a protective, clear case. “This is it. This is what that fucking bastard is willing to kill me for. I’ve got enough evidence... records, documents of his fucking drug rings, arms dealing, all his contacts... everything.” He swallowed. “But that’s it. That’s all of it.”

Frank tossed the disk onto the bed and looked at the brown-haired woman still aiming the gun at him. “I just wanted you to know why he wants me dead. I can bring him down with this. An entire crime empire busted by information on one disk.” Frank knew his pleas were falling on deaf ears, however. She took slow, deliberate steps toward him.

Suddenly, Frank dropped to the ground. “Please. I don’t wanna die. Please! I’m a human being. You can’t just kill me and not feel it.” Frank looked into her ice, blue eyes and for a moment, he saw something within them, like a veil had been lifted. A warmth seemed to radiate through in those brief seconds. But the moment quickly passed. “NOOO!!!”

She did enjoy this moment.

Cocking the gun before another loud, piercing scream could pass his thin, dry lips, she squeezed the trigger. It was always this simple. The first chamber unloaded, the bullet making a high-pitched whizzing noise as it passed from the barrel through the silencer. Then, the kick-back, the gun jerking back violently from the force of the discharge. Anyone untrained would have lost their target, but not her. The kick-back was part of the fun. The feeling filled her for that instant. Again. The second bullet pierced the skin above the first. She closed her eyes as she heard the last bullet enter his skull. Then, glorious silence.

Blood poured from the dimed-sized wounds in his skull turning a deep, crimson as it flowed down his face staining the light, tan carpet in the cramped motel room. Finally, after a few moments, he slumped forward. His final facial expression blending into all the others that came before, all the others she had killed. He was faceless now.

She swallowed hard.

Snapping the silencer off, she took a blanket from the adjacent bed and wiped the gun clean. She carefully placed the revolver in Frank’s hands throwing the blanket over his head. She paused to look at his body. She had grown numb to the sight of death. She had seen it too many times before. It formed her, shaped her. It gave her life a purpose and gave her an identity. She was death. Tossing the disk into the briefcase, she clicked it closed. She turned on her heels and walked out of the small motel room.

Her long legs took hurried, steady strides towards the stairway at the end of the long corridor. Her boots made little noise along the red carpet. Finally reaching the heavy metal door, she cautiously entered and looked up and down the dimly lit, grey stairway. Breathing a small sigh of relief, she grabbed hold of the top of her hair and pulled back. The light brown wig gave way to flowing dark mane of straight, black hair landing haphazardly around her face. Running her fingers through it, she managed to make it look halfway presentable. She then quickly slipped off her tan jacket. In one swift motion, she turned her jacket inside out revealing a fashionable leather jacket. She shoved the hair piece within the inside pocket and removed a pair of wide rimmed, black glasses from the other pocket. It was truly amazing how a pair of glasses could change someone’s appearance. One could never be too careful with being recognized. She had to be faceless. Her job depended on it.

Her winter boots caused loud thuds to echo throughout the stairway. She was relieved when she opened the door into the still bustling lobby. Walking at a steady pace, she adjusted her course towards the hotel’s front entrance to avoid a young man with a tray waiting near the left elevator bank. She knew they would probably discovery the body soon. Crossing past the front desk, she scratched the side of her face and hoped she was out of completely view of the security camera.

Finally stepping out into the night, into the darkness, she looked down at the small briefcase. Bring down an empire, she thought. She walked toward her car, her pace now a bit more relaxed. She had to tell her employer. She was successful.

===========================

A little passed one o’clock in the morning, a few stray snowflakes began to fall, blowing eastward with the strong, whistling wind. Driving on the four-laned Long Island Expressway, the overhead, electronic signs cautioned motorists of the on-coming harzardous road conditions. The speed limit was reduced to forty-five miles an hour. Looking down at her speedometer lit a translucent green, she saw she was doing sixty-five. Easing up a bit on the gas, she watched, through the dim orange lights of the highway, as the snow became steadier. Turning on her windshield wipers, she sighed as her eyes happen to glance down at the briefcase resting comfortably in the passenger seat.

She had called him on her cell phone as soon as she had put a safe ten miles between herself and the hotel. The job had been done, she told him, but more importantly, she had what he had wanted. He was geninuely pleased. She hadn’t expected him to request prompt delivery of the item, however. She had no other choice but to comply. After all, he was paying her. And no one ever said “no” to him if they wanted to live to see another day. She agreed.

With the snowfall increasing, she found herself slowing down as visibility became hampered. She almost missed the exit marked “Old Town/Westbury” and had to cross two lines of traffic, but luckily, there weren’t too many people on the road.

Large pine trees lined the darkly lit road through the middle of town. It was quiet. The snow sending most inside. Although, she doubted Westbury was much of a party town to begin with. About two miles outside of main street, the lights became few and far between. Finally, she caught sight of the long, paved road which marked the entrance to Roberto Salazar’s property. The road, unmarked and barely visible in the pitch black night, was meant to be missed by anyone who was not specificially headed toward Salazar’s home. It was private. To call his residance a home, however, would be a massive understatement. It was an estate. Only a few houses populated a more than one hundred acre area, like a piece of untouched wilderness conveniently and deliberately placed a few miles from the city.

For Salazar, the location could not be more ideal. Away from the prying eyes of inner-city neighbors, but still close enough to run his operation efficiently and quietly. Salazar, known as “the Czar” by friends and foes alike, had quite an operation indeed. At only thirty-two, Salazar had more power and influence than most men his age. Living by only one rule, kill them before they kill you, Salazar was able to wipe out his competition gaining a full monoply over the inner city drug and gun industry.

Unlike most crime bosses in the city, Salazar didn’t inherit his power, he earned it, fought for it. Starting as a criminal himself in the Raveswood Projects in the Northern section of the Queens, Salazar rose through the ranks of a local gang becoming their leader before he was sixteen years old. Salazar made his money during the eighties when crack, a less expense drug to procure than heroine or cocaine, was king in the inner city neighbors. From these profits, he expanded his operation to included gun-running and prositution. By age twenty-one, Salazar was a millionaire. In 1993, he opened his first legitmate business venture, a bar called The Tunnel near the Westside Highway. Once that endeavor proved successful, a number of legitmate businesses soon followed, including a resturant, a three of parking garages and a few luxury apartment complexes. But, Salazar’s elicit operations continued and were still his main sources of income. From drugs to guns to women, Salazar had his hands in every single vice a person could enjoy. If you had the money to buy, Salazar had the means to provide. His empire seemed to grow daily, infesting all parts of the city like a disease, from the petty thief on the local neighborhood street corner to the highest levels of municipal power. He owned New York City.

She had heard about him before she arrived. His reputation as a ruthless, intelligent business man and sick killer was already the stuff of urban legend. It was said that he had four business partners, who had been stealing thousands from him yearly, decapitated and buried beneath the concrete foundation of his nightclub. With such a reputation for handling betrayal “in-house,” so to speak, she was surprised he would call upon her services. His influence was now stretching beyond the limits of the city and finding its way to most major urban areas within a three hundred mile radius. The Czar had big dreams of taking over the world, and he was drawing closer to his goal, one street corner at a time.

Normally, she hated to deal with his type who thought once they hired you, they owned you, body and soul, opting instead to act as problem solver for people of lower standards of living, small-time kingpins who knew more about money than murder, the occassional dissatisfied wife who thought her husband was standing in the way between her and true happiness, but his inital offer was enough to leave her financially sound for more than a year.

She was growing weary of the game. The hunt was not as fulfilling as it used to be. A growing part of her wanted to get out. She wanted to just disappear somewhere far away, in the mountains maybe, where she could live the rest of her life in peace and quiet, in complete glorious silence. Of course, she had been wanting to do this for more than two years. Something always brought her back, however. The promise of the Czar’s hefty pay-day was enough of a lure. She swallowed her pride and took the money.

Her dark, dented jeep slowly approached the wrought iron gate which surrounded the main house on all sides. Her shimmering headlights caught sight of a tall, muscled man in a long gray coat standing just in front of the slightly ajar gate. He talked on a black walkie-talkie before waving her forward. A small smile crept across his lips as she drove passed him. Once inside the gate, she could see the white stucco facade of the three story town house a few yards ahead. Lights illuminated the front porch while harsh, white flood lights made the sides of the large structure glow. The threat of darkness was virtually eliminated. There was no place to hide.

A thin layer of perfectly packed white snow added a certain level of charm to the still impossing structure. The long paved driveway was mysteriously free from snow. She saw another man in a suit approach. Grabbing the briefcase, she let the short stranger open her car door. In a slight accent she couldn’t place, he said, “Mr. Salazar has been expecting you. Please follow me.”

She watched as he ascended the concrete stairs and followed closely behind. Her senses were on high alert. There was a certain level of threat. She was on his turf now. He could easily double cross her. killing her instead of delivering on the money promised. She had an small advantage however. She knew not to let her guard down for even a second. Her senses served her well. Even in the darkness, she registered the armed guards watching her from somewhere beyond the tree line. She felt their eyes take every inch of her in. She cast a strong glance towards them hoping they would get the message that she knew they were there. She clutched the suitcase as she was lead inside the house, past the darkened living room and into a corner office complete with large bookcases, a nice maghony desk and a state of the art computer system.

Two large men in Italian tailored black suits stood on each side of the desk eyeing her eagerly, their large arms crossed in front of them like mighty justices ready to pass judgment. From their stern glares, it looked like they were ready to send her to the gas chamber. No fear, she repeated to herself. Her fingertips tingled for a few moments. She knew then the mask had settled on her face. At least that’s what she liked to call it. She sucked in her cheeks which emphasized her highly refined bone structure. There was a slight curl to her upper lip and her eyes became clear and cold. She crossed her arms over her chest in a direct imitation of the two men before her and shift her weight onto one side of her body. It was a direct challenge to their equally direct gazes. She lifted her right eyebrow as if to say “Well, what are you looking at!” Both men then transferred their gazes to the wooden floor. She cleared her throat, a slight smile washed over her lips... “I thought so!”

The small man whom she had followed looked at her, but averted his eyes when she moved her eyes over his frame. After a few moments of silence, which seemed to last longer, his accented voice requested, “Weapons.” Only adding a low “please” after he caught sight of the unpleasant look now painted over her features. She knew the protocol in these situations. The Czar seemed to have an infinity for mind games; something she had no trouble relating to. It wasn’t enough that you knew he was well protected. He wanted to emphasize the point by removing your only means of defense, stripping down your confidence and sense of power. He wanted to make you feel inferior in his presence.

After a few moments of hestiation, she slowly reached into her slightly open jacket and took out her lucid weapon, a silver semi-automatic glock .45. She let the gun rest comfortably in her hands, her finger lightly touching the trigger, but instead of promptly sendering the weapon over into the man’s awaiting hands, she merely released the magazine clip letting it fall on the hard wood floor with a thud. With a satisfied smile, she gracefully put the weapon back in its protective holster. The short man groaned as he bent down to remove the bullets from the ground. She wasn’t about to let any man make her feel inferior.

Suddenly, a calm, loud voice came from behind the desk. “I believe the lady would like to keep her weapon. I think she had earned the right to do so.” Roberto turned around in his high, black leather chair. His dark eyes never wavering from her tall form, he said, “leave us. Now.” His guards eyed the dark-haired woman as they exited the study quietly closing the double, wooden doors.

Dressed in neatly pressed navy slacks and a dark silk shirt, Roberto looked the part of a successful business man, a wall street type who populated downtown Manhattan. His short black hair, combed towards the front, his deeply set brown eyes, and his slightly darkened skin betrayed his latin hertiage. Rising from his chair, his lean frame held an air of absolute confidence that would make a lesser man yield, but she stood, exuding her own aura of supremacy, unconsciously straightening her back and stretching to her full height, almost six feet. His dark brown eyes seemed to flow over before finally settling on the briefcase. “I trust you have what I want,” his voice low, almost a seductive whisper, and clearly articulate. Despite his low class beginnings, Roberto had obviously had some high-brow education.

“That was the deal wasn’t it,” she countered, her silky voice taking on a slight tinge of annoyance for making her venture out at such a late hour.

“Yes. Yes, it was. But with so many people betraying me these days, I’ve gotten into the habit of asking questions rather than assuming.” He smiled, his fingers playing with a gold ring on his left hand as he leaned back against his desk.

“Is that why you hired me? Not sure your boys could get the job done?” She cocked her head towards the door. She knew they were probably right outside listening to every word she was saying.

“I would prefer that my men kept their noses clean right now. It seems the Feds have opened an investigation on my...operations.” Roberto crossed his arms and smiled. “They’ll find nothing. I’m sure. But, I didn’t get ahead in this business by being careless. The last thing I need is one of my men getting busted for murder one. That would be bad for business.” He motioned for her to follow him. He lead her to a pair of loveseats in the corner by the large bookcases. The leather loveseats matching the leather of his high chair. “Please. Have a seat.” Slowly, she sank into the soft, black leather of one of the sofas, her hands still gripping the briefcase. Separated by a rectanglar, glass coffee table, he sat on the other sofa. “Besides, you came to me very highly recommended.” He paused and curled his lip to one side. “But I took the liberty of investigating you.”

“Of course,” she replied flatly. She hadn’t expected otherwise.

“You have no criminal history. But I suspect, the name you are going by these days wasn’t the name you were given at birth.” He smiled, his thin lips holding an amusement that did not spread to the rest of this face. “Still. Judging by the way you handled yourself in this job, I know you probably have years of experience. My contact, the man you recommended you, said you get the job done quick. But this...this is faster than I even anticipated.”

“No sense in wasting my time... or yours.” She said matching him glance per glance.

He nodded. He paused as he leaned over towards a small, maghony end table which matched the wood of the desk and of the floor. He poured himself a glass of liquor from a crystal bottle. The liquid was a dark brown. Scotch, she suspected. “But you are right about one thing. My men could have never found him in such a short amount of time. Frank was always rather slippery.” He said the name with apparent disgust. Letting the liquor splash around in his glass, Roberto looked up at her, his eyes filled with hint of respect. “Yet, it only took you a little over three days.. To say, I’m impressed would be an insult to your talents.”

“I’m good at what I do,” she said simply.

“I’m beginning to notice. Can I interest you in a drink?”

“I don’t drink...alcohol,” she said firmly hoping that this little conversation wasn’t leading toward a lame seduction attempt.

“Of course. Clouds the mind. Very well. Water perhaps.” Before she could respond, he pressed a button on a small intercom box resting near his side of the glass coffee table. “The lady would like some water.” A voice quickly answered, “right away.” He took a small sip of the brown liquid as he leaned back against the soft cushions. “Frank was a very ambitious man. It seems my trusted financial advisor of over seven years was stealing quite a sum of money from me. May I?” he asked reaching for the briefcase. She handed it over to him. Her eyes followed his every movement. She knew now that he had what he wanted, he could every easily take out a .35 and end her existence. Placing the case on the coffeetable, he opened it. His eyes lit up when he caught sight of the zip disk. “But if that weren’t enough, he also stole valuable information from me.” His hands firmly gripped the plastic covering. “This could have brought down my empire. Technology.” Roberto placed the compact disk into his breast pocket. “Loyality is so hard to find these days.”

“In my experience, loyality always has a price,” she crossed her long legs and let her arms settle along the sofa’s cushions.

Roberto nodded. He moved his hand toward the endtable draw. She shifted a bit. Her fingers finding the handle the buoy knife she kept strapped to her right wrist for those ocassions when her .45 was just out of reach.

Roberto sensed her movement, but continued to reach for the draw. His fingers fished blindly through the draw for a moment before he pulled out a stack of fresh one-hundred dollar bills. He tossed it across the table. She caught it effortlessly with her left hand. “Evidently, I know your price.” He smiled and leaned back comfortably into the cushions. “A bonus for getting the job done so quickly.”

She ran her fingers over the crisp, new bills before tucking them into her pocket. Leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, she watched as he took another sip of his drink. He eyed her from above the glass’rim. This made her a little uneasy. He oozed charm the way a snake oozed venom with probably the same result. It looked like she was his intended victim. She knew this kind of seduction probably worked on a lot of women, but she had been through too much to let it work on her.

His dark red lips curled into a confident, one-sided smile as he leaned forward and assumed the same position as she held on the other side of the couch. “As promised, payment will be made in full first thing tomorrow morning. To the account you specified,” he added with a moment of hestiation.

The short man in the gray suit walked into the room carefully cupping a tall glass of water in his hands. He delicately settled it on the coffee table and looked towards Roberto. With a slight cock of his head, the man knew his place was still outside the study. The short man nodded and exited quietly the same way he entered.

“I have to say. It is very unusual. A very beautiful woman as a hired assassin,” Roberto seemed to wonder aloud. “But I guess that’s your advantage. Men are too overwhelmed by those baby blues to think about anything else.”

She held back the need to roll her eyes. Instead she calmy replied, “My abilities speak for themselves. If I wasn’t good, I would be dead or in jail now. I’m not doing this to change anyone’s minds or further the woman’s movement if that’s what you are getting at.”

“No. Not at all. I just find it interesting that’s all.”

“Well, don’t,” she said curtly. “I don’t like when men get interested. Especially powerful men who can make my life a living hell if the interest itself mutual.”

“Okay.” He leaned back and put up his arms as if defeated. “Point taken. I was just admiring your abilities.”

“I’m not to be admired.” She added softly, “It’s just what I do.”

Roberto glanced over to the dark window which now showed the beginnings of a winter wonderland. What started as a small snow storm was beginning to turn into a bizzard. Snow wiped around outside as the strong wind seemed to howl and whistle in the dark night. “I do believe we are getting a nice sized storm.” He rose from the sofa. “The roads must be bad. You are welcome to stay here for the ...”

She rose from the sofa as she crossed her arms. “I like to sleep in my own bed...alone. But thanks for the offer. I think I’ll head out if my business here is done.”

“Will you be in town long? I might require your services again.”

“You know how to contact me,” she said walking toward the wooden, double doors. “I’ll be....around.”

“Be careful. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to one of my new and trusted associates.” He walked her to the front door. “Jimmy,” he called over his shoulder, his eyes still not letting her free from his vision prison, “I believe the lady would like her bullets back.”

Jimmy appeared moments later, handing her the clip. He nodded slightly, but his eyes held a hint of contempt. Immediately, she placed the rounds back into her gun, feeling suddenly complete again as she slammed the rounds back into place with her flat palm. “Much better,” she muttered as she turned up her collar and exited the white house.

The winter storm eased up to mere dancing flakes across her tinted windshield as she pulled out of the snow-blanketed parking lot behind Jackson’s Hole Diner just off the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Dawn was about to break. Looking at the digital clock inside her car, it read 6:58 am. It looked to be a cold, grey Thursday morning.

It had taken her more than three hours to drive less than ten miles in the blinding bizzard of the early morning hours. She decided to pull into the twenty-four hour diner, get something to eat and wait out the storm. She never did get much sleep after completing a job anyway.

Two warm cups of tea, some eggs and hash browns eased her off the adrenaline high that came after a hit. She had decided long ago that her job took the place of her more internally damning, deadly addictions. For a long time, she was a slave to her need to score. She loved the absolute high of heroin. But now, instead of drawing the pain in and keeping it strictly interiorized through a needle, literally in her blood, she was able to unleash it in one, solditary violent moment. Her pain now marked itself on another person, killing them. Whether it was murder or drugs, they all served the same purpose. They helped her to forget. They eased the pain, but each eventually failing in all respects. The past was always waiting for her, whether in memory or in dreams. But she never thought about this too much. Denial was the only relief and the only possible cure. As long as she thought something helped, she would continue to do it.

She escaped the mad rush of rush hour traffic by a mere twenty minutes. The Upper Level of the Fifty-Ninth Street bridge was quietly clear as she moved at a steady sixty miles an hour across its span. The grey clouds loomed over the tall, city skyscrapers. The Empire State Building disappeared beneath its dark, depressing covering. The sun, however, was starting to burn away clouds toward the south as the Twin Towers glimmered in their full height, marking the tip of Manhattan isle, Battery Park.

She remembered riding across this bridge as a child. The New York City skyline always shined welcomingly at night. She always thought that the truly spectacular sight beat seeing a bunch of stars in the sky any day. She smiled at the memory. It was one of the few things she remembered fondly about New York. She rolled down the windows and let some of the cool breeze coming off the river to enter her lungs. This was as clear as air would be in Manhattan.

Parking her car a few blocks away from her small three story brownstone, she walked through the still quiet streets of Manhattan. The decent, hardworking folks were waking up to the smell of brewing coffee. The dealers, criminals, junkies and hookers were retreating back into their holes awaiting the safety the night provided. She wondered what category she would place herself in.

The snow storm had left the urban streets blanketed in fluffy white. The trees hung down, weighed down by the snow. The streets had only a few tracks. It had yet to be disturbed by bustling commuters. In a few hours, the snow would turn black and begin to melt. Thus was the fate of what was now a perfect picture postcard.

She stopped at a corner deli and picked up some food for the coming week. She didn’t have to buy much since she hardly ever ate at home. A carton of eggs, a gallon of milk, some fresh cold cuts and some bread were what she walked out of the store with. Waiting at a stop light, she causally put her free hand inside of her jacket, her senstitive fingers brushed lightly against the cool steel of her gun. She had to be sure the safety was on. The people standing around her didn’t notice nor did they seem to care.

Fishing her keys from her jacket pocket, she ran up the steep stairs of the brownstone and opened the black security door. The building was old and therefore the rent was relatively inexpensive by Manhattan standards. The old brownstones were originally one family homes, but once those families moved away during the suburban boom of the fifties, the houses were converted into apartments, each floor now equipped with a modest kitchen and bath and two small rooms. She had the top floor. Not that she had much time to appreciate the history in the house nor the comfort of her cozy, cheap apartment. She had only been in the city less than a month and her thoughts had been otherwise engaged.

Closing the front door quietly, she took her copy of the New York Times waiting for her against the radiator near the mailboxes just beyond the small hallway of the entrance. She glanced the front page headline and the full color picture. More news of desperation and heartache from the refugees in the Baltic region. NATO was planning more air strikes. Slightly unnerved by the memories the pictures and words produced, she folded the thick pages and placed it inside the grocery bag.

She looked up the wide, wooden staircase and saw a small orange cat eyeing her curiously from midway up the stairs. She smiled as the small creature “meowed” at her approach.

“Hey boy,” she cooed unguarded knowing no one was around to watch her. She rubbed the soft fur between the cats ears and slowly picked him up with her free hand. “I’m sure Jenna’s wondering where you are,” she whispered into the cat’s small ears.

She turned the corner when she reached the top of the stairs. The cat had found a nice, warm home against her chest meowing again to emphasize its comfort. Before she could knock on the wooden door marked 2A, it flew open. A little girl, no more than ten, with soft, dark curls nearly ran smack into the tall woman. The girl’s soft hazel eyes looked up and smiled when she caught sight of her kitten in the arms of her upstairs neighbor. “Chester. There you are,” she said sounding like a mother about to scorn her troublesome child. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” The tall woman smiled at the little girl’s tone and bent down to let the little girl get a firm hold of her cat. She sighed almost exasperated, “I still don’t know how he gets out.”

“Well, he must be a smart cat,” she said, her voice taking on an almost carefree tone. It surprised her, but not enough to make her stop and think about it too long.

“That’s what my mom says.” The cat meowed some more before it jumped out of the little girl’s arms and into the apartment. “I wish I could just get a dog. At least they stay put like you tell them too,” she stated with a slight lisp. “But mom says it isn’t right to have a dog cooped up in an apartment.” The little girl adjusted her blue and yellow plaid skirt and the light cerulean cotton shirt, the standard Catholic School uniform. She dusted off some of the cat hair.

“You should listen to your mom. She’s a smart lady.”

“JENNA!” A yell rose from inside the apartment. “Honey, you’re breakfast is getting cold.”

“Should I listen to my mom now?” She asked in a voice slightly above a whisper. “She wants me to have oatmeal.” Jenna stuck her finger in her mouth and made a gagging noise. “It’s gross.”

The older woman laughed at the child’s honesty. It was a welcome relief from what she had to deal with in “real” adult life. She nodded and touched the young girl’s nose. “If you eat your oatmeal, maybe you’ll grow up to be as tall as me.”

The girl looked slightly skeptical. Her small brows came together as if contemplating a great life question. The older woman smiled and continued to plead her case, “hey I hated oatmeal too, but my mom made me eat the stuff and now look at me.”

The girl blinked twice suddenly a look of belief washed over her small features. “Really,” she asked questioningly.

“Cross my heart,” she replied.

“Jenna,” her mother called again as she approached the open door. “Who are you talking to, honey,” the soft, deep voice took on a concerned tone.

“Jules, mom.” The older woman smiled at the girl’s sweet utterance of her name. “She found Chester,” the little girl said.

A woman with light-haired curls and brown-hazel eyes, Jenna’s mother regarded her daughter thoughtfully carefully stroking the young girl’s dark locks as she spoke. Jules noticed just how much Jenna resembled her mother. Except for the striking mane of black hair, Jenna was the spitting image of her mother; the same pleasant, round face, hazel eyes and pouty lips. From her conversations with Jenna, Jules knew her mother was a registered nurse at St. Vincent’s hospital downtown. Despite the hectic schedule, her job forced her to maintain, Jenna spent quality time with her mother. Jenna never mentioned a father to Jules. She assumed he, like many men in the world, wasn’t in the picture.

Jules rose to her full height and adjusted the bag of groceries to the side of her body. Jules’ demeanor switched when interacting with adults. With children, she was almost playful. A child still trusted completely and thought honestly. There was no hidden agenda behind a child’s words or actions. What one saw is what one got. Children were still uncorrputed by the societal need to hide feelings, to wear the deceitful mask of unemotional civility. Children still possessed what Jules had lost long ago. And for a few brief moments talking to a child, she once again possessed those attributes. With adults, she held back any sign of vunerability, her face becoming a wall of seriousness.

“Was he out in the hall again?” Her daughter nodded. “Why don’t you thank Jules...again.” Jenna politely thanked her again. “We have to find out how that darn cat gets out.” She smiled down at her daughter and padded her on the back into the apartment. “Now scoot, go eat your breakfast. We don’t want to be late for school.”

“But mom,” the little girl whined.

“No buts. Go. You’ll thank me later when we’re outside in the freezing cold and your good and warm.”

“Yeah right,” called Jenna as she walked slowly toward the kitchen like a prisoner walking to the gallows. Her smart remark garnered her a stern look from the corner of her mother’s eyes. Sensing she had over stepped her bounds, Jenna immediately called back “I was kidding, mom.”

“You’d better be.” When her daughter disappeared into the apartment’s dining area, she turned back to her upstairs neighbor, her shoulder casually leaning on the door frame. “I’m sorry if she talked your ear off,” she said in a slightly hushed tone. “She’s at that age.” She pushed some of her curls away from her fair skin and over her ear. “She doesn’t know when to stop talking.”

“No trouble. I like talking to her. She’s a smart girl, Mrs. Miller.”

“Yes. Yes she is. And call me Francine. Mrs. Miller makes me sound like I’m ancient.”

“Sure. Francine.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t officially welcomed you into the building. But my schedule has been crazy this past month. New rotations at the hospital. Working all hours.” She stopped when she realized she was revealing more than her neighbor was probably interested in. “Jenna has taken quite a liking to you though. She thinks your fun. A good person.”

“Well, I guess she brings it out in me. She’s a special kid.”

“Yes, she is. Light of my life.” A geninue look of happiness crossed Francine’s face. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ve got better places to be than here. That bag looks heavy.” Francine smiled. “If you need anything...anything at all. Don’t hestiate to pay us a visit. I’m sure Jenna would get a kick out of it. Have a good day.”

“You too.” As Jules turned to leave, she heard the voice of a female newscaster begin to read the top news stories. She paused, the words washing over her.

“...A body identified as Frank Macchia was killed execution style late Wednesday night in what police are saying is probably mob related. Police refuse to comment on the possiblilty gang war being waged on New York Streets. Mr. Macchia is the last victim in a series of gang-land hits. There are no suspects at this time, but police are combing the vicinity for witnesses. In breaking news, a man was pushed to his death this morning on the number six train line...”

“A good person,” she muttered as she ascended the last flight of stairs.

===========================

With her keys in her mouth, Jules hopped for a few moments trying to remove her wet boots as quickly as possible. She grunted when she realized her boot laces were double notted. She decided to risk a slightly wet floor than stand outside her apartment hopping around like an idiot for a moment longer.

Jules pushed open her apartment door and was greeted by the comforting silence of her tempory residence. A silence only broken by the momentary rattling of an old-style iron radiator in the corner. Closing the white door with the back of her foot, she stretched to put the bag of groceries on the linoleum kitchen counter. Jules than stood still listening to every sound. In a business that thrived on the element of surprise coupled with a target’s gross carelessness, she knew her now innate paranoia served its purposes. She waited

for a few moments. Her senses only registered the intermitten sound of the radiator, a slight breeze coming from a open bathroom window and the hum of the refridgerator. Her mind at ease but her senses still on alert, she now bent over to remove her boots.

Her apartment, painted in stark, antiseptic white with its light oak, hard-wood floors, was picture perfect. Three small windows lined the far wall in the living room while the newly remodeled white and black kitchen occupied the opposite end of the space. There was no dining room table, instead, a small kitchen island had been converted into an eating space with three stools lining the floor just below it. To the kitchen’s immediate left were three doors. One leading to the bathroom, the other two leading to the small, but comfortable bedrooms. Two dark blue loveseats were the only major furniture in the living space. A dark maghony desk with a few scattered pieces of paper and an IBM ThinkPad on its surface was pushed up against the wall by the door. Next to it was a oak bookself with a few dozen copies of assorted paperbacks only taking up one-half of one self. The living space was clean, like a page out of an IKEA catalogue, which seemed to be what was wrong with it. The space did not looked “lived-in” at all. There were no personal effects, no pictures, no piles of old magazines, no discarded shoes, no dirty dishes or dirty clothes. The only real signs of life was an ashtray near the far left window and an empty glass on the kitchen counter. But this was the way Jules liked to live. The only way she knew how to live.

She got the apartment a day after her arrival in New York. Looking under the “furnished apartments” section of the New York Times, she was able to find this quaint apartment nestled in the heart of midtown. She had arrived at her new dwelling with a duffel bag, her ThinkPad and a case for her tools of the trade.

If her living room looked sparsely decorated upon close inspection, once one entered her bedroom, there was little doubt of how little this apartment was really a home. Jules had not bothered to unpack her duffel bag. It simply was tossed in a corner of a room, unzipped and only half full. The rest of her clothes were dirty and inside laundry bag beside it. The only item she bothered to put on a hanger was her light brown coat.

Jules put away her groceries and in the process threw away all the white cartons of left-over take-out that had gone bad over the week. Finally taking off her coat, she cautiously opened her bedroom door and took a long look around. Satisfied with her inspection, she hung her coat up on the only hanger in the empty closet. Jules then slipped gracefully to her knees and grabbed a case from underneath the bed. Removing her gun from its side holster, she released the safety and than released the clip. She rolled up her right sleeve and pulled the velcro straps that held the four inch, army issued knife from forearm. She carefully placed it on the night stand next to the bed. She then clicked open the long, thin case and placed the gun back in its place among the other weapons. The .45 rested comfortably among a police standard issued .38, a Smith and Wessen .33, a semi-automatic magmum .345 and a semi-automatic double barrel rifle which lay in the case’s main hold. She hadn’t used this particular weapon in months. She knew she would have to clean the firearm one of these days.

Nestled in the gray floam of the case’s right compartment was a gold chain. Jules carefully lifted the chain wondering why she had placed it there. She did have to leave the last town relatively quickly, but ... this was the only thing she had left of her past, of her mother. She gently fingered a diamond ring that was on the chain’s end.

She slammed the case’s lid shut letting out a long, satisfied breathe and put the chain around her neck. The ring felt cold again her skin. She touched it once again, holding it between her fingers, wondering if anything, any part of this ring, like a chamber holding an echo, still held her mother’s presence. Not wanting to dwell on this for too long, Jules rose off the ground and pulled her shirt out of her pants.

The steam from the hot shower rose above the curtain. She tested the water’s temperature with her fingers. It was just the way she liked it. This is something she did after every hit. She took a long, hot shower. She wanted to unwind. She would most likely ease into a few hours of sleep. At least, these are the excuses she used for this ritual. But, she knew all too consciously what she was trying to do, but she knew no water in the world, blessed and other wise, could wash away her sins.

The hot water hit her face, ran down her neck and dripped off the necklace and ring. She needed to relax. There was something about this hit that was different. She tried to push it away, but she knew. There was moment of hestiation before she pulled the trigger. That never happened to her. Never. Her breathing became swallow, labored. She closed her eyes and put her flat palms against the wet, white tile. Her heart was racing. She focused on her breathing. Slowly, in and out until her heartbeat returned to normal. Her head sunk down under the water’s assault. She knew. She needed to get out. She knew she had been telling herself this for months, but, for what was left of her sanity, she needed to move on. It was a split second decision, but she knew it was the right one.

The nagging question of what she was still doing in New York beat against her brow like a carpenter’s hammer. She could leave tomorrow morning; after she had verified that the money was in her account. But she knew she wasn’t going to do that. As much as she tried to deny it, she knew the real reason for her long journey to the Big Apple. She wanted answers. After twenty years, she was ready to face them.

Holding on to the diamond ring once worn by her mother, she thought, if only she knew where to begin...

She stood on one foot for a moment, rubbing the other one against the back of her leg. Her elbows leaning on the bar, she hoped the rest of her shift would just pass her by in a hazy mircosecond of cigarette smoke and the smell of warm beer. The flashing Christmas lights around the totally tacky neon Bud Light clock above the bar momentarily caught her attention. What the fuck am I doing her, she asked herself. With a palm against her forehead and her other hand pushing back the light, blond hair falling into her face, she had to face the harsh reality. You need the fucking money. She chuckled. How far away am I from being a hooker? Shaking such thoughts from her mind, the sound of the Foo Fighters on the speakers bringing her back to reality, her meditation finally ended with these semi-comforting thoughts flashing across her mind’s eye, only three hours to go.

“Two Am Lights, one pirate in dark water and a fast pitch,” she yelled at the slightly annoyed bartender who was busy filling three beer orders for an persistant man who wasn’t convinced she was involved in a happy, stable relationship.

“Come on, baby. A pretty thing like you can’t be satisfied with the man you got now. You need a real man.”

The dark-haired bartender effectively ended the conversation by saying, “look, I’m gay.. all right,” before walking over to the other end of the bar to fill the waitress’ order.

The man, who was not ready to end it there, called back, “hey honey, I could always watch?”

The bartender rolled her deep, brown eyes before confirming the order with the waitress “and that was two lights, rum and coke and a screwdriver... coming up.” Sadly, the staff’s only joy during the long, night shifts was to come up with inventive names for standard drinks.

Rubbing her tense shoulder, the waitress leaned over the edge of the bar and yelled over Dave Grohl’s loud, vocal screeching, “and while you’re at it, can you get me a gun so I can shot myself.”

“Oh, what is it,” the bartender said sympatically. “Can’t handle the Thursday Night rush,” she added with a small grin. “Yeah well, you haven’t had to deal with Mr. Dick for brains over there who thinks my breasts are the ones who carry on a conversation. Had to tell him I was gay to get some breathing room.”

“Is it in the water tonight... if one more guy ‘accidently’ touches my ass. I’ll have to ‘accidently’ shove my knee hard up his fucking package.” She said with mock fury. “God. Men.”

The bartender sighed. “And this coming from the one who doesn’t sleep with them.”

“Sometimes, I’m glad I was blessed with the gay gene.”

“I wonder sometimes what it would like to sleep with a woman.” The bartender playfully batted her brown eyes and ran a finger across the waitress’ arm before breaking out in a fit of deep laughter.

“I don’t know whether to be offended or flattered, but sorry, honey,” the waitress said with a sly grin. “You ain’t my type. Seeing as your dating my best friend and all. Kinda kills the romance.”

“Who said anything about romance, I was talking about hardcore fucking,” the bartender countered, thrusting her arms back and moving her hips at the same time. She smiled seductively before hitting the object of her torment on the cheek. “Oh, there’s that look I’ve been waiting for all night. You know, you’re awful cute when you got that ‘deer in a headlight thing going’ for you...”

“Some women are truly evil!”

A tall, slender man with sandy brown hair weaved and dodged his way through the narrow bar space before plopping down his serving tray with three empty heinekien bottles. “Three more Hitlers. And a warm virgin.”

“Sean, it seems your girlfriend can’t seem to keep her hands off me.” She thrusted a glance at the bartender who was hurriedly preparing drinks for impatient customers. “Not that I mind.”

“Seeing as you haven’t had a girlfriend in months, someone’s gotta give you a little action,” he replied flatly flashing the two woman a smile which crinkled his nose. “Isn’t that right, Sam?” Sam nodded silently cocking her head to one side as she poured oj into the silver shaker, knowing how much her boyfriend liked to annoy their friend about her unattached stasis. “Pity on the lovelorn Claire who hasn’t gotten laid since...since...wait, does some have a calendar handy,” he asked the patrons near the smoky bar who were being entertained by their conversation.

“Oh, I’ll remember that,” Claire said, thrusting an accustory finger at his chest. “Next time you ask me to instruct you on how to please your woman orally, you’ll know what my answer will be.” This statement was greeted by assorted chuckles around them.

Sean’s eyes widened. Although, he shouldn’t have expected anything less from Claire. If there was one thing he had come to expect, it was that anything could come out of the girl’s mouth at any moment. And it was usually something that would have gotten you a mouth full of soap if you were a kid. Defeated, Sean simply stuck his tongue out at his friend and stated, “You win. I’ll never joke about your sex life again. If you promise never to discuss mine in public.”

“You know I can’t make that promise. Your sex life is too funny not to be mentioned in causal conversation at least once a day.” She turned to her friend, her lips in a sarcastic pout, before kissing him soundly on the cheek.

Sean shoved Claire away like a five year old afraid he was about to catch kooties. “Sam, aren’t you gonna defend me against such accusations?”

Sam loaded the drinks onto Claire’s tray and winked, “Sex isn’t everything.”

Claire smiled and tossled her friend’s short, light hair before she leaned and whispered in his ear, “like I said funny.” She tossed a side-long glance at Sam. “See you next round.”

Balancing the tray of drinks on one hand, she manovered her way through the narrow passageway between the bar and dining area quickly dodging running waiters and harzardly placed backpacks.

She chuckled at his remark before carefully setting down the tray at her customer’s table. “So who ordered the screwdriver?”

Around 2:30am, the steady stream of people entering the resturant dwindled to a mere tickle. The college students retreated to their dorms, the club-hoppers left to find the next happening party and the drunks had been cut off from their supply of alcohol and placed in taxi cubs. The few people who still populated the established were those who needed a nightcap, lovers ending another date or people who had nowhere else to go.

Claire stretched her back. It has been a long, long night. Normally, she covered the day shift, but since of one the waitress left earlier in the week, she found her schedule in complete chaos. She didn’t like the prospect of having to get up tomorrow morning and back at this god foresaken place by noon for another eight hours of rude customers and lousy tips.

Sean leaned against the door frame which separated the bar area from the dining area. “So, did you do as lousy tonight as I did?”

“Probably,” Claire replied, cleaning up the trash left by her last customers of the night.

Sean breathed deeply. “So, you wanna ride home? I’ll make it worth the trip.” He raised his light eyebrows. Claire smiled and promptly lunged towards him. Sean moved out of the way, but could not escape the dining area. “I’ll let you ride shotgun.”

“Hmm. Are you trying to pick me up?” After hitting him on the arm, Claire wrapped her arms around Sean’s slender waist. “But about Sam? Our friendship?”

“Hey, if I convert you, do I get a toaster?” He laughed.

“No. Since that would be a virtually impossible task, I think you get half a million dollars and one of those George Foreman grills. Maybe a juicer too.” She gave him a warm hug. Sean and Sam were the only reason she was staying in New York. If she hadn’t met them, she would have been on a plane back to Austin five months ago.

Sean gave her a kiss on her pale forehead. “Juicer, I need one of those. Considering I’ve seen the women who’ve warmed your bed over the past few months, I understand the impossibility of your conversion.” Claire pulled away. “What was the last one’s name? My god she was so fucking hot.”

Wiping her hands with a dish towel, Sam slowly walked up behind Sean. “Ah, I heard the word ‘fucking hot’ and I hope, for your sake, you were talking about me.”

Sean stammered. “Of course, honey. I don’t even look at other women anymore.”

Claire grinned. “You are so fucking whipped.”

Sam twirled the dish towel and hit her boyfriend in the backside. “And believe me, he loves it.”

Claire cleared the mugs of warm beer and put them on a tray. “If we are done with the S & M humor, I believe someone offered a ride home.”

“Yes, my lady you’re carriage awaits.” Sean bowed. “But since I still have to clean my section out and help my fair maiden with her tasks at the bar,” Sean fished through the pockets of his denim jeans and came up with his car keys. He tossed them in Claire’s direction. “Can you pick up the car? It’s in the gargage two blocks down, between Eighth and Waverly. Two levels down.”

“Sure thing, oh master.” Claire turned around to see her friends kissing each other sweetly. “And Sean, her name was Jamie and she was fucking hot in every sense of the word.”

Sam hit her boyfriend on the chest playfully. “I’ll show you fucking hot when we get home.”

==========================

It was 3:15, but one would never know it from the sound of honking horns blaring up Broadway. Claire wrapped her winter coat tighter around her body. If she went home one night without smelling like an ashtray, her life would be perfect. Unfortunately, perfection is hard to reach when you work in a trendy, Noho eatery such as Dojo’s. Claire’s knit cap kept falling to one side, leaving her right ear colder than the left. She walked briskly uptown toward the underground parking garage, hoping that it would be a few degrees warmer than the bone chilling temperature she now found herself in. This is one good reason to go back to Austin, she thought to herself, no cold winters. This was Claire’s first winter in the Big Apple and she was beginning to question her choice of location. Claire tried to avoid the pockets of ice on the sidewalk from snow that had been shoveled improperly. She slipped a few times, inwardly yelling at herself for wearing her Nike’s instead of her heavy black boots.

Claire couldn’t believe she had been in New York for almost nine months. It seemed twice as long, though she really wondered if she considered this home yet. She didn’t miss Austin all that much. There was nothing left for her there. Once the house and furniture were sold off to the highest bidder, there was just emptiness in Texas. Nothing but empty, open space that threatened to swallow her whole.

She remembered her final day in her home town. She drove past her home--the only home she ever knew--to see a new family moving into it. A little girl with ponytails waved as she drove past from the bedroom that used to be hers. Would the little girl ever know of all the hopes and dreams that lived for twenty years in that bedroom? Would she hear the stories her mother told her as a child to calm her fears about the boogie man? Would she find that secret space in the closet, just right of the sliding door where the wooden boards were loose, to hide her most intimate artifacts? Would the little girl with ponytails ever wonder about the girl who used to call this place home? Maybe not. Claire waved back before continuing down the street. Life was starting over. She took it as a sign. She needed to start over too. She purchased a one way ticket to New York City, on the most inexpensive flight she could find, packed up her life, all two suitcases of it, boarded that plane and tried not to look back.

It had been nine months since they died. It seemed like yesterday. She wondered if her parents knew how she felt at this very moment in time. Tired. She had been angry. She had been sad. She had been lost. She had been afraid. Now, after nine months, Claire Stevenson was just plain tired.

Claire Stevenson’s life had just become routine. Working, sleeping and eating were the only verbs performed during a typical day. If she was lucky, she spent some quality time with her friends and read a good book. If she was really lucky, she find someone to spend quality hours with and make her breakfast in the morning. She had to wonder if this all life had to offer. Was this her destiny? It saddened her slightly when she realized that there were really no other prospects out there.

Claire walked down the slopping hill and into the garage. She had no real trouble finding Sean’s beat up, power-blue, 1995 Honda Accord, a graduation present from his parents. She started the engine and let the car run for a few minutes, letting it and the car’s interior get warmed up. She blew into her hands and stuck them back under her arms. She lay back in the driver’s seat, shutting her eyes for a moment, the long shift finally catching up with her. It was than that the car’s engine died.

“Oh fuck. No. Not tonight,” she banged her palm against the steering wheel. “The coldest, fucking night. No, you are taking me home.” She turned the key again. The car shuddered, but soon died again. “Fuck.” She slammed her forehead against the wheel and tried to calm herself. Anger never got anything accomplished, remember that, she told herself.

That’s when she heard it. A muffled scream. Followed by another and than another. She slowly lifted her head from the wheel and focused on the noise going on around her, actually below her. They seemed to be coming from one level down. The noise, however, filled the garage like an echo chamber. “No PLEASE!” A heavy thud followed by a whimper.

“Shut your fucking mouth, bitch.” A deep male voice screamed.

Another low, yet, softly spoken voice said, “Gag him. He’s making too much noise.”

GET OUT OF HERE, her mind screeched, but she couldn’t move. She just sat there, frozen. Her inner voice was now screaming, “Hide, leave, just go. GO NOW!” Claire moved, but not towards the door marked exit, instead, following her instinct to help as well as her intense level of curiosity, she walked slowly down the ramp towards the level below. She took great pain to be as quiet as humanly possible, as well as keeping most if not all of her body hidden in the shadows cast by the pockets of track lighting above her head.

She found a spot on the ramp where the concrete cracked a bit, between the ramp below and the ramp above, to reveal the left side of the level below. Claire crouched down, her hands, lying flat against the concrete beneath her, her form hidden mostly in shadow.

“I said where’s the fucking money?” A tall man in dark pants and a grey dress shirt walked around in a circle. Once he cleared her line of vision, Claire saw who he was talking to. A young man, looking barely twenty, in a yellow shirt that said QUIK PARK was on his knees. His arms were being held behind him by a beefy man, with slicked back hair and a black business suit. The young man had blood pouring from his mouth and the back of his head, all of which were pooling below him.

The man was having trouble breathing or crying, Claire couldn’t tell which. He gasped. “I ... don’t... have it...I swear....”

The tall man in control walked back around in front of the young man. He bent forward, arms behind his back, and calmy replied, “but I think you know who did take it. And we are not done here until I find out.” He looked up at the man holding the young man’s arms. “Gag him. Make him talk.” The tall man than took a long, silver blade from his breast pocket and handed it to the large man. “Don’t forget to clean the mess up when you’re done.”

The young man screamed, terrified. Claire closed her eyes when the large man kneed him in the kidney. “Okay,” the man gasped. “I know.” He breathed hard. “It... was... John...y...I swear to fuck...ing god ... it .... was Johnny...”

The tall man nodded and the large man let go of his arms. The young man landed, face first, into the pool of his own blood. The tall man brought his hands together, his fingers playing with a gold ring. “Johnny. I did suspect as much.” He put his hands behind his back again and started to place around the man, now collasped onto the floor. “Now, what should I do with you, David, huh? You knew Johnny was not only stealing from me, but he was dealing on the side from my stash, but you didn’t go shit about it, did you? Oh no. No. You just stood there as that asshole was robbing me blind. And that just won’t do.” He stood over David, who was still struggling to breathe. “I ask only one thing from my employees and that is complete loyality. When you are disloyal, you have committed the ultimate sin. And for this,” The tall man walked two steps back from David. He nodded toward the large man who immediately took out a black semi-automatic pistol. The large man quickly handed it over. “You must be punished by my law.” The tall man cocked the gun and fired twice into David’s head.

Claire closed her eyes, but she swore she heard the crack as the bullets entered his skull. When she dared open them again, she saw David’s body twitch a couple of times before lying completely still. Thick red blood ran down the incline where his body was.

Claire knew she had to get out fast before she was spotted. She heard voice below yell. “Clean, two hours. I want this area secure, got me. And get Johnny over to my place. I will deal with that fucking shit personally. David got off easy.....”

Claire ran. As hard and as fast as she could, she ran back up the ramp towards the staircase marked exit. And that’s when she hard the yelling. She didn’t want to look back. She knew, with every fiber of her being, she knew if she looked back, she would be dead. Instead, she continued her sprint up to the next level and took the stairs up the remaining level.

“We have a problem, sir.”

“What?” Roberto wiped some of David’s blood off his brow.

“I think there was someone here. And I think they saw everything, sir.”

“What the fuck do you mean? I thought ...” Roberto took out the gun and pointed it at Julio’s head. “I thought this was fucking secure....”

Julio’s voice quivered. “They must have slipped in before we got the area secure, sir.” He swallowed hard. “We’ll find them. We have all the exits covered. They can’t escape.”

Roberto, his eyes blazing with anger, took the gun away from Julio’s head. He turned around and screamed before pistol whipping Julio across the face. “That was so there is not a next time. Find them, you hear me. Find them.”

Julio held the right side of his face. “Yes, sir.”

Claire looked towards the street. Two men in black suits, one with a radio against his ear, guarded the exit. There was no way out without being noticed. She strained to hear what was being said. “Copy, no one in or out alive. Yes sir, over.”

There was no place else to go.

Claire felt her world spinning out of control. She backed up against a wall, her heart beating a million miles a minute against her chest. She banged her head against the wall and wondered if her situation could get any worse. She tried to calm her breathing. There was no way in hell that this would be it. A layer of superhuman resolve settled over her body. She looked back up the ramp towards the exit and than back down from where she came, back into hell. She made her decision.

Claire ran back down the ramp. She wondered if there was a vent somewhere, maybe she could hide until they called off their search. She looked. There was nothing but concrete. No place to hide. She could feel the tears falling down her face, but there was no sound. There couldn’t be. Her life depended on it. She hoped Sam and Sean wouldn’t come looking for her. She didn’t want to see them get hurt. She silently hoped they would be occupied at the restaurant for another thirty minutes.

She walked down another level hoping to find something, anything that would get her out of this. She heard voice behind her, getting louder by the second. She ran across the level until she saw her salvation or her final resting place. This was it.

Claire stopped and silently prayed this would work.

She hoisted herself on top the large garbage bin, the smell of urine, beer and other things she couldn’t name assaulting her senses, causing her to gag. The voices were getting too close. She took a deep breathe, opened the lid and dove into the dumpster trying to cover herself with as many plastic bags as she possibly could. She lay there quiet. Her heart beating was the only sound she heard. It was comforting. She thought about her parents. Was this how it is going to end?

Suddenly, the voices were back, muffled, but definitely close... too close. She heard the footstep circle the dumpster. She could only think of that tall man with the gold ring circling the man named David before he killed him. She swallowed, but her mouth had gone dry. Than, silence.

Claire was ready to breathe a sigh of relief when the dumpster lid opened. She closed her eyes as it would make her more invisible. She heard a male voice echo in the small interior. “Maybe I was hearing things. Maybe there’s wasn’t anyway here. Man, but I swore I heard someone running away after Czar pulled the trigger.”

Another man voice replied. “Whatever. We searched. There ain’t anyone here. So, let’s get rid of this thing. And get the hell outta here before people come back looking for their cars.”

“Help me,” the male voice sounded strained.

Then, Claire felt something land on top of her. She still kept her eyes closed.

The voice continued. “We’ll have our garbage man pick it up in the morning.” And with that the lid closed. The voice started again, muffled this time, before it slowly faded away.

The sound of her heart was marking off the seconds of her life, each second passing into oblivion. Claire wasn’t sure how much time passed, nor did she really care. She was alive. She was alive! Only after a few moments of thanking every diety she could remember did she open her eyes.

Brown, lifeless eyes stared back at her, blood still pouring from the open head wound and rolling down his cheek onto her chin.

And it was at this moment that Claire Stevenson’s world plunged into darkness.

==========================

She watched his mouth move, but she didn’t understand what he was saying. Words did not have the same meaning anymore. Claire hugged the dark brown blanket around her cold body and brought her legs closer to her chest. She looked around the hospital room. It was white. It was cold. It was small. She closed her eyes and felt another tear escape. She let it roll down her cheek and wondered when she started crying.

Her attention went back to the man she didn’t understand. His salt and pepper hair reminded Claire of her father. But he didn’t have the same face. Instead of a warm, round face, the talking man had a long, thin face with a jutting chin. A small nose sat right in the middle of his face and thick, black eyebrows drew attention away from his soft, brown eyes. She wasn’t her father. He was talking again.

Suddenly, it was as if someone turn on the volume. “... I know you have been through a lot, but I’m asking you all these questions for your protection.” The man’s strong voice matched his strong face. “I just wanna know who did this. Do you understand me?”

Claire nodded silently.

“Good. Good. I’m not going to push you Claire. I know you’ve been through a lot. But please, anything you can give us... anything... would be helpful.”

Claire wondered how she got here. She didn’t remember. She tried and she couldn’t. Where was here anyway?

The talking man pushed the wooden chair away from her bed and silently rose. He breathed hard through his small nostrils and nodded towards the nurse. The nurse, a small, heavy-set woman with curly, blond hair set a tray down on the nightstand. She handed Claire a glass of water and a small, paper cup with two blue pills.

Claire found her voice. “WAIT. Wait. I.... I... want to help ... you.” Claire handed the cup back to the nurse. “I just want to know one thing.” Claire looked questioningly between the nurse and man. “H...how did I get here?”

Detective Jon Harris told Claire Stevenson about the missing three hours of her life.

==========================

It was quiet, too quite for anything in New York City. Sean walked up to his car and knew something was wrong. The keys were still in the ignition. The driver door was slightly open and Claire’s backpack was in the backseat. He looked around the empty gargage and yelled as loud as he could, “CLAIRE. CLAIRE!”

“Shh.....Sean.” Claire emerged from behind a pillar. She staggered forward before falling onto her knees.

Sean ran to her side and collasped by her side. “Honey, my god, what happened to you?” It was than that he noticed the blood pour down her mouth and neck. “Oh god, god,” he yelled and hugged her tighter.

Sam ran towards the car. “Sean, what....”

“Call 911.” She hesitated, wondering what was wrong with Claire. “Do it, now!”

“It going to be okay. I promise.” Claire sobbed. “Claire, can you tell me what happened?”

Above the sob, Sean could make out a few words. “They killed David.”

Sean looked down at his friend, wanting to understand why she was crying and why she had blood all over her body. “Who’s David?”

After the police arrived, Claire pointed towards the dumpster in the far right corner of the underground parking gargage.

And that was where they found the body of twenty-two year old David Kondilas.

Claire couldn’t remember. She tried, but she couldn’t.

She couldn’t remember when or how she got out of the dumpster. She couldn’t remember crying against Sean’s shoulder. She didn’t remember anything except those dead brown eyes.

Detective Harris took out a pen from his coat pocket and a small notepad from the his pants pocket and gently asked, “just tell me anything Miss Stevenson.”

Claire lightly brushed her palms against her cheek and leaned back into bed. “I ... I was getting Sean’s car. And I heard noises coming from ... below... the level below.” She tried to swallow the wave of nausea overtaking her body. She stopped for a second, grabbing the glass of water from her bed side and taking a small sip before continuing. “I saw a tall man.... about... your height. He was hitting the man. And...ah...he killed him. I ran after that. And I hid in the dumpster...I don’t know how long...” she stopped the memories, the fear and the terror of the night’s events, washing through her, threatening to drown her.

Detective Harris nodded. “Could you describe the tall man? Could you id him, you think?”

Claire looked up at Detective Harris’ face. “I will spend the rest of my life trying to forget his face.”

==========================

“She id-ed Salazar twice,” Detective Adam Murphy whispered to his partner Jon Harris as he watched the young woman nervously play with her fingers through the transparent glass of the small interrogation room. “I don’t think there’s a doubt who killed that kid.” Adam turned around and crossed his arms against his chest. “We’ve got pretty good case. A witness id. A body forenics is working over.” Adam snickered. “But you know as well as I do...how will Salazar beat the rap this time?”

Jon turned a chair backwards and sat down, resting his arms on the chair’s back. “I don’t know. But if we’re not careful. We could be looking at a dead woman here.” Jon watched Claire close her eyes and lean her head back. He wouldn’t trade places with her for all the money in the world. “I want 24 hour police protection. And get ready to make her disappear if we need to.”

Adam moved towards the door. “I’ll get the warrant.”

Poor kid, Jon thought to himself as he watched her for a few more moments.

Life as Claire Stevenson knew it was now over.

Sitting in the only comfortable chair in her sparsely furnished apartment, her legs propped up against the white-painted, warm radiator, Jules took another long drag of her non-filtered cigarette. Nicotine was the only addiction she had yet to give up. She only smoked, however, when she needed to relax which meant one pack could last more one week. When she worked, however, she could chain smoke, her body trying to unnerve itself with the little sedative smoking provided. This was her first cigarette in more than three days. She watched as the smoke drifted through her nostrils and up into towards the ceiling disappearing somewhere along the way.

This time, however, the nicotine wasn’t helping. She still felt wired. She had been awake for a little over twenty-four hours. Her body showed no signs of fatigue. She knew it would hit her eventually though, like a ton of bricks knocking her out cold. In some way, however, she enjoyed being awake. When she closed her eyes, who knew where her conscious might take her. At least when she was awake, she could control her reality.

Jules stomped out the last ambers of her cigarette before rubbing her eyes. Her eyes looked out of the open window, watching people live their lives, following the same daily routines. She watched school children run all over the street. She saw two women get into an argument over parking. She watched a couple exchange heartfelt good-byes as they parted ways on the corner. Watching life pass her by was what Jules did best.

She was however fully aware of how tired she was growing of her present. How unfulling her work had become. Years ago, a successful kill would leave her on a three-day high no drug could ever duplicate. She felt powerful, invincible, like she could do anything. Now, it just left her empty, regretful and pensive. Sure, she still felt in control, but her ability to block out the pain was becoming severely hampered. And here she was, back in the very place that set her on this road, where the pain began. The irony was not lost on her.

She thought about visiting places she knew as a child. The trip down memory lane, perhaps, giving her some new perspective. If only to remember those few times in her life when she recalled being at peace, completely happy. But she was afraid that she would realize how truly distant those memories were. So much had happened. Would any of the places even measure up to her memories? They were a lifetime ago.

The vividness of her nightmares had increased over the past few weeks. Maybe her current insomina was her mind’s solution to this intensifying problem. All the pain she had seen and faced was melded together in increasingly potent mixture of misery, slowly becoming more violent, more bloody every time she closed her eyes.

Her self-analytical musing, however, was broken when her eyes settled on the silver-plated Zippo lighter on the bookshelf near her window. Leaning forward, Jules picked up the small piece of metal and flicked it on, immediately closing it. She flipped the lighter between her long fingers and smiled.

.... “Do you think I’m gonna just let you have this?”

“That’s the general idea. That’s what happens when you put something up as a bet,” she said calmly. “You could have bailed two hands ago, but you just had to try and beat me didn’t you. Couldn’t let my sweet, girly ass beat your loser ass could you?”

“Double or nothin.” She shook her head. “Come on,” his voice taking on a low growl.

“What the hell else do you have to bet?”

“Come on.” He scratched the top of his shaved head and placed the pea green hat back on it. “My dad gave this to me. Even you can understand the meaning of sentiment.”

A thoughtful look gazed over her face as she nodded understandingly. “Actually, I’ve never had much use for sentiment,” she replied flatly. “Or lighters,” she added with a sly grin. “Listen, cry baby. You keep your lighter, but remember. You owe me.”

“I’ll remember. You heartless bitch,” he said with a hint of playfulness.

“You’d better. Good for nothin’ asshole,” she countered.

“When I’m saving your ass against enemy fire, let’s see if you think I’m good for nothin.”

“Let’s hope your aim is better than your judgment.” Jules tossed the lighter Peter’s way. He caught it.

A wide grin on his face, Pete countered. “Judgment is pretty bad considering I call you a friend.” He laughed.

....After five years, she still remembered his laugh.

Jules placed another cigarette between her lips and flicked open the lighter. She stared at the flame. “I don’t have much use for sentiment,” she said aloud. She closed the lighter and got up from the chair.

==========================

It was like a dream. Like it wasn’t really happening to her. But maybe this was the most real thing she had done in the last six years.

She walked slowly along the brick wall, gently rubbing her fingertips against the jagged edges, closing her eyes immediately when they thrust her back into her childhood. She did this often when she was little. She loved to touch things, memorize the feeling, the sensations of different objects against her skin. She paused for a moment, putting her palm against the red brick, trying to feel a connection with it, to the little girl she used to be.

She stopped in front of the glass window and looked inside. It was dark. The red and green neon light was not turned on. She looked at her watch. It was eleven o’clock in the morning. She took a deep breath and pulled the door open.

Everything was smaller, but nothing was different. It smelled the same. She inhaled deeply as the combination of stale, smoky air and alcohol entered her lungs. It was comforting.

On the right side of the long narrow space was a yellow and red jukebox, and along the room’s left side was the long, oak bar. She walked slowly into the space as if she was walking through a dream world. Hestiantly, she touched the bar, wondering if she did, would it disappear.

A woman in her forties appeared from the back room carrying a tray of clean glasses. “Excuse me, ah ... honey, we’re closed.”

The strong voice jerked Jules from her thoughts. “I know. I was wondering if...”

“You can’t use our bathrooms either, so before I have to alert the cops of your unwelcome presence, I suggest you walk back through that door and....”

“No. I just wanted...” Jules paused for a moment. What do I want? What am I doing here? “I was looking for someone...who used to work here...a long time ago.”

The woman relaxed her posture and approached the bar, setting the tray down. “Well, a lot of people have come in and out of this place, but I’ll try my best.”

“His name is Phil. Ah, Philip Rizea. I know it’s a long shot, but...”

“Phil. Sure. He worked here for about fifteen years.” The woman gestured for Jules to sit down.

“He doesn’t anymore,” she asked disappointed.

“He comes around every once and a while.” She held her chin and said, “Let’s see.... haven’t seen him in about a month though.”

“Could...you...you tell me where I could find him?”

“I could. But... what do you want with Phil?”

Jules quickly answer, “I’m his daughter.” It wasn’t far from the truth. Phil was always like a father to her. “And I need to find him.”

==========================

She knocked again.

The small, white house on the tree-lined street seemed right out of Capra film. Children were playing stick ball on the street, other were riding their bicycles. Their screams and laughter brought a quick smile to her face.

The door opened. “Yes, what do you...” The man in a red checkered robe stopped when he focused his eyes on the woman standing at his front door. He put a hand over his mouth.

“Hey Phils...” she said with a wide smile, using her nickname for him. A word she had not uttered in almost twenty years. “I was in the old neighborhood and... ah....” She stopped as he approached her.

Phil reached a shaky hand toward her face. “Jules... oh my god... Jules...” She smiled again when she heard him say her name. It felt like she had finally come home. He put her face between his two large hands and kissed her forehead. “I ... thought...”

“Aren’t you going to ask me in Phil?” She cupped Phil’s hand and pressed it against her cheek. “You know, you always taught me it was bad form to keep someone waiting...”

“My girl. My girl,” he said, his voice quivering. “I never thought I’d see you again. I thought you’d forgotten all about me.”

“How could I ever forget my best guy?” She hugged him tightly. “I could never forget.”

Phil took both her arms and guided Jules inside. “Look how you’ve grown. You’re a woman.”