The Color Below

He hated his jacket but loved what it hid.  It was a relic from the worst year of his life, it too had seen mud and shells and gas.  The small rain of the evening grew after the sunset, bringing with it a fog that softened the city’s hard edges into pockets of shadow and light.  He checked his watch and swore, he was going to be late.  It would be a simple thing to take the subway or hail a cab instead of walking, but no.  No, he couldn’t sit close to curious eyes that might take him in and turn to dangerous judgment.  He held his umbrella low and wore his collar high, hoping to keep his head dry and hidden.  It wasn’t always like this.  He usually left with plenty of time and could take a more discrete route.  But today his brother was slow leaving their shared apartment, and to prepare for what he was about to do he had to be alone.

    He approached a cathedral, his family’s cathedral, and hunched further into himself.  His stomach lurched at the thought of them ever finding out where he was going, who he was inside.  He had been raised a good boy, he was a hero of Belleau Wood and a cop.  They thought him a pillar of their virtue, they didn’t know him at all.  The building stared down at him, pressing him into the sidewalk.  He picked up his pace, both to make time and outrun his guilt.

People appeared and vanished in the mist, each too consumed with their own soaking misery to notice him.  He shunned the light when possible, letting his muted form blend with the dreary palette of stone and concrete.  Another two blocks and he was there.  An elderly couple was coming towards him down the sidewalk, so he walked past his target without breaking stride.  He circled the street, grumbling to himself and checking his watch.  On the next pass they were gone.  Between two of the buildings was an unlit ally so narrow he could have touched both sides at once.  He paused in front of its silent mouth, looking up and down the street to make sure he was alone before stepping off the sidewalk and letting the darkness swallow him whole.

At the back of the ally in a wall of crumbling brick, there was a door.  He placed his hand on its chipping paint and pushed.  The door swung open without a sound despite its decrepit facade.  Inside, a battered metal staircase twisted down out of sight.  There was no light, but with practiced steps, he started descending.  Down and down again, out of the world forced upon him and into the life he chose.  At the bottom of the steps, was a short hallway with a rusted door under a single bare bulb at its end.  A great bull of a man sat on a stool guarding the door.  In one hand he held a newspaper while a shotgun leaned against the stool to his right.  He walked straight up to the man on the stool and lifted his face for the first time that night.

“I’m here to see Lorenzo.” He declared in a voice seldom used but true in a relentless and deep way.  The man nodded and stood, holding out his arms.  He shrugged off his trench coat, handing it and his umbrella to the guard.  The guard knocked three times on the door, paused, then knocked twice more.  There was an authoritative metallic chunk as the door was unlocked from inside.  His heart raced, his skin tingled.  There was nothing left but to enter.  

He opened the door, she stepped into the room, letting a wave of light and music chase away the city’s gloom.  The place was packed with fellow lost souls, each looking for refuge and escape.  She adjusted her wig and smoothed out her dress before winding her way to the bar.  

    “Almost late.” the barman said with a mock look of scorn as he wiped down the copper and mahogany that separated them.

    “Beauty requires time my dear,” She replied with a wry grin, taking in the patchwork of lableless liquor bottles behind the barman, then added. “Though I am afraid that this damn rain has undone all my hard work.”

    “You’re stunning as always, don’t worry about a thing.”  She blushed and he started making her favorite drink without asking.  She took a cigarette from her tarnished brass case and asked another patron for a light.  The smoke calmed her nerves while he worked, but she was only halfway done when he returned with her cocktail.

    “You better drink fast,” He said as the band finished its set. “It’s showtime.”  She tossed back her Scofflaw, gave him a wink, and made her way to the stage.  He picked up the still-burning cigarette she left behind, contemplated the bright lipstick at its end, and took a deep slow drag as she started to sing.