Mr Red

The problem with living such a long, long time is the yearning. Tonight, he was feeling melancholy, which wasn't terribly unusual, especially at this time of year. He was also feeling nostalgic, which wasn't something he often indulged in.

Had he come here because of it? Or had it crept up on him when he realised where he was?

He couldn't believe the club was still here after all these years. The sign over the door was broken, and there was no doorman anymore. No queue, either. Maybe it was just the time of day. Light hadn't yet left the sky.

Before he knew what he was doing, his boots had led the way inside. It was poky and rundown, a fact that might have been disguised with the right lighting. Something dim and warm, not harsh like this.

He found himself at the bar, and slotted himself there as if there were a self-made groove that fit him as well as his gloves.

Have a drink with me, she'd said. Go on. Just one. It's Christmas...

His mouth ordered a whiskey while his brain was distracted with the memory. It was gone in a swallow, and a second shot ordered while he was still remembering those wide eyes, soft feet, and polished blue toenails.

The barman, knowing the smell of money when it was right under his nose, very helpfully set up a tab, and kept the drinks coming.

By the time he was ensconced in a booth with creamy thighs and spiky heels dancing around him in a blur, it was too late. He was pretty much incapacitated, so much so that he hardly knew what day it was. For once, The Job was fAe from his mind. The Talent would kick in in a matter of hours, and when it came right down to it, he'd barely be behind schedule.

"What?" the glittering red lips demanded.

His shoulders slurred a shrug, hardly knowing how much he'd said aloud, or who to.

She gyrated a little, and trailed a forefinger down the breast of his jacket. She softened her voice, made it sympathetic.

"What's this Job that's got you so down?"

She doesn't really care. It's all an act. A lie. Because she wants money.

"Stop it, Bunny," he drawled.

"I can be your Bunny," she husked.

"Blue toenails. And big... Big eyes. Bigger 'n yourn," he said.

"Sure," the girl rolled her eyes. "Big "eyes". And did you spend a long time staring at them?"

He looked up, helpless.

"She's gone you know," he mumbled. "Dead, probably."

"Oh. Oh, sorry."

She didn't sound sorry. He wished she hadn't said anything.

"D'you know..." He forced the words out, it was like they themselves knew they shouldn't be escaping and tried to hide under his tongue. "D'you wanna know a seekree... A sickrit?"

She took a wary step back, and even in this state and without touching her, he could feel her tremble.

"Put it this way. Guess how many's on the Nice List. G'wan. Guess."

Blessed silence.

"None. Not a single one."