Stirfry Neon

Cold caught me in the side like an amateur pickpocket who’d rather be boxing for living. Nothing on these cold streets could really be making a living. Just living was difficult enough, keeping a little warmth inside to shore up against the cold and bitter wind and the bite of disdain. Sure there was the holiday spirit, a smile, a strain of a jingled jangled carol, someone stepping aside with a wave but then that fast car would come by and dump icy slush all over your suddenly not so warm boots, even worse if they were designer, even worse if  they were sneaks…Sneaks wear sneaks in this town, you know, sure I got the Burberry and the Indy J hat but the sneaks keep me alive, keep me gripped to the ground, keep me burning rubber when the bill collectors come to town. I always pay my debts, but I never carry cash. Character is my currency, a flash of charisma, one good set of clothes, a quick wit and an even quicker jump off the start line…that’s where you’ll find me…running right by you, the trouble behind charging my trajectory, the trouble ahead calling my name. Are you trouble? Well, do you know my name? That’ll answer your question.

The alley behind my office was dark and damp. Never go in the front door; I learned that early in this game. It’s not Opportunity knocking behind you; it’s more likely your knees from cold, fear or exhaustion. Besides, the fire escape route to the office is good practice for easy escapes. Without diligent practice, leaving quickly through a window with barely a glance behind can be an inelegant pose. Yes, there were photos to prove it, but I burned the negatives and stomped on the memory card. Now I’m as smooth as an eel on wet marble — no splash.

Swung through the window at the end of the hall and paused; a strangely alluring smell lingered — part ginger, part peppermint and pine…but all trouble. After it tickled my nose; it kicked my gut…that kind of a scent…sure wafting’s a nice word, but this was a hurricane. I opened the door. I know what trouble looks like: I see it in the mirror every morning and she wasn’t trouble; she was danger, heartache, vexation and woe, with a hint of tumult and torment. They were candy cane striped legs leading up to North Pole ice floe eyes and I, well I, I’ve just never been able to really breathe in these situations and to slide straight out this window was a five story drop to the head. And I was already dizzy.

She knew the effect she had, riots and hurricanes always do. So she didn’t bother to let me catch my breath; it could have taken a month. Picture her voice; well, picture a Ferrari, then picture chocolate, then listen to the sound they make together: “I lost my husband.”

Yes, I’m an idiot. It’s why we’re here. No one of us would be in this office if we weren’t entirely sure of that fact. Especially not her. So she repeated herself, leaning forward a bit so I could see white lace contrast under the jolly red coat — hang that on the tree — ”I lost my husband.”

“On purpose???!!!!????”

The laugh was even better: shivers mixed with mint mixed with mirth mixed with midnight. “Would I be here, if I had?”

I shrugged. There was never really a good answer to “Why are you here?” but I was staring to hope that this one would take in the scenery, eat up a little time, venture down a detour or four before we got to this car to the cliff overlooking the moonlit view of truth and its uncompromising cousins: promises, vows, mores and manners.

“I want you to find him for me.” She leaned back. Turns out I’d sat myself down sometime between storms. We might have been eye to eye if she hadn’t chosen that moment to stand. “By Friday, Christmas Eve.” She turned, her icy eyes melted into two biting blue seas. “I need him”

But right now, she needed me. And she knew it. Commotion or calm, avalanche or roadblock, jackpot or jeopardy, tonight, I was in its way. And now she was in mine, leaning over the desk, reaching into my inside coat pocket, pulling out my phone, her long fingers efficiently invading, unsettling, unbalanced my one bastion of organization. She tossed it on my desk as if it were made of nothing. I winced at the clipped sound and the bounce, and the dent that would be developing…and the other dent that would be developing when she tossed me with that same languor, the same nonchalance, that same intent to ignore potential harm. She didn’t care how anything landed; I’m not even sure she paused long enough to realize how it felt in her hand. Just another tool, another prop, another lever to pry what she wanted from who she wanted it from. I looked up from the matte, dented, dingy body of my phone to her eyes with their swells of laughter. Laughter at me for caring about such a small, scarred thing; laughter at me for caring about anything. Another tool, another advantage for her.

“There’s my number. Call me.”

And I would. A cold call for a cold December night. And the details? They’d find me. It was raining; it was dark; there were alleys everywhere: dank, dark dead ends with slippery details lurking in the shadows, in the puddles, in the pelting rain…I was soaked already, cold, tired, a little on fire…I picked up the phone as she shut the door behind her; the hint of mint, ginger, pine and hazard lingering along with her razor edged, velvet wrapped whisper, slicing through my nights, my thoughts, my future…”Call me.” I hate phone calls. You never get the lush, thrilling whisper of danger out of your ear. Bruises heal, bills get paid or forgotten but that hint of peril tickles you and you end up here, staring at a phone while the details are meeting up outside, lurking, just waiting to smash in your door…They never bother to knock or stay around to pick up the pieces. Cover your ears.

B OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO MMM

There goes the door.