The odd Greco-Roman structure which marked the Point was shining in the moonlight, growing brighter with each footstep until it was washed in the pale, artificial glow which soaked the interior. The heels of Sean’s boots echoed closely behind, like an assassin’s. Emerging from the other side of the covered embarcadero, he came to a stop in front of his bench — a coated figure lay across it. He was snoring. The first snore brought relief — Sean held an unpleasant notion that every body outside after two a.m. was a dead body; the second brought disgust. It was his bench, his cigarette, his ritual, ruined by this odious breathing overcoat. He gave the bench an angry kick as he about-faced, settling for one of the more exposed and less comfortable spots which lined the promenade.
The excited clamor of a startled flock of geese could be heard from the unlit interior of Lakeside Park, a final frontier for activities that appreciate the cover of darkness. Further listening divulged a muffled argument.
His cigarette burned to the butt, Sean stood up. Back down the promenade and homeward bound. As he approached the intersection of Brooklyn and Lakeshore, a flock of geese burst from the darkness and flew, shrieking, into what was left of the evening. He looked up to watch them form a ghostly chevron, the flashes of white from their exposed chests blinking like so many eyes. Crossing the street drenched him in fluorescent light from the now-closed Quikstop, and he quickened his pace till he reached the softer light of the streetlamps.
He began the ascent up Haddon Hill. A Venetian child tailed him for twenty feet, skipping behind his steady gait. He turned around to catch a glimpse of a romantic city built over water, threatened by an innocent leaning tower. “Leaning Tower of Pizza,” he said aloud as the mural ended.
It was a childish and misguided piece of art that always captured his imagination: hope, romance, anonymity; a fresh start that guaranteed success. He would never get there. “Santa Lucia” spilled from his pursed lips and carried him to the hill’s peak. He wheezed as it leveled, cutting the song short. The terrain began to slope in his favor, restoring the energy needed to roll another cigarette.
The traffic light which marked the intersection changed and then changed again: stop, go. An inane ode to structure and authority at such an untrafficked hour. The squeal of tires announced another presence, and Sean jumped over the low concrete wall of Smith Park, out of the way where he was able to watch the show. The car spun a donut and roared toward the hills. He applauded the driver’s reckless abandon and turned; Smith Park was empty and unlit.
Walking through the moist, dead grass, he glanced over his shoulder, imagining the sounds of a potential assault. There was a picnic table in the center of the park. A quiet place to lie and look at the city’s few stars. Sean’s refuge for his last cigarette and final bowl of the night. Sitting down and rolling up, he sparked his nightcap. A shining object reflected the moon, diverting his attention. Fast money, he hoped.
Instead he found a single stiletto, useless to him and everyone else, not worth a dime without its partner. He picked it up anyway. Fuck, it was Gucci. If he could find the other one he could make an easy twenty-five dollars.
Sean scanned the grass around him using the light from his phone. Looking up, he saw he was near Smith’s plastic mules, locked in their perpetual train to the Mojove. Then he noticed that he was not alone; there was a sleeping body lying comfortably in the dirt behind the mules, with a small bundle near its head. This bundle could contain the missing shoe.
Sean crept toward the body and braced for a reaction, but there was none, so he bent down and dragged the package to a safer distance. He reached inside, immediately jerking his hand out in violent surprise and falling backward. He scrambled to his feet. It was soaked, sticky, and warm. Gathering his wits, he waited to see whether his reaction had disturbed the sleeping individual, but it had not. Regaining confidence, he approached again, this time inspecting his mark thoroughly.
Her legs barely stuck out from under the overcoat, and just one black-stockinged foot covered the other — which held the missing shoe. Sean froze. He then listened for breathing, and hearing none, he gave a hard shove on her shoulder. As the body rolled over, the overcoat fell off. Sean stood shocked; he recognized that face. Or what was left of it.
“Hershe!” he cried, shaking the body. It was cold — she was dead.
He looked for her purse and found it under her knees. It snapped open with genuine Gucci ease. Pulling out the matching clutch, he removed its cash contents; as an afterthought he looked at the ID.
“Karl.”
A moment of hesitation gave rise to a strong, sickly emotion which he suppressed. I was a favorite, she’d understand, he thought. Tossing the wallet back near the body, he began to run in the direction of home. His knees collapsed. Doubling over, he vomited through choking sobs. It didn’t make sense, he’d seen her hours before, broadcasting her contagious charm throughout the neighborhood. Her neighborhood. There wasn’t a soul in their lowly underworld who didn’t like or respect her. Sean gathered his wits and rose to his feet, forcing them once again in the direction of home.
At the foot of the old staircase he changed his mind, crossed the street, and dashed down a road he hadn’t used in six months. Taking a sharp right up the driveway of a solid old Craftsman, he found the hole in the fence and crept through, heading straight to the neighbor’s recessed garage. Greg was awake, at the very least half-alive, and Sean needed his advice and company.
Greg was an old friend, a moderately successful artist whose philosophies stank of France. Sean pounded the door with the bottom of his fist, hearing a snap of rubber and a groan from the tired mattress, followed by the soft opening of a drawer.
“The fuck?! It’s three o’clock. Who is it?”
“Sean, Greg. It’s Sean. You need to let me in, some fucked-up shit, man.”
“I haven’t seen you in months, you’re square, right? We’re square? I’m not opening this door till you promise you’re not here to steal my contentment.”
“I promise, Greg! It’s nothing like that. Fuck you, man, open the door!”
The dead bolt clicked and Sean pushed his way in. The place hadn’t changed — a pack of needles lay next to the sheetless mattress on the floor, along with tinfoil and a half-burned candle. Greg’s silver spoon hung on the bleach-white plaster wall by two rusting nails, one of which held a corner of his latest piece: A Chaotic Nightmare of Purples. He stepped over the mess of strangled tubes of acrylics and fell into the lone piece of furniture, an ugly old yellow rocking chair with shredded upholstery, and began to sob.