"I like it best from the back seat of your limo," T.S. replied firmly. They were slowing down in front of the twenty-four-hour photo store and several disreputable characters skulked around the nearby corner, passing off small packages and conferring in their nightly ballet of illicit drugs and small-time scams.
"You wait here. I'll only be a moment." T.S. scurried inside the brightly lit storefront and hurriedly left his order with a bored cashier. After extracting a promise of quick service (at least ninety minutes, never mind the one-hour promise on the sign), he dashed back out to the limo. Already, the hounds were sniffing out the fox. Three young men, nearly identically dressed in absurdly baggy pants, baseball hats and torn tee shirts, were eyeing the rear bumper of the limousine. T.S. saw a "you backed into me and now you're going to pay" scam coming and practically dove into the back seat, slamming the door behind him.
He could have stopped and challenged them, but why show off for Lilah? Restraint was the better part of valor.
Grady knew the score and pulled quickly away without incident. Which was exactly what life was like for Lilah—people protected her from the changing state of her world. It would have been a shame not to.
"That's that," T.S. announced. "The photos will be ready in a couple of hours."
"About that drink," Lilah murmured tactfully in reply.
"Yes? Shall we?" T.S. wondered where they might find a cozy spot nearby. He could not go to his usual haunt, Harvey's, because his every move would find its way back to Auntie Lil—courtesy of Frederick, the bartender there.
"I have a suggestion," Grady volunteered. "A friend of mine owns a nice little place over on Tenth Avenue called Robert's."
The limousine glided smoothly over an unexpected area of newly resurfaced avenues. The streets were the only new things in the whole neighborhood, however. As they drew further west toward the docks, shadows began to step from the darkness in eager anticipation of a wealthy customer. Women of all shapes and colors packed tightly into latex glitter and dirty lace leaned expectantly toward the back seat windows, trying to peer inside the tinted glass. Their faces—garishly attractive at a distance—came into horrifying focus just inches from T.S.'s face. He shrank back reflexively as their cheap glamour revealed itself as nothing more than bad skin, worse teeth, bruises, open sores and sagging flesh. Seductive glances widened into leers and the bright glint of heavily made-up eyes may have been lust—but for drugs, not love, T.S. knew. He shivered and moved away from the window.
"This is like being in a Fellini movie," Lilah declared, while T.S. double-checked the door locks.
"Sorry, ma'am. We're almost there." Grady made a wide turn onto Tenth Avenue and they were momentarily rescued from the onslaught of flesh peddlers.
"There were some awfully young old people back there," T.S. admitted, running a finger under his collar. "It's been a while since I've been here at night."
"Shall I wait?" Grady glided to a stop in front of a tiny but cheerful wood-paneled restaurant nestled between two dark and chained storefronts. Inside, Christmas lights blinked gaily around a single wide window that framed happy couples cozily clustered about small tables scattered over a wooden floor. Red-checked cloths adorned each table and there was not a paper napkin in sight. An old-fashioned oak bar dominated one-third of the room and hosted a handful of relatively respectable patrons relaxing against high-backed bar stools. An older woman, dressed completely in cream silk, furiously worked the keys of a piano backed against one brick wall. As they stepped from the limo, T.S. could detect the strains of a sad jazz tune. His shivers disappeared, as did all remembrance of the sad women behind them. Grady was a genius. He'd discovered an oasis of romantic charm in the heart of a pirate-infested desert.
Lilah peeked in the window. "This is wonderful, Theodore. How quaint." Her genteel enthusiasm made T.S. smile.
"Don't bother waiting for us, Grady," she told the chauffeur. "Just come get us in an hour." She cast a shy glance at T.S. "Better make it two," she decided.
Well. Two hours indeed. T.S. straightened his collar and carefully held the door open for Lilah. He smoothly guided her coat from her shoulders with the élan of a forties movie hero, then stashed it on the hook farthest from the door with the prudence of a nineties NYC resident.