dramatic, wasn’t it?” The room goes silent. All eyes fall on us. Two women at the bar gasp.
I turn to Melody. “You okay? Was he trying to hurt you?”
She glances at the onlookers, then back to me. “You’re supposed to ask me that before you come to my aid.” One of the bartenders rushes over to see if the guy’s okay.
All of the changes in Melody’s look strike me at once. They made no improvements, didn’t need to. No wonder the spa was booked so far in advance; these folks were pros. They simply fine-tuned what was already in view, brought the camera lens into focus. Her hair, now a shade lighter, better matches the tone of her skin. They cut it differently around her ears and forehead, and though I would’ve never guessed that making it shorter was a good idea, they made the right decision. Her hair appears silky and full and I find it hard to refrain from reaching out and running my fingers through it. I can’t place it now, but the colors of her makeup are different, look natural, as if she weren’t wearing any at all. Her skin shines and glows. I run my hand along the back of her arm.
“Oh, Melody, you’re stunning. Really, words are failing me. I can’t tell you how proud I am to be with you, for people to think you and I are—”
“Thanks,” she says. “Shouldn’t he be getting up by now?”
I wave it off, don’t bother looking at him. “He’ll be fine.” I reach in my pocket, grab a couple bills and toss them on the table. “We should get going.”
She grabs my hand and pulls me out of the bar at a pretty good clip, keeps her head down and a hand to her face. She curses under her breath as she glances at the guy groaning on the floor. Everyone watches us leave.
Once we’re in the hall and out of view, she smashes me in the chest with her fist and whispers so loudly she might as well have screamed. “This is not your twisted corner of New York. You can’t walk into a bar, render someone unconscious, then drop a few twenties on the table like it’s some MasterCard with an unlimited credit line for felonies!”
“Look, I can never know who’s after you, okay? I’m trying to protect you and give you freedom at the same time.” She turns and I follow her to the elevator. “Who was he?”
“Who knows.”
“Was he bothering you?”
“Not really.”
“Was he hitting on you?”
“Yes. But he was only hitting on me. Just like those kids were only spitting on your car. There’s no reason to overreact, no cause for violence.”
We get in the elevator. I stare at my shoes as we drop one floor and are deposited in the busy lobby. After we’ve rushed across Pratt Street and onto the harbor, we slow to a normal pace. Melody’s right. All I did was put us in jeopardy, reveal us in the public eye, potentially destroy everything I’ve worked toward. What she doesn’t understand is how useful the violence can be, how well it performs in a personal economy based on influence. In this case, though, her point rings true; I’ve been utilizing violence the same way I drop money: wastefully.
My phone vibrates. I pull it out and see I missed a call from Peter. Melody pauses to gaze at a guy who’s riding a unicycle, juggling, telling a story. A small crowd comprised mostly of children sit and stand around him on the dirty brick sidewalk. I call Peter back while she’s distracted, and as soon as the call connects she turns my way. I spin around, pretend I’m looking at the traffic heading northward on Light Street. Peter and I converse for less than a minute, but the point of the call was to let me know that whatever Tommy Fingers was trying to get or locate in my area was achieved—he’s not exactly sure what it is but Eddie Gravina is anxious for my father to have it—and he’s now on his way back to New York; Tommy was the last to leave the mid-Atlantic. Melody and I are finally alone.
I turn back toward Melody, can tell she’s forcing her attention on the unicycling juggler to give me privacy. To get her attention I sort of brush her hand, slip two fingers into her palm, and she turns around and smiles. She tightens her grip around my fingers