Date: Wed, 27 Feb 2008 20:19:33 -0800 (PST)
From: Matt Wess <cow91387@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Color Red: Part Two

        The brunette permits no time for me to wallow in my past.  He tugs
on a pair of shoes, fixes his hair in the cracked mirror, and we are on our
way.  Deborah still sits in the hallway; no longer dragging on a cigarette,
instead her index finger alluringly traces her lip-stick-smeared lips.  The
brunette is right - she is still hanging onto his false promise and does
not say a word to us as we pass, she only winks.
        None of the other tenants pay attention to us as we descend down a
few levels, not even the young couple who is passionately making out in the
corner of the stairwell.  The brunette casually steps over them, but I can
barely peel my eyes off of them.  They are completely clothed, though the
guy has his hand up her skirt and she is moaning slightly.  As I travel
down the stairs, following the brunette, I glance back up at the couple;
her head is rolling back in pleasure, her red hair dangling freely.  She
catches sight of me, but is not fazed.  The red head is in a state of pure
ecstasy with his hand up her skirt that she bites her bottom lip and lifts
her head off her shoulders to look back at him.
        I am hot around the collar.  My blood is rising; the crotch of my
pants tightens at my stiffness.  I wonder how I could possibly get used to
this life style, when the brunette says, "You're not used to this open life
style, are you?"  He pulls back the deadbolt to the front door and opens
the door for me.
        "No," I admit, stepping outside into the summer heat.  "Is it that
apparent?"
        The brunette does not have any problem lying either, "Yes," he
says, heavily shutting the large steel door behind him.  "But don't worry -
it's apparent in every newbie we get."
        I am, as far as I can tell, the oldest male virgin on the face of
the earth.  Certainly no on else my age, nineteen, is willing to admit it.
Even the brunette has claimed victory, although I'm inclined to believe the
closest he's ever come to a naked woman or man was between the covers of
one of his eight-pagers.
        It is, then, ironic that when I made my escape and attempted to
find shelter I stumbled upon a building that serves something along the
lines of a whore house - where everyone has had sex at least once.  But I
sound like a damn desperate person - as the brunette described to me
earlier today.
        We're standing in a tight alleyway, the sun beating down on us
without any mercy.  I glance up at the facade of the building we just
exited - trying to pick up a defining characteristic in it - something that
would make me feel more acquainted, but like every building post-economic
depression - the facade was a depressing gray, with boarded windows -
giving the impression that no one lived in there.
        I follow the brunette down the alley - and once we get to the main
street - he suddenly shoves me flat up against the wall.  At first I am
completely taken aback, but then I notice the police cruiser passing within
feet of us.  They were going at a strolling pace - looking for mischief.
Once the cruiser is gone - the brunette releases me.
        He fixes his hair, explaining to me, "The police would wonder why a
pair of us would be leaving a 'deserted' alleyway.  Our area of living is
about as popular with the police as speakeasies are.  They'll haul our
asses to jail."
        We walk along the main road for a good amount of time - passing
mostly stores that have been shut down or liquidated by the bank.  The
managers sit outside on the front stoop of the stores that have survived,
tempting costumers, calling out, "Got no money? We'll take anything you're
willing to sell!"
        At one store a couple of remaining flapper girls exit, arms hooked
together.  They catch sight of the brunette and me and start giggling.  The
taller of the two provides a wiggle of the fingers towards the brunette and
is then yanked forward, by her giggling partner.  The brunette is smiling
smugly, his hands shoved deeply in his trousers.
        After a few more minutes of walking - we come upon an open coffee
shop.  Once again, the owner is standing outside - tempting passerby's and
is more than delighted to see that he has captured our interest.  "Well,
hullo there," he beams a toothless smile at us.  "What have you come to buy
today?"
        The brunette pulls out his pockets.  "Sorry - bud - I got no
money."
        The manager frowns.  "Then why you bothering to come 'round?  I
don't want no loiterers taking up space for my paying costumers."
        "Business," the brunette says coolly, stepping forward.  "Some of
the people we are meeting are your paying costumers."
        I provide an apologetic smile to the manager, signifying that I
don't have any money as well.  He watches us from the door as we cross the
tiny, musty coffee shop to a wooden table in the corner.  The Andrew
Sisters are crackling through a nearby radio; an additional worker is
standing behind the counter, arms crossed, as he watches the group of us
suspiciously.
        There are at least four others sitting around the table, before the
brunette and I join ranks.  I'm searching in vain for loose change to buy
what pastry is offered when my eyes come to an abrupt stop on woman.  She
looks so much like a girl I once knew I catch my breath - the plane of her
face, the curl of her blonde hair, eyelashes long and full.  Her legs are
turned sideways on a chair they are long, her hips full, her chest a
stupefaction.  She is smoking pensively on a cigarette.  Her sharp eyes
narrow and train on me.
        A few people are in the progress of greeting the brunette (whose
name I pick up from the others and then suddenly remember is August) when
the girl speaks up, "Who's the kid?" she asks, blowing out smoke.
        August speaks right up, "Oh this here is - is..." his voice fades
away.
        "Jacob," I say to the table at large.
        August claps my back, "Of course! That's it! Jacob!"
        The others begin to quickly welcome me, except the girl who
continues on, "Why's he here?"  The other members fall silent and turn
their gaze on August.  She waits for an answer, then says waving her
cigarette in the air impatiently, "I asked a simple question, August.
Why's he here?"
        "He's my new roommate at the Velvet Lounge," he says softly, so
that the worker could not hear him over the radio.
        She takes another pensive drag on her cigarette, sizing August up.
"I always took you for the type of liking to screwing girls - not guys.
You continue to surprise me, August."
        August is completely red.  "He's not my roommate in that sense,
Lucinda" he hisses across the table.  The blonde named Lucinda continues to
provide her look of skepticism, but August continues along, his eyes
meeting everyone at the table, "Anyway - Jacob's new to the area - thought
we could get him better acquainted to the area and allow him to help out on
tonight's excursion."
        There are a few approving nods, then: "No," Lucinda says flatly.
        "What do you mean 'no'?" August repeats.
        Lucinda snubs out her cigarette.  "What has sleeping with guys
recently inhibit your ability to understand English?  I said 'no' and I
mean 'no'.  These plans have been carefully laid out before - I don't plan
to have some fresh come along and spoil them."  She leans back in her
chair, saying dismissively, "Take him to the circus - it's going to be in
town shortly."
        "I'm not a child.  I can handle whatever it is that you are
planning," I suddenly speak up.  I feel an immediate disliking towards
Lucinda.  "I've probably been through a hell of a lot more than you have in
life."
        "Uh, Jacob..." August is saying under his breath.  I now realize
that Lucinda is starring daggers at me.
        I stop short, push back my chair, and begin to march away from the
table.
        "All right, kid," Lucinda suddenly calls out composedly.  She
lights up another cigarette.  "You think you can handle it - then I'll give
you your chance tonight."
        I provide a mirthless chuckle, "I'm not asking for a chance -
August invited me over to this joint, doll - he said nothing about having
to gain approval from some bearcat."
        Lucinda remains at an angle on her chair, puffing rhythmically,
absorbing my heated words.  I'm ready to turn and walk away - and head back
to Velvet - when Lucinda lazily signals me to sit back down.
        I do so hesitantly, aware that all eyes are on me - including the
worker.
        A blonde lock of hair escapes from its place and bounces in front
of Lucinda's face.  She pushes it away, saying, "You're a no bullshit kind
of guy - we could use your type."  Lucinda pushes the pack of cigarettes
across the table.  "Have a cig," she offers.
        I decline, saying, "I'm not a smoker."
        She reaches across the table, wrapping her fiery red finger nails
around the pack.  "For now," she says, catching my eyes behind a loose
blonde lock.
        Another guy sitting at the table clears his throat.  I noticed him
upon my arrival, but now I get a better look at him: he's about 5'7", my
height, age, a slim figure; it has been awhile since he has shaven.  He
pushes his felt fedora hat back a little bit on his head and asks, "You
know how to drive a car?"
        I only realize that the question was directed towards me when
August kicks me under a table.  I spring to life, saying, "Yes." No.
        The kid nods once in approval.  "He can be our driver," he
addresses Lucinda.  "The more people we have on the inside - the better."
        Lucinda's chin is resting on the palm of her hand, with the
cigarette wedged between her middle and index finger.  Smoke oozes from the
end.  She is still studying me.  "Only if Mr.," she pauses, "I'm sorry,
darling, what did you say your last name was?"
        "I didn't," I respond promptly.
        "Well, then, what is it?"
        Privacy is important to me - so I tell her the lie I've been
telling everyone else, "Paige."
        "Right - Mr. Jacob Page," Lucinda says, "If you think you are
reputable driver then you are in.  Barry - give him the keys to the car,"
she speaks to the kid in the felt fedora hat.  As he sifts through his
pockets for the keys, Lucinda starts to ramble off what is expected of me,
"You will drive this car back to Velvet, but park it at least two streets
away.  You will pick us up at midnight tonight at this very spot - no
sooner or no later."  She takes her last drag on her cigarette, "We'll fill
you in once we are in the car - Barry where the hell are those car keys?"
She slams her hand flat down on the table and turns sharply towards him.
        He has completely emptied out his pockets and is now patting down
his pats, the color slowly draining from his face.
        "Oh for Christ's sake," Lucinda mutters.
        Somewhere outside a car backfires - all of us are on our feet -
Lucinda leads the way out of the coffee shop, pushing aside the disgruntled
manager.
        "Hey!" she shouts, strutting across the street towards a car parked
at the curb.  "Hey! Just what the hell do you think you're doing! That's my
car!"  The wind is whipping her billowing skirt as she approaches the car -
pausing briefly to let another honking car pass between them.
        More than just our group starts to gather around - Lucinda is still
shouting at the driver.  The summer wind that whispers through the city
carries her words, "Hey, buddy! Just what do you think you're doing!"  She
is close enough to yank open the drivers door and as she does so - someone
splits from the crowd and runs out into traffic - causing a car to swerve
and miss him.
        "No, wait!" August calls.
        She already has the door open before August reaches her.  A body
tumbles out of the driver's seat - dead.  August drops to his knees to
check for a pulse, while Lucinda takes a step backward, covering mouth.  A
few emergency whispers break out among the crowd - the remaining group that
had sat around the coffee table hurried forward, including Barry and
myself.
        "Who is this, Lucinda?" Barry questions.
        Lucinda just shakes her head.
        August's head snaps up at the sound of wailing sirens.  As if she
just snaps back into reality - Lucinda scoops down quickly and picks up off
of the drivers seat a note.  She shoves it down her blouse, saying to all
of us, "Our cover is blown - we can't go tonight.  Not a word to the bull,
got it?  Some freak tried to steal our car - someone else bumped him off.
That's our story - no more details." her cool eyes land directly upon me.
"Welcome to New York City, kid."