by Sean Wallace
Ronnie ignored the tightness in Emielle’s jaw, the look in her eyes.
“I brought something else. Here.”
Ronnie smoothed a sketch out on top of the photographs.
“I thought maybe you could build something for me. They’re like bracers, see? They’d strap right over the jacket’s sleeves, and there are spring-loaded blades here . . .”
“Ronnie. Stop.”
Emielle straightened, dropping her arms to her side. Her expression caught Ronnie off guard, not angry, but pained.
“Do you hear yourself? What do you think you’re going to do with spring-loaded blades? Walk up to these men in broad daylight? Sneak back in the dark of night and murder them in their beds?”
Ronnie’s cheeks flushed. She opened her mouth to protest, but Emielle’s words left no space for her own.
“I’m tired, Ronnie. Let me take you home.” Emielle shook her head.
The lingering pain in Emielle’s eyes deflated Ronnie. Silently, she gathered the photographs and the sketch, slipping them back into her satchel. Emielle hefted a duffle bag from beside the worktable, snapped off the light, and slipped her other arm around Ronnie’s waist.
Ronnie stiffened at the touch. If Emielle noticed, she ignored it, and Ronnie forced herself to relax. Emielle wasn’t her enemy. She leaned into the touch, allowing herself at least for the moment to enjoy the warmth where their bodies fit together.
Ronnie lifted her head from the pillow to find Emielle propped up on one elbow, watching her.
“I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep. What time is it?” Ronnie squinted at the window, the light indeterminate.
“Before dawn.”
Ronnie flopped back, covering her eyes with her arm. Emielle continued to watch her, and Ronnie lifted her arm, rolling over.
“What is it?”
The weight of the conversation they hadn’t finished hung between them, but Ronnie sensed there was something more. Behind the deep green of Emielle’s eyes was a thought she’d been worrying over. Had she slept at all?
“You spent so much time tracking down the men who hurt Sarah, and now you’ve found them. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not . . .”
Emielle looked away. Ronnie sat up, leaning against the headboard.
“You’re saying I’ve led a sheltered life.” An edge of bitterness crept into her tone.
“It’s not that.” Emielle brought her gaze back to Ronnie’s. “I think you’re just underestimating the marks violence leaves on a person.”
Ronnie flinched. Emielle sat up, lacing their fingers together and running a work-calloused thumb lightly over Ronnie’s knuckles. The garage had kept the muscles in Emielle’s arms hard. The rest of her body had softened a bit, but not enough to hide her fighter’s shape. In the pre-dawn light, her scars were visible – the stitches that had left pale lines like comets streaking across the sky, welts and burns that had never quite faded, the marks she’d chosen, and the ones she hadn’t.
Guilt tightened Ronnie’s stomach. She’d only seen Emielle fight once, but the lights, the smoke and sweat of the place remained steeped into her skin. The tiered seats around her had been filled, but the crowd’s roar wasn’t enough to drown the impact of flesh against flesh. After, Emielle had limped from the ring, left eye swollen shut, blood crusting her nostrils, breath whistling painfully.
What Ronnie had seen then and what she saw now were the same thing. The marks of violence were in Emielle’s eyes as well as her skin, ghosts.
“I just want you to understand what you’re getting into.” Emielle’s words pulled Ronnie back.
“And,” Emielle continued, her gaze now fixed on the motion of her thumb, tracing patterns on the back of Ronnie’s hand, “I want you to understand that whatever you choose, it doesn’t just affect you.”
Emielle looked up again, her expression keeping Ronnie from interrupting. This was it, the sliver behind Emielle’s eyes that she’d been working over as Ronnie slept. The weight of it tugged at Emielle’s shoulder, and Ronnie bit her lip, forcing herself to stay quiet and listen.
“I used to fight because I had to, to keep my father from killing me and to stay alive once I ran. When I got off the streets, I kept fighting because it was the only thing I knew how to do, until I realized I could make money in the underground clubs. From that point on, I fought so I could make things better for other people, and I stopped as soon as I could.”
Emielle ran her free hand through her hair. Ronnie kept her silence, but the words pressed against her skin. Emielle didn’t have any siblings, she couldn’t know what it was like to lose someone, not physically, but to pain. The Sarah who’d returned from the hospital wasn’t the sister Ronnie knew – her wounds had healed to a hard scab of anger, and Sarah was lost somewhere inside. And it was Ronnie’s fault.
“I worked hard to make the Double Blind a safe place for people like us,” Emielle continued. “That meant cutting out everything I did to earn the money to buy the club. Violence doesn’t protect people, it makes them vulnerable.”
Emielle sighed, looked away again.
“Last night, when that man attacked Tommy, I could have hurt him, badly. It’s not just that I don’t want to be that person anymore, I can’t. I can’t give the world an excuse, anything they can point to justify the names they call us, the laws they make against us. I have to be better. We can’t go to the cops. We can’t count on anyone else to keep us safe. We have to do that ourselves.”
Emielle let go of Ronnie’s hand. Ronnie gripped the sheet instead. Didn’t Emielle see that’s exactly what Ronnie was trying to do, protect Sarah and make things better? Emielle leaned over the side of the bed, pulling the duffle bag onto her lap.
“I was going to give this to you before . . . everything.” She shrugged, unzipping the bag.
Emielle drew out what looked like a rifle, its body painted matte black, a gleaming copper tube in place of a muzzle. Ronnie caught her breath. There was a canister welded onto the top where a scope might be on a normal gun, and short lengths of rubber tubing leading back to the rifle’s body.
“What is it?”
“A grappling hook gun.” The corner of Emielle’s mouth lifted in a regret-touched smile. She ran her fingers over the gun’s body, not looking at Ronnie. “I built it from spare parts around the shop. I wanted you to have the right tools, for whatever you decide.”
Emielle handed over the gun. Despite the relative lightness of the build, it felt heavy as Ronnie accepted it.
“The hook and rope are in the bag.” Emielle slid out of bed, bending to gather her clothes.
Ronnie wanted to say something to reassure her, but what could she say? Her fingers tightened around the gun, trying to anchor herself, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of the world sliding out from under her, everything slipping beyond her control.
Ronnie stared at the ornate frieze-work on the elevator’s outer doors as she waited for the car to descend.The pattern matched the stonework on the face of the building – a nautical scene of tall ships, stylized waves, and the curling tentacles of sea monsters – celebrating the shipping trade that had made her father his first fortune. This building was just one of many her father had designed throughout the city, all full of the same hard, angular lines and grandiose details.
The doors slid open and the operator in his pressed uniform opened the cage door before touching his cap. “Good afternoon, Miss Dutton. Top floor?”
“Please.”
Ronnie’s heels clicked across the lobby’s polished marble, the sound swallowed as she stepped into the elevator’s cage. She fought the urge to fidget, smooth her blouse, or most of all, light a cigarette. She kept her hands firmly on the bakery box she carried instead, her peace offering.
They rode up in silence. Exiting the elevator, Ronnie let herself into the penthouse and found Sarah sitting facing the window. Ronnie paused, trying to shake the guilt at how long it had been since she last visited.
“I brought you something.” Ronnie crossed the room and knelt by Sarah’s chair, placing the string-wrapped bakery box in her sister’s lap.
“You smell like cigarettes.” It was a moment before Sarah turned from the window. “And don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
Sarah’s mouth, set in a frown, puckered upward on the left hand side where a scar traced its way from her eye to her chin.
“Kneel down so our faces are level.”
“Sorry.” Ronnie straightened.
Tension crawled beneath her skin. No longer holding the box, Ronnie knotted her fingers together.
“You could say thank you.” Ronnie regretted the words the moment they were out. The last thing she wanted was to start a fight.
“I’m not hungry.” Sarah set the box on the table beside her.
Ronnie pushed down annoyance. She wouldn’t let Sarah goad her. As she searched for safe ground, Sarah’s chair finally registered. It wasn’t the plain one from the hospital. The back was printed to match the frieze on the elevator doors and the outside of the building. The wheels and handles given the same bronze flourish as the window guards and railings.
“Your chair . . .”
“Do you like it?” Sarah spun abruptly, the left wheel knocking into the table and tumbling the bakery box to the floor. “A gift from Daddy.”
The scar only accentuated her sneer. Ronnie bent to retrieve the fallen box. She picked at the string, fingers trembling. When she opened her mouth, the words that came out surprised her.
“I tracked them down, the men who did this to you. I know where they’re hiding now.”
She watched her sister carefully. Would the information finally shock Sarah out of her sullen anger? It took a moment for Ronnie to recognize the ugly sound her sister made as laughter.
“So now what? You’re going to avenge me? Ronnie the vigilante. That’s rich.”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“Please.” Sarah’s laughter died, but roughness stained her voice from the exertion, a legacy of hands around her throat nearly crushing her windpipe. “You’re just as bad as Daddy.”
“I’m not . . .” Ronnie bristled, but the twist of Sarah’s mouth stopped her.
“No? When Pruitt bought his men out of jail before they went to trial, don’t you think Daddy could have hit back? He could have had those men killed. Instead, he let them live and made sure Pruitt knew about his ‘act of mercy’. And he made sure the world saw him hold up his lily white hands, a simple, honest businessman grieving for the wrong done to his family.”
“Sarah.”
Her sister continued as if Ronnie hadn’t spoken.
“Those men could have killed me, but they left me alive to send a message to our father.” Sarah’s right hand tightened, the left trembling slightly as her fingers failed to grip the chair’s arm. “And it couldn’t have worked out better for Daddy. Now he can hold me up as his martyred angel, his pretty songbird cut down in her prime. Oh, the career I could have had. The man I would have married. All the beautiful children I’ll never have.”
“I’m not . . .” Ronnie said again, but Sarah cut her off.
“It isn’t about me. Not for Daddy, not for Pruitt. I’m just a pawn in their war. But you, at least, I thought . . .”
Sarah shook her head, her bitter smirk deepening.
“You’re not taking revenge for my sake, you’re just trying to clear your guilty conscience and prove you’re more than just a spoiled little rich girl.”
Ronnie’s hand snapped out before she could stop herself. The crack of flesh on flesh rocked Sarah’s head back. Ronnie’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes stinging.
“Oh, Sarah. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”
Sarah touched her cheek, rubbing the red imprint of Ronnie’s hand covering her scar. When she lowered her hand, she was still smirking.
“That’s the first time you’ve treated me like a human being since I got out of the hospital.”
“What?” Ronnie stared at her sister.
“The way you’ve been swallowing your arguments, tiptoeing around me. Christ, I’m so fucking sick of it.” Sarah snapped the fingers of her good hand. “Hey, give me one of your cigarettes.”
“You don’t smoke.” Ronnie reached into her bag, handing over the cigarette automatically.
“Yeah, but Daddy’ll hate coming back to find the place smelling like smoke, and I can blame it on you.”
Sarah’s eyes glittered with wicked light. Ronnie lit the cigarette for her sister and lit one of her own, her mind still whirling to catch up. Sarah coughed and made a face.
“I don’t know what you see in these things.” Her second drag was smoother; she blew a stream of smoke deliberately toward one of the richly upholstered chairs.
“You know, in a way, it’s actually a relief.” Sarah’s tone was casual, conversational; Ronnie marveled at it. “I outgrew the idea of being Daddy’s little princess when I turned sixteen, but he’d already pinned all his hopes on me after the way you turned out.”
Ronnie opened her mouth, but Sarah ignored her.
“Now, he doesn’t expect anything of me at all, other than to be a prop he can push around. Most of the time, when he doesn’t need me to make him look good for some gala, or some stockholder’s meeting, he just ignores me. I finally have the space to figure out what I want to do with my life.”
“What do you want to do?” Ronnie voice was surprisingly even for all that she was still trying to catch up. The woman before her was a stranger, not the sister she’d known before the accident, but not the one she’d known since, either.
Sarah gave a lopsided shrug, her mischievous grin returning. “I’m thinking maybe politics. Now that women can vote, maybe it’s time we started making some of the laws, too.”
She pointed her cigarette at Ronnie, ash drifting to carpet. Ronnie automatically ground the ashes with her toe.
“And,” Sarah said, “I don’t need you ruining it for me by getting arrested for murder. If you’re really nice to me, maybe I’ll even make it legal for you and all your bulldagger friends to get married one day.”
“I . . .” Ronnie couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
Sarah finally reached for the bakery box, balancing it in her lap and untying the string. Ronnie watched her eat three cookies in a row before leaning back, powdered sugar dusting her fingers, her blouse, and her self-satisfied smile.
On the Double Blind’s stage, a tall, colored man – hair done in smooth finger waves, wearing a shimmery silvery dress – sang Bessie Smith low and sweet. A few couples swayed together, heads pressed close to suit the melancholy song. Ronnie’s head was still swimming, trying to process everything that had happened with Sarah. She needed to find Emielle and apologize. She needed to lean against her, hear herself forgiven, and ask her how to make everything okay again.
The need was childish, but she’d been a child this whole time – a spoiled little rich girl, making Sarah’s injury about herself until she couldn’t even see her sister anymore. Emielle had tried to tell her as much, and she’d refused to listen.
She scanned the room, spotting Emielle by the bar. Tommy, her look inspired by Norma Shearer tonight, stood with her, their heads bowed close, speaking low. At the expressions on their faces, all thoughts of Sarah fled from Ronnie’s mind.
“What’s wrong?”
“A couple of places got raided last night.” Emielle looke
d up, weary expression matched to the rawness of her voice. “The Flamingo and the Diamond Room.”
“The cops were pretty rough.” Tommy sounded like she’d been crying, her eyes behind the smoky make-up confirming it. “A couple of my friends got beat pretty bad. Some of them were held overnight.”
Tommy’s shoulders hitched. Ronnie stepped close, slipping her arm around the girl and pulling her head against her own shoulder, stroking her hair.
“You don’t think . . .” Ronnie’s gaze swept around the room. “I mean, we’ve been so careful. We’ll be safe, right?”
Emielle’s gaze flicked to Tommy who straightened, smoothing her fingers nervously down the front of her dress. The quality of her fear shifted, incorporating an element of guilt.
“The man who grabbed me, before he was bragging about the clubs he goes to, where they hire girls like me to . . . entertain . . . gentlemen. He bragged about how he got one of them closed down.”
Tommy looked down, fresh tears gathering on her lashes.
“I should have kept my mouth shut. Not made a scene. I should have let him . . .”
“No.” Emielle took Tommy’s shoulder firmly, shaking her once. “It’s not your fault. Don’t you dare apologize.”
“You don’t think he could do that to us?” Ronnie said. “Wouldn’t he implicate himself?”
“He could leave an anonymous tip.” Emielle let go of Tommy, but her tone remained distracted. After a moment, she squeezed Ronnie’s fingers, already turning away. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out.”
Ronnie stared after her. The ache she’d felt earlier became a hollowness where anger and fear warred, buzzing between her bones. That a man like that could hurt Tommy, make her guilty and scared, then turn it around and hurt everyone in the Double Blind . . .
The unfairness of it crashed against her. It wasn’t just big acts of violence, like the one against her sister. There was small, petty violence in the world, too, and it was just as damaging. One phone call, one word to the right people, and everything Emielle had built would come crashing down.
Her fingers curled, digging into her palms. She forced herself to let go, to breathe.The first hint of a smile crept across Ronnie’s lips. Maybe she was just a spoiled rich girl, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t still a way for her to make things right.