business—remember?”
“Shhh. Shut up.” He pulled her back toward the wall, and she angrily threw his hands off.
“You cocky Irish bast—”
His mouth was on hers, suddenly, his body pressing her against the brick. On reflex, she opened her mouth, let herself be handled, let herself be used, before jolting back to the present. Rick wasn’t using his tongue, the kiss not motivated by lust. Her hands unclenched and she held them gingerly against his back.
He whispered: “Good girl. Doyle and other cops, walking.”
He tilted his head to the left, his hat obscuring any view of her face. His mouth was on her right ear.
“Gone yet?”
“Talking at a booth.” She could feel his lips brush her hair. “What’s the perfume?”
“Vol de Nuit.”
“Not your old stuff. In New York.”
His body was warm, and she squirmed. She stopped wearing Je Reviens the same year she stopped remembering.
“Too old-fashioned. They gone?”
“Wait. Turn your head.”
She faced Clay, watching the roving bands of partygoers laughing under the neon signs.
“S’OK now.”
Miranda took a deep breath, fixed her hat, met Rick’s eyes. They crinkled at the edges, which irritated her.
“Thanks. I think. So what do you suggest now, Sir Galahad?”
He took her elbow. “Let’s go get something to eat.”
“In this mess?”
He shrugged. “We’ll find a couple of seats. Universal Café, Shanghai Low, we’ll find something.”
They threaded through the games of chance with no chance at all, pop the balloon mister, throw a dart, do it for China. Men with sweaty necks tried to arm-wrestle the Chinese acrobat and win a dollar.
End of the alley, Sacramento Street. Drunks wavered by, unhindered by cars, all traffic except human closed off until tomorrow. Rick pulled Miranda toward a tawdry black tent, propped against an association wall. The sign outside read MADAME PENGO—PAST—PRESENT—FUTURE.”
“Where the hell are you going?”
He pushed his hat up, eyed the long line of Madame Pengo’s customers, mostly women, mostly older, mouths gnawed by petty tyrannies and dimly felt loss. A petite, pretty brunette in silver sable waited too, drinking it in, electric despair, excitement of struggle. Escaping the ennui of plenty.
“Madame Pengo—I remember that name …”
“Sanders, goddamn it, we either talk or I go home.”
He shrugged, and led her to the corner. Miranda hesitated, not wanting to pass the herbalist, not wanting to see where Eddie fell. Not with the crowd, the girls in strapless dresses, hair perfumed, boyfriend tight.
Something hard brushed against her, and a little girl darted by them, ragtag blur, maybe seven, maybe eight. Blindly running. She tripped and Rick caught her. Bloody, scraped knee. Dirty dress, dirty face. Deep circles under eyes too old for childhood.
Noise from the fortune teller’s tent. A woman dressed in gaudy rags parted the waiting line of customers.
“Is she all right?”
The child backed against Rick’s legs. Miranda put a hand on her shoulder.
“You’re not her mother.”
She didn’t know why she said it and knew it to be true.
The woman’s face faded against the cheap shiny jewelry.
“Come inside. Bring Anna.”
They followed, Rick lifting the little girl into his arms. Her customers stood silent, curious, watching, a fat woman in gingham reaching out to touch Madame Pengo.
They stooped into the darkness. A table took up most of the space, covered in a stained white cloth and a cloudy crystal ball. The fortune-teller gestured to a couple of chairs. Walked to a crate behind the table, pulling out a ragged scarf and a bottle of rye. Wetted the fabric, and knelt in front of the little girl, dabbing the torn knee.
“Anna’s not a relation, exactly. I’m watching her for her mother.”
“Maybe you’re spending a little too much time in the past and the future.”
Not a flicker. “Lady, I’d be a rich woman if I had a nickel every time a child goes missing
“Shhh. Shut up.” He pulled her back toward the wall, and she angrily threw his hands off.
“You cocky Irish bast—”
His mouth was on hers, suddenly, his body pressing her against the brick. On reflex, she opened her mouth, let herself be handled, let herself be used, before jolting back to the present. Rick wasn’t using his tongue, the kiss not motivated by lust. Her hands unclenched and she held them gingerly against his back.
He whispered: “Good girl. Doyle and other cops, walking.”
He tilted his head to the left, his hat obscuring any view of her face. His mouth was on her right ear.
“Gone yet?”
“Talking at a booth.” She could feel his lips brush her hair. “What’s the perfume?”
“Vol de Nuit.”
“Not your old stuff. In New York.”
His body was warm, and she squirmed. She stopped wearing Je Reviens the same year she stopped remembering.
“Too old-fashioned. They gone?”
“Wait. Turn your head.”
She faced Clay, watching the roving bands of partygoers laughing under the neon signs.
“S’OK now.”
Miranda took a deep breath, fixed her hat, met Rick’s eyes. They crinkled at the edges, which irritated her.
“Thanks. I think. So what do you suggest now, Sir Galahad?”
He took her elbow. “Let’s go get something to eat.”
“In this mess?”
He shrugged. “We’ll find a couple of seats. Universal Café, Shanghai Low, we’ll find something.”
They threaded through the games of chance with no chance at all, pop the balloon mister, throw a dart, do it for China. Men with sweaty necks tried to arm-wrestle the Chinese acrobat and win a dollar.
End of the alley, Sacramento Street. Drunks wavered by, unhindered by cars, all traffic except human closed off until tomorrow. Rick pulled Miranda toward a tawdry black tent, propped against an association wall. The sign outside read MADAME PENGO—PAST—PRESENT—FUTURE.”
“Where the hell are you going?”
He pushed his hat up, eyed the long line of Madame Pengo’s customers, mostly women, mostly older, mouths gnawed by petty tyrannies and dimly felt loss. A petite, pretty brunette in silver sable waited too, drinking it in, electric despair, excitement of struggle. Escaping the ennui of plenty.
“Madame Pengo—I remember that name …”
“Sanders, goddamn it, we either talk or I go home.”
He shrugged, and led her to the corner. Miranda hesitated, not wanting to pass the herbalist, not wanting to see where Eddie fell. Not with the crowd, the girls in strapless dresses, hair perfumed, boyfriend tight.
Something hard brushed against her, and a little girl darted by them, ragtag blur, maybe seven, maybe eight. Blindly running. She tripped and Rick caught her. Bloody, scraped knee. Dirty dress, dirty face. Deep circles under eyes too old for childhood.
Noise from the fortune teller’s tent. A woman dressed in gaudy rags parted the waiting line of customers.
“Is she all right?”
The child backed against Rick’s legs. Miranda put a hand on her shoulder.
“You’re not her mother.”
She didn’t know why she said it and knew it to be true.
The woman’s face faded against the cheap shiny jewelry.
“Come inside. Bring Anna.”
They followed, Rick lifting the little girl into his arms. Her customers stood silent, curious, watching, a fat woman in gingham reaching out to touch Madame Pengo.
They stooped into the darkness. A table took up most of the space, covered in a stained white cloth and a cloudy crystal ball. The fortune-teller gestured to a couple of chairs. Walked to a crate behind the table, pulling out a ragged scarf and a bottle of rye. Wetted the fabric, and knelt in front of the little girl, dabbing the torn knee.
“Anna’s not a relation, exactly. I’m watching her for her mother.”
“Maybe you’re spending a little too much time in the past and the future.”
Not a flicker. “Lady, I’d be a rich woman if I had a nickel every time a child goes missing
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