Songs of Love & Death

by George R. R. Martin; Gardner Dozois

  “Great. Text me when you get them, all right? Don’t forget to lock up on your way out.”

  “Have a good day, Dorian.” He gave her the appropriate kiss on her forehead and then was gone.

  THE BOX OFFICE did have a pair of tickets for that evening. They were even decent seats. Charlotte was very apologetic, promising she’d have more notice next time, and that this was an emergency, and she was very grateful. On the other hand, the box office manager outdid herself apologizing in return, making sure the tickets were the best ones possible, and thanking her for the opportunity to be of service.

  Dorian would have known what to do in this situation. The problem wasn’t that Charlotte didn’t have pull. The problem was she didn’t know what to do with it.

  The manager filed the tickets with Will Call, she texted Dorian, and went to her favorite coffee shop to write.

  Then she saw him.

  She was at a sidewalk table, chin resting on her hand, staring at the traffic moving along the tree-lined street, because staring somewhere else wasn’t any less productive than staring at a blank page. She caught movement. It might have been the flickering of a set of leaves at the top of one of the trees, but it wasn’t. It was a person on the roof across the way. Jeans, dark T-shirt, and a mask.

  He seemed to realize that she saw him. He stood and ran, disappearing to the back of the roof.

  She stood, jostling the table and tipping over her coffee, which streamed to the edge and dripped to the sidewalk. Grabbing her notebook and satchel, she ran across the street, dodging cars like a creature in a video game. At the first alley she came to, she ran to the back of the building to look, but of course he wasn’t there. Just trash that hadn’t made it into the Dumpsters and puddles from the last rain filling cracks in the asphalt. The back doors of various businesses, shut and blank.

  Maybe if she waited here until after dark, she’d get caught by muggers, and the masked man would come to rescue her. She didn’t want to leave, she didn’t want to pretend that he was a ghost, that it hadn’t happened, that she could move on.

  “Hello?” she called. Her voice rattled in the empty space and no one answered.

  DORIAN WAS WORKING late again and asked her to bring dinner—Thai takeout—to his office.

  “He’s a crazy superhuman vigilante. You know what they’re like,” he said when she told him the story.

  She felt the need to defend the superhero. While not offending Dorian. “You’re both working so hard to catch these guys, maybe you should work together. Pool your resources. Collaborate.” That was a theater word. She should have used another.

  He gave her a look, appalled and amused at once. A “yeah, right” and “don’t be ridiculous.”

  That night, back at her own apartment, she tried to sleep, couldn’t. She collected her notebook and sat by the window. Still didn’t write a word, but sitting with a pen in hand at least made her feel productive. The moon was full; she could see every detail of the street, the apartment blocks, the row of shops and Laundromats with steel grates pulled over the doors; at night, all the colors washed out to various degrees of half-tone shading.

  On the roof of a row of shops, a figure moved. Monochrome, like the rest of the scene. Black T-shirt. Charlotte couldn’t see his face.

  He was watching her. He was. And her heart fluttered at the thought.

  SHE HAD SEEN him at all hours. Mostly on rooftops. She couldn’t predict where he’d be, unless maybe she staged a convenience store robbery. But the odds of that ending badly were very, very high, so she didn’t.

  Instead, she went to the top of a parking garage on the fringes of downtown with a set of binoculars and scanned the surrounding rooftops. She might have become a vigilante herself, searching for crime, because if she found crime, she’d find him. She didn’t see anything.

  For another night, she sat at her bedroom window, wrapped in a blanket, waiting for a shadow to race across rooftops and strike a dramatic pose.

  And she started writing. Just a few lines in her notebook.

  Dorian took her to a charity banquet and introduced her to the mayor. She wore the red dress she’d worn on opening night, met the mayor, accepted compliments from the DA, and Dorian beamed. The evening was a strange echo of the first night they’d met, but different. She was different. An accessory instead of a novelty. She should have been thrilled—this was part of her dreams of a glamorous life, wasn’t it? But she was distracted. It all seemed shallow.

  For real drama, some disaster would strike the banquet. Some villain or group of thieves—maybe the same gang that had robbed the jewelry store—would storm the hall, divest the women of their jeweled necklaces and the men of their gold cufflinks, along with wallets and platinum cards and stock portfolios. They would take Charlotte hostage. The red dress made her stand out.

  Then he would arrive, an epic battle would ensue, there’d be flames and bullets, she’d be trapped behind a burning door and he would—

  “What are you looking for?” Dorian asked her.

  “Oh. What? Nothing. Nothing.” She’d been craning her neck, looking at the doors and windows for impending drama.

  “You writers,” Dorian said, squeezing her hand.

  SOME NIGHTS, SHE went to the theater to take in the atmosphere, but avoided Otto because he always asked about the next play. She watched the old play from the house once, but otherwise sat backstage, well out of the way, and made notes. She was like an observer on a rooftop.

  The text messages from Dorian continued. “Sry. Work ran late. Will make it up to you. xoxo.”

  So again, she took herself to dinner, to the same favorite café with the rooftop patio. It was raining, but she asked to sit on the patio anyway.

  “But it’s raining,” the host said.

  “I have an umbrella,” she said.

  She dried off a chair with a napkin and sat in a sheltered spot near the wall that housed the main part of the café, under her umbrella, drinking coffee. The petunias and daisies in the large planters at each corner drooped, and the sky grew grayer.

  And there he was. He didn’t seem to mind the rain. The T-shirt molded to him a little more, and water dripped off his arms and the edges of his mask. Quickly she stood, then thought maybe she shouldn’t—she didn’t want to scare him off. But when he didn’t run, she didn’t sit down.

  “Hi,” she said.

  A moment passed. “Hi.”

  He seemed nervous; he kept looking away. So he was shy. That made sense. He had secrets to hide, no one could know who he was—it was all very romantic, she was sure. Beautiful, even right down to his jeans, to his ungraceful boots.

  Then he said, “I have to go—”

  “Wait!” But for what? For her? How did she talk a masked avenger into waiting for her? “Who are you?” She winced. So obvious.

  He gave her a lopsided smile. “I can’t say.”

  “But—” And what excuse would she give, about why she was different? Why was she any different, except that he’d once plucked her out of the air? “Why are you following me?” she said, surprised to say anything, even the first thing she thought of. She’d expected to let him flee.

  “To make sure you’re safe. That gang—they could come after you again.”

  “Really?”

  He averted his eyes. So the answer was no. She hadn’t thought so.

  “If you’re looking for them, trying to catch them, you should talk to Dorian. He’s my—” She didn’t want to say the word. She didn’t want to shut the door. “My friend, he’s an assistant DA, he’s got the robbery case if it ever goes to trial. He’s working with the police. He may have information you can use. Maybe you could work together.” It seemed reasonable.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Is it just because of the mask? Because you’d have to tell them who you are? I mean, do you really have to hide who you are?”

  “It’s traditional,” he said, and now he sounded apologetic. The only express
ion she could see under the mask was a flat-lipped frown, a gaze somewhere between determined and resigned.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t pry, but it’s just—I’m sorry.” It’s just that he was strange, and she wanted to help him.

  “I saw your play,” he said then.

  She wondered, How? Was he in the audience? In the rafters? How had she missed him? But what she asked was, “What did you think?”

  “I liked it.” What a sweet smile. He turned bashful again. “I’d never seen a play before.”

  “Really? Really? Oh my God, mine shouldn’t have been your first play ever! How could you have never seen a play?”

  “I guess I don’t get out much,” he said, which seemed ironic.

  They just kept standing there in the rain. She lifted the umbrella and stepped closer to bring him under the shelter—he stepped back, as if afraid.

  She tried not to be hurt. Tried not to take it personally. She swallowed her pride.

  “I don’t know anything about you.” A statement containing all her questions. “I mean, where do you live? What do you do? Do you have a day job? A… a girlfriend? What’s your name?”

  He might as well have been an alien, a character, a face on a billboard. He seemed uncertain, pain in his eyes—biting his lips. He seemed to consider. When he returned, taking back the step he’d moved away, closing the distance between them, she thought he’d tell her everything. He moved quickly, with the reflexes that had saved her from crashing to the pavement. Touched her chin with gentle, calloused fingers.

  She closed her eyes, waiting for that kiss, and so didn’t see him run away. Only felt a draft on her face where there should have been warmth.

  “Wait!” She saw a shadow fleeing through the mist, then he was gone, and she was alone, the only one stupid enough to stay on the rooftop in the rain.

  THE NEXT EVENING, Dorian’s text message about working late came later than she expected, but it came. It rained again, and Charlotte imagined the masked man out there in it. She watched the news for an hour, looking for signs of him. But he didn’t seem to be busy tonight, or if he was, the network wasn’t showing it. They were more interested in the flashier heroes, the Invincibles and Red Meteors, who had a sense of style and public relations. And she thought of Dorian in his courtroom attire, which was just as alluring as a vigilante costume, in its own way.

  Then she wondered. Dorian had been so busy lately.

  The masked man had brown eyes, Dorian had brown eyes. They were about the same height, and their chins—chagrined, she realized she couldn’t say that she had ever noticed Dorian’s chin before. It was a nice chin, average. She noticed the hero’s chin because the mask drew attention to it.

  The masks were deceptive. They seemed like they shouldn’t be able to disguise anything, but it was more than a mask, it was a distraction. She had never, ever seen Dorian in jeans and a T-shirt. His version of casual involved Dockers, polo shirts, and loafers. Boating or golf attire. He always had a bit of polish because, as he said it, he never knew when he might run into someone who needed impressing. She could never imagine him standing out in the rain, wearing a T-shirt and a goofy smile.

  Maybe that was the point. She had seen Marta in half a dozen shows, playing ingenues and dutiful daughters, unrecognizable from one role to the next.

  Later that week, they didn’t meet for dinner, but she came over to Dorian’s place anyway, late, to spend the night. Dorian was in the kitchen, pouring himself a tumbler of scotch.

  “You’ve been working late a lot,” she said, watching for his reaction.

  “Yeah,” he said, in a mock long-suffering tone.

  “What exactly do you do?” She winced because it sounded accusing.

  “Paperwork, mostly, believe it or not. I meet with people all day so the paperwork gets put off. And the police work late. I like to keep track of them.”

  “Ah. I guess I’ve never had a sense of what goes on in a real job.” She quirked a smile, trying to make it a joke.

  “That’s why you have writer’s block. You need to get out in the real world and then you’d have something to write about.”

  She tried to remember how the masked man had smelled. She’d been close enough to smell his skin, his sweat. Maybe she could tell if he and Dorian smelled the same. But all she remembered from him was the smell of rain on fabric, and the sensation of warmth when he touched her.

  Get out in the world so she’d have something to write about. Yeah.

  WHILE DORIAN SLEPT, Charlotte was about to go sit by the window when Dorian’s phone rang.

  He seemed to be ready for it. “Hello? Yeah?” He rolled out of bed and took his phone into the next room. Sitting very still, she could hear.

  “You got them? They’re cornered and not surrendering… Of course I want to be there. Give me fifteen minutes.” He came back into the bedroom and dressed quickly—he didn’t even bother with a tie.

  “What?” she said.

  “Never mind. Go back to sleep. It’s all right.”

  “But—”

  He was out the door. He’d never even turned on the lights.

  Something was happening. Or was about to happen.

  Charlotte got up and went to the next room to turn on the TV, but whatever was going on, the news hadn’t picked up on it yet. Dorian’s laptop sat on the desk, and she went there next, fired it up, and checked “Rooftop Watch.”

  A dozen updates had been posted just in the last ten minutes. “It’s those jewel thieves, the cops are there.” “Any supers?” “On the lookout for supers.” “The police seemed to be centered on 21st and Pine.”

  She was turning into one of those superhero stalkers who haunted Web sites like this and posted conspiracy theories. She didn’t care.

  Then she read the latest post: “Blue Collar’s been sighted! Just for a second!”

  Charlotte found her phone and called Dorian. Waited, and waited, but got no answer. And maybe that was her answer. She called a cab while getting dressed, reached the curb just as it pulled up, trundled into the backseat, and told the sleepy-looking driver the address.

  “And hurry!” she said, like this was some spy movie. He sighed.

  They didn’t get there. The police cordoned off the area a block away. A dozen squad cars parked, flashing lights reflecting off the concrete walls of body shops and warehouses, red, white, and blue, fireworks and Christmas at once.

  The driver glared at her like it was her fault. She paid him and left.

  She ran, just to see how far she’d get until someone stopped her, which turned out to be pretty far, because no one was looking out to the streets for crazy women. They were all looking inward, to the unfolding drama. She joined the inner circle, the edge of the stage, and watched.

  Six masked jewel thieves sprawled in a heap on the ground, their purple outfits streaked with dirt, their ray guns in a neat pile a few feet away, as though someone with superspeed had snatched them away and placed them there.

  And there he was, her rescuer, standing over them and looking worn out rather than particularly heroic. His arms hung at his sides, and he seemed to be trying to catch his breath. A couple of suited men who might have been detectives stood across from the thieves, who seemed like prey that he’d caught and delivered to them. Also with the detectives was Dorian. Dorian and the masked man were looking at each other.

  Then the masked man saw Charlotte. When he turned to look, so did everyone else. The jig was up.

  Dorian called, “Charlotte! What are you doing here?”

  The uniformed cops on either side of her looked her over and glared.

  She didn’t say anything, hardly noticed that the tableau had unfrozen, and police were now collecting the thieves, putting handcuffs on them, and shoving them into cars. That left Dorian, the vigilante, and Charlotte.

  “I told you you guys should work together,” she said lamely.

  “Charlotte—” Dorian exclaimed again, a word that was a question
, demanding explanation.

  “Are you having an affair?” she asked him, because it was the only other thing she could think of.

  “What? No! For God’s sake, what gave you that idea?”

  He was indignant enough that she believed him, but she also wasn’t sure she’d be able to tell if he was lying. She watched actors on stage all day, and actors on stage did nothing but lie while convincing her they were telling the truth.

  “It was all those late nights,” she said, and tried to explain all at once, to both of them. “All those broken dates and the evasions and I thought, I thought something must be going on. Then I met him”—and she still didn’t know his name—“and I thought, I don’t know what I thought. You both have brown eyes.”

  He looked at the masked man, looked at Charlotte, and sounded a little forlorn when he said, “I told you, I was working late.”

  “And how many men have said that to how many women? It’s like something out of a bad play.” She stopped. Here they were, three on the stage at the close of the curtain, a gothic postmodern shambles. The police lights flashed and didn’t seem real. She knew exactly what gels would make those colors on stage.

  She walked away, upset at how disappointed she was and how foolish she felt. This all seemed so plain, so messy. Couldn’t we make it… prettier, she had said to Otto.

  She got to the end of the block when the masked man appeared in front of her. That was what it looked like, he just appeared, after a blur of motion.

  “The thing is,” he said, “I can’t take you out to dinner. I can’t be there for the openings of your plays. I can’t answer the phone every time you call. I can’t do any of that. But I can still… I can still try.”

  She could have a hero, or have someone who was always there to take her to dinner, but not both.

  He took off his mask, and she didn’t know him. He seemed young, but the faint stubble and even fainter crow’s-feet—laugh lines—gave him rough edges. He was handsome. He was sad. She knew nothing about him.

  One thing he could do, though, was stand over her broken body, striking a pose and looking tragically bereft before he flew off into the night. And it would be pretty, dramatically speaking.