and decides to play along, though. “We’re all big fans of Bronx Unknown here,” she says. “What message do you think he’s trying to send?”
“I think it’s saying, ‘Come here,’” the woman says. “‘Find me.’”
Bronca stiffens and turns to stare at the woman, who grins. In profile, this makes Bronca notice the woman’s canines before anything else. They’re badly proportioned, out of alignment with the rest of her upper teeth and slightly too big. The white suit looks expensive. Anyone making that much money ought to be able to afford custom orthodontics.
And that is completely beside the point, Bronca realizes, as a ripple of unease prickles over her skin. Unease and… recognition? If something so atavistic can be called that. When a mouse that has never before seen a cat spots one for the first time, it knows to run because of instinct. Something in the bone knows its enemy.
Not that she’s a mouse, though, so Bronca only regards the white-haired woman evenly and says, “Maybe so. But I’m getting a lot of warning vibes off it, too.”
The woman frowns a little. “What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s subtle. All of this is conjecture given that we don’t know anything about the artist, but I’m thinking Unknown is homeless, or in such precarious circumstances that he might as well be.” Ignoring the woman for the moment, Bronca steps forward and points at the unfashionably torn jeans, the dirt on his plain white T-shirt, the worn-out, generic shoes. “These are the kinds of clothes you get out of a Goodwill pile when you’ve only got a few dollars to your name. And he’s not wearing anything that would make him stand out. No hoodie. No colors or accessories. White folks will call the cops on a Black kid for wearing just about anything, but he’s dressed as down as you can get without going naked.”
“Ah, the better to go unnoticed. You think he’s hiding from something?”
Bronca frowns at the photo, startled to realize it’s a good question. But he’s supposed to be fine at this point, isn’t he? The city is alive. Then again, Bronca’s supposed to be fine, too, and she’s been seeing too many signs in the past day that something is very wrong with the city.
For the third time that morning, she wonders again if she should try to find the others—
No. “Yes,” she says, to the woman’s question. “I think he is hiding, now that you mention it. Huh.”
“What could it be?” The woman asks this with such wide-eyed innocence that her tone alone sounds like a lie. “What frightens such a bright, vibrant young man into concealing himself?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Then Bronca remembers that she’s trying to make a point. She taps the boy’s hand, which has been rendered in marvelous detail. They are the hands of an artist or a basketball player or both: long-boned and long-fingered, with a broad palm. Across the knuckles there are faint, old, keloidal scars. “He’s a fighter, though. That’s the warning. He hides, runs when he has to, but corner him, and that’s your ass.”
“Hmph,” the woman says. Her tone is inflectionless, but Bronca hears the scorn in it. “Yes, that explains a great deal. Wouldn’t have thought him so vicious, to look at him. Such a scrawny thing. Barely more than a child.”
Yes. The young avatar of a very young city—relatively and globally speaking—that seems more bluster than bite. But anyone who actually thinks that has never noticed the large canines amid New York City’s own charming smile.
“The thing a lot of people don’t get about fighting is that it’s not really the big guys you gotta worry about.” Bronca turns, which puts her between the woman and the painting—not blocking the woman’s line of sight, but planting herself at the side of the portrait. This is a place of art, and symbolic gestures matter. “Big guys, sure, some of them have been tested, but a lot of times, they don’t have to fight much because they’re big and intimidating. The ones who’ll tear you a new one are the kids like this: the scrawny pretty-faced ones, poor and dark and wearing cheap clothes. Kids like that have to fight all the time. Sometimes the abuse breaks them, but sometimes—often—it makes them dangerous. Experienced enough to know exactly how many hits they can take, and ruthless enough to apply scorched-earth tactics.”
“Hmmph.” The woman sounds disgruntled. She has folded her arms as well, in a way