The Crimson Shaw

by Elyse Lortz

  It was not enormous, nor quite so elaborate as those great places spotted through the breath of Europe. The entrance was not small, but I noted a brief bow of Keane’s lengthy frame as he led me forward into the chaos. That was the only way to describe it: the epitome of humanity’s wilderness. Dizzying swirls of women, dripping with sparse fabric and lipstick, dominated the room as tornadoes do the great plains. Their winds of flirtatious whispers left only a path of admirers ready for a single night’s exploits before turning to another pair of outstretched arms for comfort. I tugged self-consciously at the neckline of my dress; or rather, the lack of it. The thin material scarcely brushed my collarbone before dipping downward in a way that was neither tasteful, nor comfortable. Keane grabbed my freehand and gently tucked it over his arm that had previously secured my other limb. Though he was perhaps as fond of the confounded dress as I was, he at least needed not endure the humiliation of wearing it. To his credit; however, his masculinity compelled him to the facade of a cream-colored suit and thin, polka-dotted tie. His wavy hair was again slicked back against his head, which would be amended immediately after we recovered the photograph and retreated back into our lives.

  The doorman, a grey-suited man with the solid outline of a firearm jutting out from his jacket, nodded to Keane as he pulled me into the seizure-inducing spectacle of lights and noise. I tried to overlook the occasional pair of greedy, masculine eyes dripping down to the inexpensive pendant dangling low beneath my neckline. I tried, but clearly not well enough, for we had only gone a matter of feet before my companion bent low over me with his lips a mere brush away from my ear.

  “Remember to smile, Lawrence. You aren’t dying.”

  “I might as well be. Do you realise how dipriciating this thing is? Oh, of course you don’t. You don’t have oversexed men ogling at your every move.” Keane had no time to retort before we arrived at one of the several gambling counters.

  Recent converts to the little casino were required to fill out some sort of membership card, which Keane had obviously done some days before under the name of Leslie John McCormic. I too added my own created signature while my companion exchanged thick wads of bills for a wide selection of chips; not just tens or twenties, but colored disks equivalent to that of hundreds, or even thousands of dollars. As I returned the pen to the man behind the marble countertop, my companion glanced over my shoulder at the spidery ink sprawled across the card and gently grasped my arm as we motored out into the whirring hive of people.

  “Ingrid Shearer?” He questioned, his voice bearing the light glimpse of amusement which tended to be reflected in that infamous twinkle shimmering within his blue eyes.

  “Well, I decided, if you had the gull to be Leslie, I could be Ingrid. Quite logical, don’t you think?” His only answer was a throaty chuckle as we wandered aimlessly, students to the international art of lazy money-making. What might have been a large room felt incredibly confined as a constant stream of newcomers became woven into the fabric of the elite. The stench of cigar smoke made love with the unforgivable odor of cheap perfume. An adjacent room, considerably smaller but with better lighting, proved a haven for a throng of showgirls, who evidently performed at night, as well as day. Some strange man, floating quickly away from the docks of sobriety, jammed his elbow into Keane’s side; muttering out some slurred question no doubt derogatory, if not to the whole of my sex, then at least the line of prissy girls kicking their legs shamelessly below the multicolored lights. Keane’s voice fell dramatically from its English clip to something that might have harrolded from the ports of Boston.

  “I don’t care for bare bodies unless I love them.” And so saying, I was again swept away into the throbbing clacks and curses at the heart of the casino.

  It ought to have been disorientating, but I felt, if not steadied by Keane’s presence, then reassured. I watched politely as he leaned low against the craps table, tossing the dice languidly, as though the hundreds of dollars wavering in the balance were mere pennies one could lay across the train tracks. Eventually, when his pile had become increasingly bountiful, I moved off on my own with no intention of making a profit. I drank little, but feigned more, lost enough at the roulette wheels to secure a book’s imminent publication, and endured the sickening looks of half a dozen buffoons; illiterate to all but a deck of cards.

  And yet I left the wheels with near five times my starting amount. With a motion that might have resembled some glimpse of intimacy, I moved across the room, slipped my winnings into Keane’s breast pocket, and whispered a vague destination caused by the wine and other fluids of the day. Where the roguish elegance of the main arenas had been dulled by the idiocracy of human greed, the halls leading to the washroom were lined with enormous mirrors framed in lights. I gently pried open the lavatory door and allowed my eyes to befall upon a room large enough for a sizable convention. Unfortunately, that also meant there was not but open space between myself and the couple mashing themselves into the other wall. The bleach-blonde woman screeched at my entrance, and while I grasped desperately at the faintest glimpse of an apology, the man pushed past me into the noise, leaving his necktie lying limp on the floor, along with my profuse embarrassment. The woman, save the shot burst of understandable surprise, appeared unshaken by the entire occurrence. Instead, she patted the back of her hair and pulled the thin straps of her dress from where they had slipped from her shoulders. With a quick adjustment the rest of her fawlty wardrobe, she made her own grand exit. The remnants of my horrified blush must have still flickered over my features when I again stationed myself at Keane’s side behind the craps table.

  “When the devil happened to you?” His rich chuckle was heavily diluted by a sudden uproar announcing yet another glorious win. I leaned hard into his shoulder.

  “How the hell haven’t the police found this place? It’s hardly inconspicuous.” Another chuckle shook my companion’s chest and he nodded his head toward a man slouched over in a nearby chair.

  “Why don’t you ask that gentleman? No doubt, as commissioner, he should be able to provide you with a sufficient answer. And, as for the rest of your friendly neighborhood policemen, the facade upstairs fends them off rather well.”

  “And what would that be? Some sort of church?”

  “Close. Would you guess a temperance house?” I recoiled from him quickly as though he had landed a solid punch in my stomach.

  “You’re joking?”

  “Hardly. Now, if you are ready to leave,” Keane swept our combined winnings into his hands. “Would you care too . . . “ I shook my head. Violently.

  “You go and cash those. I’ll be alright. Really. Meet you at the car?” He nodded and strode off toward one of the elaborate marble counters partially concealed by a few ecstatic men cradling some newfound success at the gaming tables. I smiled—my first real smile all evening—and slipped quickly toward the door.

  The clean evening air struck me back a step as I emerged from the pit of filth. It always does one’s lungs good to escape from that revolting cigar smoke. Keane never seemed quite so affected by the heavy smog of tobacco. But, then again, the state of his own respiratory organs was hardly comendable.

  I closed the gap between myself and the automobile in a series of conscious, balanced steps. No question about it: these shoes were to be pried from my legs. My tortured feet liberated, I sank back into the black leather and contented myself with the silence as I awaited Keane’s return. Other groups seemed ready to leave as well. I counted at least a dozen people rushing to their cars and speeding off into the waning night. Suddenly the driver’s door clicked open and Keane practically fell into the seat beside me.

  “Well,” I sighed. “That was . . . ”

  “Exhausting? Yes. No doubt we shall both sleep past noon.”

  “By God, Keane, and you have done this every night for what? An entire week? It’s a miracle you’re not lying face down in a gutter somewhere.” My companion eased our mechanical steed out onto the ab
andoned streets.

  “Yes, well, it will all be over soon. Oh, and for heaven’s sake, take a cigarette if you need it. Lord knows I do.” I headed his welcomed advice, slipped my hand carefully into his jacket pocket, and brought out his silver cigarette case. However, rather than rows of white, paper-wrapped cylinders, it had been stuffed with coins sizable in both weight and value. I glanced curiously at Keane, whose eyes wavered slightly from the road.

  “When one gains much, much must be sacrificed, eh, Lawrence? No matter. Try the glove box. There should be some in there.” I opened the compartment and, true to his word, a package of the much needed tobacco lay casually atop a pile of other miscellaneous objects. I took one, rolling the paper slowly between my fingers before lighting it. What joy—what bliss—there was in that bitter smoke as the stale taste of vile sin was cleansed by the light brush of vanilla lingering through tobacco. Two long draws was all I needed and I handed the glowing cigarette to Keane, who immediately began pulling the life out of the flickering orange end. I dropped the coin-filled cigarette case into Keane’s pocket as I started lighting a second from the open package. I took a deep, luxurious puff before passing it off to my companion. In doing so, I caught a quick glance at the rearview mirror.

  “How long has that Continental been following us?” He hissed into his cigarette, sending a white stream of smoke over his shoulder.

  “A little over a mile. Relax, Lawrence. I am hardly a novice behind the wheel.”

  “That may be so, but aren’t they getting rather close?” Just as I stated what must have been obvious to Keane long before, the black automobile charged forward into our rear, knocking me forward with dangerous vigor. A few inches further and my head would have smashed through the windshield. My shoulders were suddenly shoved back into the seats as Keane heaved the accelerator against the floor. He could have been a racecar driver. In another lifetime, he could have been many things. However, at that moment, he was not more than an extraordinary man driving against insanity.

  The other car struck again, harder this time. From somewhere behind us came the blood-chilling cry of a bullet that met a cannon in one motion. Our vehicle lurched to one side, then the other. In a matter of forced breaths, we were careening out of control directly toward the bridge stretched over a river. The stale taste of vomit caught in my throat as Keane desperately tried to steady the car, not so much by his fingers soldering to the wheel, but an iron will determined we not tumble into the cold river as a ball of mangled metal and fire. My body hurled forward again, the vomit inching forward in my throat. But the world wasn’t moving anymore. The buildings remained stationary over the paved ground.

  We had stopped.

  The breath in my lungs caught for eternity before allowing me to break the silence with the first tentative hums of relief that had been held at bay by fear. Two men, both armed, stalked toward us with a purpose known all too well by those who have faced danger. Keane pushed open the driver door with his toe and, hands raised above his head, climbed out into the line of fire.

  “Good evening, gentlemen. I trust you—”

  “Cut the chit chat unless you want an extra hole in your head.” The man’s voice rattled like a tin of gravel, cutting the air with the constant abandonment of several consonants. Chicago, perhaps? The Bronx? The stomp of feet echoed through my ears as they moved ever closer to Keane.

  “Where’s the girl?” The second man was definitely from Los Angeles.

  “Girl?” A gun cocked its warning.

  “Quit stalling, old man. Dark blonde hair. Red dress. Damn dame walked in on me when I was in the middle of some important business with a partner of mine.” Partner or lover? I thought—no, I knew—Keane would be ever the gentleman; denying everything to protect a woman’s dignity for entering a lavatory and finding two individuals deep in the dance created for the two sexes. I climbed out of the car and two guns immediately swiveled to attention.

  It was difficult at first to recognise the man in the blue suit. But then, when you find someone in as vulnerable a position as I had, their face is hardly the first thing you notice. To my imagination’s utter shock, there were no unnatural markings spotting his face; no scars, bullet puckers, or acid burns. There wasn’t even a ruddiness remaining from adolescence. There was nothing but hot, lethal anger. He looked me over with eyes that were scarcely human. In two heavy strides, he had caught hold of my wrist with one hand while the other pressed the barrel of his pistol into my throat.

  “You little bitch. Why, I odda shoot you here and now. In fact, that’s just what I’m gonna do.” He shoved me against the bridge’s cold rail with enough force that, had I been wearing those damnable shoes, I would have toppled over the edge head first. A gun was raised, cocked, and—

  “Wait a second, Charlie.” My makeshift firing squad turned to his partner, the pistol still jammed into the hollow of my throat. “Let the old man do it. The police know us, ya’know?” The barrel moved from my face and swiveled to face Keane, who had no doubt been concocting ways to take down both men in a matter of seconds. I waited expectantly for some gentlemanly remark that would save him from performing so distasteful a task.

  I had never been so wrong.

  Keane stepped forward, both firearms trained stiffly on his chest. A third gun was placed in his hands and he—my dearest friend and confidant—lifted the weapon until the leering metal paused in sight of my forhead. The man removed from his role as executioner glared at my companion.

  “And how do we know you won’t miss or make some other stupid mistake? Old fogey like you probably couldn’t hit a cow’s ass.”

  BANG!

  A gaudy hair pin exploded just above my ear. My brain, though rattled, was somehow able to comprehend Keane lowering the smoking gun toward the ground.

  “So?” The Charlie chap scoffed. “You might have been aiming for her head and missed.”

  “Really? Well then, would you like to see the other one?” Keane raised the gun again, steadied himself, and—

  BANG!

  Another broken pin fell to the bridge’s rough surface. God, if I survived this, Keane and I were going to have a stern talk about these William Tell fancies of his. My companion rubbed the warm trigger with the pad of his forfinger, as if turning over several ideas in his mind at once.

  “If I’m going to do this, would you mind if I at least did it in my own way. It would be a shame to shoot her without some . . . enjoyment? At my age opportunities are scarce and certainly not cheap.” The two adjacent men chuckled at the throaty inclinations of my companion’s proposal and gifted him with a sharp nod. He handed the gun to the one nearest himself and rubbed his hands together; fingertips to palm, until I found myself inching back against the rail. Step by step he slowly approached, his eyes grabbing mine with an expression I had seen on the fiercest predators as they prepared to pounce upon their prey. When the distance between us had dwindled to nothing more than a few feet, he grabbed my shoulders and pulled me hard against him. His mouth clamped onto mine in something much too painful to be a kiss, and it certainly could not be favorable to even the most hopeless of romantics. Something cold slipped into the top of my dress, biting into my flesh as though warning of the imminent death to soon befall me. Just as I grew accustomed to the warmth of his dark suit or the burning danger of the situation, Keane pushed me back against the rail and returned to the men for the gun. As he checked the bullets, he turned slyly to them.

  “You needn’t be concerned. I have already proved I am an exceptional shot. Have either of you read Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure? No? A pity. Well, I assure you gentlemen, Ingrid here will be as dead as the dear Claudio.” I knew my fate then. I knew it and allowed my chin to rise as those thousands of soldiers set to meet their maker. If I must die in the United States of America, the least I could do was be British and hold a stiff upper lip. Keane raised the pistol to my chest, cocked the trigger, and—

  PART FOUR

  Death is the
most terrible of all things,

  for it is the end,

  and nothing is thought to be either good or bad for the dead.

  -Aristotle

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  BANG!

  God, it made him sick. That final noise—that shout of metallic desperation—and she was flung backwards over the edge and down, down into the black river. He had played that scene over in his mind for more than a day now, and each horrid memory left his stomach lurching and his lungs gasping for a cigarette. He reached blindly for the nightstand, flicked on the lamp, and glanced at his wristwatch. She had given it to him a few months before on his birthday. It was a nice piece; gold, but durable, and made with fine craftsmanship. Yes, it was simple, but still endearing to its owner.

  It was also three o’clock.

  He rolled over onto his back and shoved the heels of his hands into his throbbing eye sockets. There had been times in the navy when he had gone with precious little sleep—none, in fact—but he wasn’t a young sailor anymore. He wasn’t even a young man.

  Blast. How could it be three o'clock?

  It wasn’t that he minded getting old. After all, it was a part of life. You are born, you live, you grow old, you die. Oh, he had a while yet before that last bit. Decades, God willing. He wasn’t ready to die yet, but she wasn’t either. She was still young with her whole life ahead of her. She was incredible, and smart, and—

  Bloody hell.