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Vera pouted. In a little girl’s voice, she scolded him. “You said you’d take care of me! You promised we’d be safe, and everything would be jake!” Had he promised her those things? Yes. In the dim world he was leaving behind, he thought maybe he had. Whispered promises while his seed was still warm and sticky between her legs. He might as well have promised her the moon. Same difference. It had been last week. An entire millennium ago. Dizzying vertigo. He was falling... Her hand. Pressing on his chest. “Get ‘em, Rick. Make ‘em pay.” PurrrrPurrrrPurrrr... He gave in and let go. Falling. Blinding white light. When his vision cleared, Vera was gone. The pressure continued against his chest, although it no longer hindered his breathing. The cat was curled up on his chest like a mound of sugar. Its eyes were a dull copper, tired and washed out. Something had passed between them. Nasty and secretive, like rape. Rick grimaced in revulsion. The cat took the hint, leaping off his chest and settling nimbly a top its other favorite spot. The garbage can. The flow of blood had subsided. He wasn’t back to normal; far from it, but he was well on his way. It hurt to stand. He didn’t care. His legs were wobbly at first, but after a few minutes he felt confident on his feet again. At least he was up off the filthy pavement. Rick bent over, and picked up his .45. It felt good in his hand, like bumping into a long lost friend. An underlying hum resounded from the streets. The city’s pulse. Rick had never heard it before. The moon cast a silvery glow over the alley. Everything was etched in black and white. He turned towards the row of garbage cans to retrieve his hat. The cat was gone. In its place, lying on the still-warm lid, was an ostrich feather. Stuffing it into his pocket, Rick shuffled out of the alley. The reeking smell of spoiled garbage was strong in his nostrils. It smelled like Lucky O’Banion. Rick smiled. He knew where Lucky was shacked up. A small furnished room above Mackley’s Bar and Grill. A brisk thirty minute walk. Rick contemplated hailing a cab, but the hack might ask too many questions. Cinching his overcoat around his middle covered most of the stains, but there was still enough showing to spook the casual passers by. He thought it best to travel on foot, stick to the shadows. Less unobtrusive that way. Rick counted bricks until he was standing in front of the side entrance of Mackley’s. He glanced up. Second story window. Shade pulled three quarters of the way. Lights out. No fire escape; a flagpole jutted out about a foot below the window. Rick paused, then began pacing in a tight circle. The flagpole was a good twelve feet straight up. Tensing his legs, Rick crouched, poised to spring. His heels seemed to dig into the concrete. He never even thought about it. He simply leapt. His body surged upward with amazing agility, cresting the metallic pole. A double clicking sound-- “tak-tak”--echoed through the night as the soles of his shoes touched down.
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