In for the Kill

14

The subway system lay like arteries just beneath the city's flesh.

A fanciful thought, but those weren't uncommon for Marilyn.

Marilyn Nelson loved riding the subway. She relished the cool breeze of an approaching train, the piercing twin lights down the long dark tunnel, then the great rush of wind and the metallic creak and strain underlying the train's roar. Car after car would flash past, the illuminated windows like personal instant tableaux that were here then gone. There was no sign of slackening speed. Surely the train was going to roar on beyond the station. But it didn't. Instead it slowed smoothly but with surprising abruptness, like a living thing suddenly drained of energy, and came to a complete stop. A pause, and the doors would hiss open with an urgent whisper that seemed to spur on the people spilling out onto the platform or wedging their way into the cars.

She'd been in New York a little over four months, after spending most of her adult life in Omaha, Nebraska. Omaha was a nice enough city, she thought, but it had nothing like Times Square, the Village, or Central Park-or the subway, which to Marilyn was the very essence of her newly adopted city.

She emerged from underground at West Eighty-sixth Street near the park, as impressed as she always was by how quickly she'd made it here by subway from her apartment near Washington Square. It was late afternoon, Sunday, and as she entered the park the dwindling sunlight lancing between the buildings highlighted her long dark hair. A slim, attractive woman in a white blouse with large patch pockets, and jeans that were tight everywhere except for the bulging cargo pockets on each thigh, she drew the attention of almost every man she passed. The thick leather belt and fringed boots didn't detract from her appeal, either. The belt and boots were black, and the belt had a large silver buckle that glittered like the matching studwork pattern on the boots.

The farther into the park she got, the quieter it became. Marilyn stepped off the asphalt trail onto soft earth that was easier on her feet, and began crossing the grassy area toward where the concert would be held.

Ross Bossomo was going to play here soon, along with his backup musicians. Marilyn had grown up listening to Bossomo's hit records, then followed his career as he became less mainstream and more experimental. A free concert! She'd read about it in the Village Voice. Not much like this happened in Omaha. At least, not very often. But here, in New York, there seemed to be surprises every day. Serendipity, she told herself, smiling. Serendipity city.

She could see the raised platform that would be Bossomo's stage. There was already sound equipment set up, even speakers mounted on the trunks of some of the surrounding trees. Straps and ropes held the speakers so there'd be no harm to the environment. This would be something, once the sun went down. Maybe people would hold up candles or cigarette lighter flames the way they used to all the time at concerts, even though New York was practically a total no-smoking zone.

She picked up her pace. Her hair swung in rhythm with her switching hips; fringe dangled as her long legs stretched her stride, and her buttocks rode against taut denim, emphasized by the blossoming cargo pockets. She was the only one wearing such jeans now, or anything resembling her sleeveless blouse with the oversized patch pockets and large brass buttons, but soon that would change. It was part of her job to change it. Part of her job to be seen in the Rough Country line.

The speakers began to hum. So did Marilyn, an old Ross Bossomo hit, "Love Goin' to Pieces."

The Butcher turned to see what so many male heads had swiveled to look at, and she took his breath away. He'd never seen that kind of motion in a woman. It was a shame he was being so choosy these days, or she'd be one of his for sure.

He had to have her. But he was extremely disciplined and didn't always partake of what he had to have. He prided himself on that.

She'd changed direction and was striding up a gradual rise, her body leaning forward slightly to compensate for the grade, coming toward him where he stood along with several dozen people who'd arrived early for the concert. There was a faint smile on her face, lips pressed together, as if she might be humming.

He was probably the only one more interested in the concertgoers than the music. He'd barely heard of Ross Bossomo.

"Joe?"

He turned toward the slight, dark-haired woman he'd been talking with in an attempt to draw out her name.

He smiled at her. "Sorry, I didn't mean to daydream."

She glanced at the woman in the fringed boots and shook her head. "I know what kind of daydreaming you were doing." She seemed miffed.

He beamed his charm at her. "You never told me your last name."

The woman gave him a knowing smile and moved away. "I never told you my first. And I don't think I'm going to."

Screw you, he thought.

He turned his attention back to the woman in the fringed boots. If he'd already been penalized for looking, he'd have another look.

Like many beautiful women, especially ones who dressed so distinctly and obviously relished being observed, she seemed used to being stared at. It didn't offend her. It was, in fact, homage to her very being.

Some getup she's wearing.

But she made the extreme, outdoorsy outfit work. With a body like that, rags would look good on her.

The sun's glitter off the studded boots and oversize belt buckle drew his eye.

And held it.

He felt the way he had one time when, while playing high-stakes poker, he'd been dealt a straight flush. Such luck he couldn't believe!

The large buckle was definitely in the form of a fancy letter N.

A monogram. Her initial.

He calmed himself. A straight flush and then this? Nobody was that lucky. And the N might be for her first name, Nancy or Norma, or maybe it was simply the logo of the belt manufacturer.

He quickly regained his composure, his smile, his style, and approached the woman.

Four heavily tattooed men who looked like motorcycle types were standing nearby talking. One of them-a weightlifter, no doubt-had his shirt off and tied by the arms around his waist. His sculpted torso was marked with the crude, faded blue tattoos that suggested prison time. They all paused and looked at the Butcher and smiled slightly, as if they knew he had no chance with a woman like the one he was moving in on.

You don't know me, assholes.

"Nadine? Is that you?"

She regarded him with appraising brown eyes. They had an intelligence in them that made him decide on caution. He knew exactly what she was seeing: a handsome man in his thirties, average height, regular features, neatly styled dark hair, blue eyes. He was well dressed (not like the tattooed geeks), and had a reassuring smile. Always he possessed a vision of himself, as if he were another self looking on.

"Sorry," she said, "I'm not Nadine."

He put on a crestfallen expression. Then his smile was back. "Well, I'm sorry, too. I haven't seen Nadine in a long time, and you look a lot like her. Then I noticed your belt buckle, the big letter N, and I thought…"

"It's for Nelson," she said.

He laughed. "You don't look like a Nelson."

She met his laughter with her own. She laughed so easily and naturally, an innately friendly girl. A people person. They were so easy. "That's because it's my last name."

"Ah! And your first?"

"Marilyn."

"Nice name." He feigned awkwardness, but for just a few seconds, letting it register on her.

"Who's Nadine?" she asked.

"Someone I was very fond of a long time ago in another place."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you."

He took a step away, then turned back. "Maybe it was fate that I thought you were Nadine."

"Fate?"

"You know. Destiny."

"I'm not sure I believe in destiny."

"What do you believe in?"

"Well, I believe you're trying to pick me up."

He put on the awkward act again, standing with his body square to hers, hands jammed in pants pockets. "I'm trying too hard, I guess. I apologize."

"Accepted."

"The pickup or the apology?"

The easy laugh again. "Maybe both."

The speakers yeeeowled! as a sound technician adjusted them. People laughed, groaned, or cupped their hands over their ears.

The handsome man grinned at her. "That noise they heard was me expressing pleasure at your answer," he said. Don't be too smooth yet. Not with this one.

Marilyn thought it was one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to her. And there was one thing they had in common already-they were both Ross Bossomo fans.

"I don't know your name," she said. The speakers screeched again, and she winced and repeated what she'd said.

"Joe. Joe Grant."

"Grand?" The speakers again.

"Grant," he said. "You know, like the Civil War general. Ulysses."

"I know," she said. "The one on the winning side."

He glanced down. "By the way, I like your boots."

She gave him a wide grin. "Good. What I'm wearing is clothing from Rough Country. They're a Midwestern chain, except for a small trial store in Queens, and they're going to enter the New York market in a major way. That's why I'm here. I'm an interior designer specializing in retail space. I'm going to lay out their stores for them."

"Talented woman."

She waited, as if giving him a chance to tell her what line of work he was in, but he remained silent, raising his head and glancing at the trees. Dusk was just beginning to close in. Enough people had gathered to constitute a crowd. Their collective conversation and laughter was louder now. Half a dozen scruffy-looking young guys with musical instruments were filing up onto the stage. A warm-up band.

After a few seconds, Marilyn said, "There's gonna to be a mob here soon. Do you want to see if we can get closer?"

"That's a good idea," he said. "Let's get closer."