How the Quick Run

Part 1

"I just got a call. It wasn't him, but Frank is alive."

Violetta's soft voice emerged from the shadows of her empty house. The light from a streetlamp stretched through the drapes drawn across the front window, giving the living room an orange glow. A history of cigar smoke hung heavy in the air, infiltrating every item in the house. Her modest perfume was a weak aura that surrounded only her. It could not keep the tobacco smell at bay, but only mingle with it and attempt to mutate it enough so that it became something more acceptable. She stood by a side table where the telephone sat next to an ornate brass ashtray. A wire hung across her body to the handset at her ear and mouth.

"He's sending someone tonight to take me to wherever he's hiding," Violetta continued.

Her eyes–rust-colored in the orange glow–disappeared behind long thick lashes as she looked down at the small blue paisley bag she had set at her feet. A large faded bruise stretched over her left cheekbone.

"They wouldn't even tell me where he is, so I couldn't tell you if I wanted," she said after listening to the voice on the other end of the line. Her own voice was overcast with a tired hopelessness.

"I'm sure we'll be able to see each other again soon. So stay safe, alright?"

The tip of one plum lacquered nail pressed into the telephone wire as she forced a weak smile onto her lips and an accompanying façade of optimism into her voice.

"I will, too. Good-bye."

Alone, Violetta carried her overnight bag as she walked down a lamplit sidewalk. Her chin was tucked into the upturned collar of her wool coat, and she seemed oblivious to the few people she passed by as they walked home from dinner or ducked into a bar for a nightcap. Her eyes were dull, and she moved slowly, without enthusiasm.

The street stretched out in the chill like a black snake with old bricks for scales. Lamplight winked across their damp surfaces. Decorating the front entry of a corner restaurant were two ornate lamps that favored aesthetic over function. Wrought iron shot up in straight lines from the sidewalk, and then, two feet above Violetta's head, it burst into swirls and flourishes that formed a sphere around an oil lamp that hung within. The light they cast laid intricately patterned shadows across the sidewalk like an impossible dance diagram. As Violetta stepped into the light, she was fragmented, her form cut up by the shadows. She paused at the corner. Across the street, a man in a thick, long coat and short-brimmed hat stood waiting. He saw her but made no greeting. Neither did she.

Along the dark street, a few cars had been parked here and there, developing patches of frost. As Violetta left the splintered lamplight and began to cross the street, one of the parked cars came to life. It grumbled loudly as it was forced forward, wheels spinning momentarily, and sped across the black scales of the street. It had become the head of the snake, and it struck her.

The waiting man watched the car disappear into the night, then he walked into the street where Violetta laid. Her small, paisley bag had been flung about ten feet away, opening up in the process. A satin nightdress lay crumpled on the ground, a pair of black hose had half unraveled themselves outward. She was on her side, almost as if she had grown too tired to walk home and had resorted to the gutter for rest. The man crouched beside her. With a gloved hand, he lifted one of her eyelids and watched the uncovered pupil remain still.

The maitre d' from the corner restaurant rushed outside, informing the man that he had called an ambulance.

"Is there anything can we do in the meantime?" asked the maitre d', wringing his hands. He leaned over her body but quickly backed away at the sight of her broken face. "Oh! Oh, how awful..."