Women of the Dark Streets Read online

  “Did you see—”

  Number One clearly had not forgiven me enough to revel together in the weirdness. No sooner had I turned to face him than he brought the butt of his pistol cleanly down across my temple.

  As I sank to the ground, darkness swallowing the alley, the son of a bitch finally looked satisfied.

  *

  It was after eleven by the time I dragged myself home, had a bath and a stiff drink, and found her number. I sat on the kitchen table while I dialed, a French cigarette in my mouth and a filet mignon slapped over my right eye. There was another one in the freezer. I might have been dropping the case, but there was no way in hell Dr. Lorena Claw—or whatever her name was—was getting a penny of that sweet retainer back.

  “Yeah, this is Amy Archer,” I said when she picked up. “I’m through. Did you hear me? Finished. Finito. Done.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  My head was pounding. My body felt like it had been dragged across a mile of rough road. I took a long pull on the cigarette and leaned against the window.

  “I don’t know who you really are, or why you want this code broken. But a couple of hours ago, I nearly got my ticket punched by a pair of trigger-happy G-men who think you’re trying to sell military secrets.”

  “If it’s a question of money—”

  “Sweetheart, ain’t no amount of money in the world worth getting on the wrong side of J. Edgar Hoover. I’m sorry the boys are passing notes behind your back, but I should have listened to my head instead of my—-never you mind what. If you think I’m going to help you lose this war for us, sister, you’ve got another one coming.”

  There was a long silence on the other end, and then she said, “You’re scared.”

  “You bet your sweet tushie I’m scared! My last case was a stolen Pekingese! I’m out of my league. And I don’t traffic with the enemy.”

  “I’m not the enemy,” she said.

  “You’re not working for Uncle Sam.”

  “I never said I was.”

  I slapped the steak back onto the plate, crushed out the cigarette, and took a swig of Scotch from the bottle. Beneath the bottle was the little codex. I’d been fiddling with it despite myself.

  “You told me you were overseeing a secret military project,” I said.

  “But I didn’t say it was my project. Please, Miss Archer. Amy. Mel. I can explain. Will you let me explain?”

  I hesitated.

  Every ounce of my common sense screamed no. But the Scotch was stronger—and smoother. Maybe I was loopy from having my noggin bashed around all afternoon. Or maybe it was because I’d seen my life flash before my eyes back in that alley, and realized how lonely it was. I was dropping the case; nothing could change that.

  But she had called me Mel.

  “I’ll come get you,” she said.

  “Nothing doing, babe.” I might have been lonely, but I wasn’t stupid.

  “Then take a taxi and meet me at the Gypsy Room.”

  I let out a low whistle. The Gypsy Room was a far cry from the beer-and-pool halls where I usually found myself of a Friday night. I wondered if they’d let me in with scuffed loafers and my face looking like it had been through a meat grinder.

  “Put on your best suit and tie,” she said. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  The line went dead.

  *

  Right before Marlowe flew the coop, I had invested in a spiffy trousers-and-jacket combo in charcoal silk: made for a man, but hand-tailored for me. With a white blouse, red tie, and wingtips, it was sharp. I pulled my hair back into a bun, stuck it through with a pair of black lacquered chopsticks, and dashed on a bit of color from the age-cracked lipstick I kept in my disguise kit. Not exactly Beverly Shaw, but slick enough that if the Gypsy Room didn’t let me in, there’d be any number of dolls happy to take off in my taxi to go watch the lights. I strapped on my sidearm, put the codex in my pocket, and went down to the street.

  When the cab pulled onto the Sunset Strip, the Gypsy Room was bustling with dames in diamonds and dapper tuxedo-wearing daddies. I was outclassed and underdressed, but I got my share of once-overs, even with half my face swollen up like a purple balloon. One dishy blonde really took a shine to me. Wanted to drown my troubles in champagne and dance me into the sunrise. Any other time I’d have taken her up on it, but right then I only had eyes for one gal, and she was walking through the door.

  Dr. Lorena Claw was dressed to kill in a red satin gown. Her hair was pulled up in some complicated knot, a few finger-curls dangling down her neck. Her jewelry was simple but expensive. Five tuxedoes leaped forward to light her cigarette, but she was looking at me like I was the only dame in the room. It was only when she got close enough to touch that I noticed the scarf over her left shoulder was actually a sling.

  “Ouch,” she said, reaching out with her good arm to touch the goose egg sitting above my eyebrow. Her fingers were cool and soft, and they met my skin with a tingle.

  “What happened to your arm, babe?” I asked.

  She smirked like she was waiting for me to catch up with the joke, elbow resting on my shoulder, fingers really working that goose-egg. It should have hurt, but it didn’t. Felt more like she was rearranging something the Feds had knocked out of whack. It was good.

  “There,” she said. “All better.”

  She took my fingers in hers and led me onto the dance floor. There was a bit of awkwardness when we both tried to lead, but then the band slowed it down and we settled together nicely, my hand on her good shoulder and hers on my backside.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” I said.

  She pulled me closer, rested her cheek against my hair.

  “You smell like meat.”

  And here I’d thought I’d heard all the best pickup lines.

  “Spent the evening with a steak on my face after your friends at the Bureau worked me over,” I said. “Guess I don’t clean up as well as I thought.”

  That knowing smile again. She was warm and brown and smelled like something I couldn’t quite put my finger on: water, smoke and sand. It was nice, though, and after the day I’d had, I was happy to just stand there basking in it. The Gypsy Room wasn’t my kind of joint, normally, but it sure was swell. A place where the troubles of the day faded into a haze of champagne, swirling skirts, and soft jazz. I might have drifted off right there on her shoulder when she suddenly said, “I gave them the language, you know.”

  “Who?” I asked muzzily. I nuzzled her neck, but her jaw had gone rigid with irritation.

  “All of them. I gave each one a different language, and look how they’re acting.”

  I sighed.

  “Sweetheart, it’s over. At least it is for me. Why don’t we just enjoy what’s left of the—”

  “You wanted an explanation. Here it is. I gave the people different languages. Then there was bickering. And then there was war. And now when I try to help them, they twist my gift around and use it to shut me out while they destroy each other. I won’t have it.”

  I stifled a groan, but I knew the signs. Storm on the horizon, and it was going to be a doozy. Already the dame had stopped making sense. The plate-throwing was next. I grazed my fingers along her nape, tried to take her mind off it.

  “The Feds said you’re not even with the army, doll. I know it hurts, but you’ve gotta let it go or someone’s going to get killed.”

  Her dark eyes blazed back at me, and for a moment there was nothing else in the world but that black, burning, all-consuming gaze.

  And then the shooting started.

  At first I thought it was a raid. The cops didn’t care about gals dancing together, and they usually left the fancy joints alone. But maybe someone had told them there was coke in the back. Or H. You could never tell with the rich. I grabbed her hand.

  “Come on, doll, let’s make a run for it,” I said.

  They say it’s hesitation that gets you: that split second when your brain gra
bs the reins and instead of acting, you stop to give the matter some thought. But when I saw the barrel of the heater gleaming in the stage lights, I should have used my melon. I had a Smith and Wesson under my jacket, but when it all went down, I didn’t have time to untangle myself from Lorena and pull it. Instead, I just tightened my arms around her and jitterbugged her out of the way.

  Which meant that I was the one took a slug in the back.

  “Definitely a .38,” I gasped as I slumped against her chest. Left side, right below the shoulder blade. Cheese and rice, but that stung.

  “Shh.”

  No use asking if there was a doctor in the house. Even the tuxedoes were rushing around like decapitated chickens. Lorena looked around. Then she leaned me over her injured shoulder and lifted me up.

  “Your shoulder…hurt yourself…”

  “Stop talking.”

  I don’t know where she was thinking to take me, but when we got to the alley behind the club, we found ourselves up against a wall of pistols. The three were military, all right, from their identical buzz cuts to their shiny GI shoes. They were also stout, muscley, and red as clay. A grin cracked over my lips. Or maybe it was rigor. Either way, I’d been right about Uncle Sam and the Navajos.

  Meanwhile, Lorena was working my back like it was a jigsaw puzzle. Her friends had let in the daylight, but she was trying to push it back out. Again, it should have hurt a lot more than it did, but I wasn’t whining.

  “Look what you’ve done,” she hissed at them.

  “Put the woman down. We have no quarrel with her,” one of the men said.

  “No, you only quarrel with each other. Take the good gifts I gave you and hammer them into tools of war.”

  Her fingers slipped and slid through the blood. The blood felt hot on my skin. It was hard to move, and I couldn’t stop shivering.

  “The world has changed, Little Brother,” the man said. “There’s a larger war going on, with an enemy that threatens all of us. Give us the codex and be on your way.”

  “Little Brother?” I gasped. The moon shone bright and harsh, setting Lorena’s black, black hair alight with blue fire. “Who are you?”

  She gently sat me against the doorjamb, wiping her fingers on her scarf, and began to go through my pockets. She didn’t need the sling anymore; the gunshot wound on her shoulder was healed. Drawing the codex from my pocket, she touched her fingers to my cheek and stood. My shivering stopped. As hot wind swept through the alley, swirling papers and rubbish around our feet, Lorena Claw spoke.

  “I am the one who brings forth magic from laughter.” Her lips didn’t move, but the words reverberated all around us, in the air, the walls, and the windowpanes. “I am the messenger. The medicine-bearer. I named the animals and stole fire from the mountain for my people. I named the tribes and gave them language. They think they’ve outgrown me, but when they’re ready to receive me again, I shall return. I am the trickster. I am Little Brother. I am Coyote.”

  She held out the little codex toward the men. One of the men reached for it, and it burst into flame. My silk jacket was soaked. Everything was starting to spin. While I watched, Lorena’s form quivered and shook. Then it melted like brown sugar in the rain, and came up again in the familiar canine form that had stolen my breakfast and saved my bacon.

  The men opened fire, but Coyote just grinned as the bullets peppered the wall behind her. Then it all went dark.

  *

  Some time later a rough hand shook me awake.

  “Must have been some party, girly,” the copper said as I blinked in the daylight.

  Morning traffic whizzed by on Sunset. Someone was cooking bacon and eggs. A jackhammer thudded nearby. No, that was in my head.

  “Am I dead?” I rasped.

  “Dead drunk, more like. Come on.”

  “No.”

  The club was locked up tight, the alley swept clean of any trace of gunfire, Uncle Sam, or disappearing coyotes. And yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that I hadn’t seen the last of Lorena Claw. My body felt like it had been through a laundry wringer, and my shirt was stuck to my back. But aside from this, I seemed no worse for wear. As I wobbled to my feet, something tinkled to the ground behind me.

  “Is that blood on your jacket?” the copper asked as I bent to pick it up.

  “It’s nothing.”

  The object was a .38 slug, flat as a pancake. Pretending to tighten my shoelace, I slipped it up my sleeve.

  “Hey, I know you,” the copper suddenly said. “You’re that lady dick.”

  “At your service.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve seen you down at the station.” A grin spread across his face, he dropped the attitude, and for a minute, I thought my luck might be changing for the better. Then he patted my shoulder with a beefy mitt. “Tell Marlowe I said hi.”

  For All Eternity

  Victoria Oldham

  Water lapped gently at the side of the boat, the occasional sharp splash caused by a couple out for a romantic late-night ride under the full moon. Cara slept fitfully, the sheets stuck to her as she tossed and turned. Her dreams, as they had been for months, were haunted by the caress of a beautiful woman, short hair falling in wisps around her face, full lips kissing every hot inch of skin.

  Cara cried out as the woman’s hand slid between her legs. Her dream lover’s eyes, the color of the Mediterranean sea, crinkled slightly at the edges with damnable amusement every time she made Cara come.

  Cara woke abruptly at the sound of footsteps outside her cabin, her final cry echoing in the room. Untangling the sheets from her wet thighs, she moved cautiously to her door, peering through the early dawn light at the rest of the boat. It wasn’t the first time she had woken from that particular dream thinking someone was in the room. And as usual, there was no one there, just that strange silky fog that filtered in off the canal. She never knew whether to be relieved or disappointed.

  With a sigh she fell back into bed, letting the quiet lapping of water lull her back into a dreamless sleep.

  *

  “Women of mythology have often been portrayed as banshees, as women with insatiable sexual hunger or the desire only to lead men to their deaths or eternal damnation. If this were really the case, we’d have population control well in hand.”

  The class tittered slightly at the vague reference to sex, as her freshman classes always did. Cara swept her blond hair off her shoulders, enjoying the way it fell heavy against her lower back. Teaching mythology in Italy was a daunting prospect, given that most of her students had grown up steeped in the stuff. But she worked hard on presenting old information in new ways—especially the way women were viewed as monsters or whores.

  “But, Professor Grace, you have to admit women are the more sensual of the human species,” one of her more argumentative male students said from the back of the room.

  “No, that’s the way women have been portrayed, which is my point. There are plenty of men who ooze sensuality too. And plenty of women who can’t be bothered with sex at all. It’s about perception, and changing those perceptions. Of course,” she said with a wicked smile, “there’s no question some of these mythological women were very, very sexy.” She glanced at the clock at the back of the room. “Okay, that’s it for today. For class next week, I’d like you to research a female figure from any myth and find a way to reinterpret the person she might have personified. Have a nice weekend.”

  The students filed out, more than one sending her a smitten smile. She smiled back, keeping it professional. The only woman she wanted was the one who made love to her every night on her boat. Excellent. The only sex I want is with a fantasy. That’s healthy.

  She shut her leather briefcase with a sigh and headed back to her houseboat to get ready for the faculty mixer she had been cajoled into attending. As one of the only American professors there, she was a popular novelty, and although it was flattering, she always left the mixers feeling like an animal with a reprieve from the zoo.

 
*

  Music drifted softly from the house as Cara made her way up the long walkway from the canal. She hadn’t been to the house, damn near the size of a mansion, previously and she grinned wryly at the thought of her little houseboat. Obviously the faculty member who owned this place was tenured.

  She handed her coat to a butler dressed in full uniform and took a glass of champagne from a tray. The room was tastefully decorated, modern without being cold, a look that was hard to get right. She wandered through the room, her fingers tracing the odd piece of beautiful antique furniture. Various other faculty members stopped her for a word, but a strange sense of anticipation niggled at her, and she didn’t stop to talk to anyone for long.

  She turned down a hallway with fewer people and stopped in front of a beautiful painting of Medusa. Not the Medusa of nightmares, with her head full of writhing snakes and her hateful glare, but a Medusa full of sensual curves, an inviting smile, her snakes secondary to her come-hither stare. Cara shivered and thought of her dream woman. Medusa wore such a similar expression of desire it made her panties damp.

  “Do you like it, Professor? It was painted by a close friend of mine.”

  Cara choked on her sip of champagne. That voice. It was the voice of the woman in her dreams: soft, husky, deep, penetrating. The heavily accented Italian utterances held promises of screaming orgasms and mind-bending bliss. She didn’t want to turn around. She needed the face to match the voice, but the possibility that the woman of her dreams actually existed in the flesh would be too much to handle.

  Instead, she focused on the painting, willing herself not to faint. “It’s stunning. I’ve never seen a rendering so beautiful, so full of passion instead of horror.”

  “It’s the premise of what you teach, is it not, Professora?”