She left the house and walked lonely in the summer night streets. It had to be that evening. Time denied an egress. She could not contain or stay her desperation with another impersonal nameless fuck. She had to find him to return his hate. She was a vessel in which he had carelessly deposited his soul, and it choked hers. She was a frozen star circling his mysterious orbit, and something profound and undeniable in nature would take her back to him.
Third Street was filled with pushing tourists. The men balanced wide- brimmed hats that would have been suicide on Madison Avenue. The women wore flower print silk dresses, all the same cut and pattern. They must all have been seduced by the same " what to wear in New York" ad.
Some soldiers jostled her and a southern corporal drawled, " Baby ahm just a lonely boy lost in the big city." His buddies laughed uproariously at his witty courage and Gloria knew with nausea that she had to get off the streets.
She went into the dark club where dedicated jazz musicians went to play after hours. Climbing down the steep narrow steps, she could hear a trumpet playing " Melancholy Baby." She sat down at a round table for two and asked the waiter to bring her bottled beer. He brought it to her and took the opener out of his dirty apron, snapped the top of the bottle and pocketed the little cap. Dancers were clinging to each other on the tiny floor, guided away from the bordering tables.
She lifted the beer to her lips and the trumpet wailed for her attention. She looked over the rim of the glass at the slightly elevated bandstand. He was there, whispering into the trumpet. She finished a long, cool, thirst- quenching drink.
She recognized him in a distracted casual glance. The same white eyes flickered expressionlessly over the dancers.
His shoulders, clothed in the dark jacket, hovered over the brass trumpet, protecting it from the smoke- packed room.
Sitting alone at a small table placed at the foot of the platform was a pale young girl. She had long fair hair and the detached melancholy stare of an addict. She moved imperceptibly to the music and smiled secret smiles as if she were receiving coy messages in the melody. Messages reserved for opiate ears. The rapist nodded curtly to the remote girl, and the girl made a responsive motion toward him that was not physical. Her spirit leapt in a movement to return his nod. So he had a woman who waited for him. He took her home after the last set, and if they weren' t too high, they fucked.
You' re going to die tonight, Gloria messaged to him. Blow a dirge. Blow taps for yourself. She didn' t know how she would get to him, but he would die tonight.
A boy with a busy tweed jacket pulled at the rapist' s sleeve and the musician lowered his ear to the customer. A request for " The Lady is a Tramp." The rapist motioned to the piano player and they decided on a key.
She tried to fully feel his presence, the long hunt rewarded. When the band finished playing " The Lady is a Tramp," they scraped back their chairs and took cigarettes out of their pockets. Time for a break. A few young boys in the club dashed up to the platform to play the idle instruments. The rapist walked toward the fair girl. Gloria got up from her table and discreetly blocked his way.
" Don' t musicians dance, too?" she smiled. The invitation was exposed with her teeth.
" Yeah, kid, musicians dance." The customer was always right. He put his arms around her and led her onto the small dance floor. The pale girl looked at them casually. She was accustomed to the rapist not reaching the table.
Gloria felt a great rest, leaning against his chest. She had never really been anywhere else. The rapist looked over his shoulder and directed her effortlessly. She could tell by the uninspired movements that he was annoyed. Sometimes she thought he would not take the next step, just let his arms drop wearily to his side and walk off the floor.
" Not bad," he commented, and she turned around to see that he was staring at the flared hips of a neighboring redhead. The redhead was clinging to her partner. Gloria tightened her grip on the rapist.
" What time do you finish work?"
He remembered she was there. " Two o' clock."
" What do you do when you leave?"
" I go home, baby."
" Do you live in New York?" She was asking all the insipid questions that eager- to- be- friends ask.
" No," he had answered that too often. " I make it in Chicago."
" How long will you be in New York?"
" The band cuts to Ohio tomorrow," he volunteered.
Without you, she thought. You' re going to be stuck in New York.
" Ever been to New York before?" she questioned.
" About a month ago," he supplied.
" Been here before that?"
" About thirty- six times."
He hates me, she thought.
" I live around the corner," she said.
" Great."
They were both silent after that. The dance would end and he would disappear. She moved closer to him, rubbing against his flat stomach.
" Not bad," he sighed. He was looking at the redhead.
" What do you do when you come to New York?" She wanted him to remember, for an instant, for a realized flash, that he had held her in his arms once before."
" I flip," he laughed. " I pick up, prowl and flip."
" Anything interesting happen to you last trip?"
" Nothing interesting ever happens to me, baby. I' m a very uneventful guy."
He loved himself; she could tell that. She remembered that this was a man who got his kick, even if he couldn' t recall it, when he violated a woman. He despised her eager rubbing against his body. He had to initiate the attack and then take the woman before she was ready. If there was time, she would have played the game, created the illusion that he was chasing her. But there was no time for games. The game was up. She touched his pants. He was flat.
He glanced down at her. " What do you do?" He was waiting for the dance to be over, but the unprofessional musicians didn' t know how to end a number. They were afraid that if they stopped they' d never start again.
" I' m a painter," she replied.
" A painter." He was like lead in her arms. " What do you paint – walls?"
She detested his banal humor. It would be too ignominious to kill him if he were a fool.
" Don' t say stupidities," she warned him.
He looked down at her with curiosity. " You take yourself pretty seriously."
" I' m a very serious woman."
He scoffed. " You all are. Women are too much."
" Do you have much trouble with women?" Her hand was on his groin and the bump was shaping.
" I make out." He looked at the clinging redhead. " I make out."
The music rose to a finish. Now, now, now.
" Look," she suggested, " I live right around the corner. Why don' t you come over now for a cup of coffee?"
She wasn' t his type. " I only get a fifteen minute break," he told her. What he meant was, no dice, not interested.
" I' ve got some new jazz records," she was desperate. " They' re terrific." He didn' t answer and she added, " You can have them if you like."
He stopped on the dance floor and watched her. He found it interesting for a woman to be that much out of her mind. It didn' t excite him, but it was interesting. Too bad it wasn' t the redhead.
" Great," he said. " Let' s go listen to your records."
Her heart suffused her throat. For a minute, she couldn' t reply. They were standing in the middle of the floor and the music had stopped. Other dancers were quietly waiting for the next number. They weren' t conspicuous. " I' ll get my bag," she told him. She walked to the table and looked into her purse. The knife was there. He was waiting at the entrance and they walked up the stairs to the street.