opposite him, walking west as he came from the east. She heard the tires as the snow and dirt – that certain echo and whir of rubber connecting with asphalt – gave way to the thump of a pothole, the grumble of the engine and the sound of second gear into first.
Stephen Laragia talked to her about time. He told her time was constant, unyielding, and, depending on its use, unforgiving: he told her to make good use of hers.
But it was her parents that taught her about timing.
She walked into the street when the driver was closer and because she understood time and timing she understood his mind was focused more on sex than his machine. She feigned walking in front of the truck and he over-corrected and despite braking lost control. In the snow and at the speed he was moving, not anticipating her movement, he rolled over the curb and into what she guessed was a sycamore.
The grill and hood cracked and folded, the airbags deployed, and she continued walking, now on his side of the street, on the sidewalk, not looking back.
The loud and colorful obscenities behind her made her eyes squint as if she was laughing. She tried to contain a smile and could not. She considered turning to salute Wilcox but thought that would be showing off.
The Foursquare Hotel stood at the corner of Lenox and Main. She stood at the path leading to the hotel and saw the marquee of The Regal .
“ON ENIGTH OLNY” were the words she could make out. However, her common sense told her it was “ONE NIGHT ONLY”. The words below those were even more of a jumble. She dyslexic was like her mother, unsure of the printed word but sure of the meaning of words. And like her mother, she could read well enough, and like her, she lied to everyone about her own dyslexia, everyone but her parents. It had taken the better part of a month, every day for a month, to understand what her godfather had written. She could not let the lawyer know as men, and women, no matter what they purported to be, liked to take advantage of people like her and her mother.
She imagined the late Senator Smith as a young man, watching a tire bounce in front of his patrol car, the harbinger of two deliberate deaths and one who wanted to die. She imagined the next step: her godfather standing in the lobby of that old theater waiting to kill a man that had murdered his in-laws.
So few people had experienced so much violence. It was as if her family was cursed.
Behind the hotel, within walking distance, was a New York State Trooper helipad. It must’ve seemed a good idea at the time. It explained why the hotel was so empty. The night before she’d endured the chop and thump of a late night arrival and departure. She had considered firing a round at the beast. She considered tactics and odds. It wasn’t the movies. SWAT would storm the hotel and she would die with no reason other than wanting sleep. In addition, her thirty-million dollars inheritance wasn’t worth losing over something as trivial as noise. Ambien was a smarter choice.
These thoughts distracted her as she listened for the shoes in the snow behind her.
“ What the hell is wrong with you? Are you crazy?”
The driver of the red Ford truck was a foot taller than her five-four frame and out-weighed her by at least one-hundred pounds.
Not that it mattered.
When a hand touched her shoulder, she reacted in an automatic method, sure, precise, and final.
Her parents and godfather had disciplined her, taught her, and practiced her. The large man crumpled as she bent his wrist and broke three of his ribs with one kick of her black, low-heel boot.
Foursquare does not have an abundance of surveillance cameras, and despite the fact she was less than a tenth of a mile from the trooper helipad, she was able to completely terrorize, hurt, and otherwise humiliate the large man who she assumed wanted to rob her or rape her.
“ Listen ,” she said. “ Listen up .”
Her words found their way into his brain.
She searched
Stephen Laragia talked to her about time. He told her time was constant, unyielding, and, depending on its use, unforgiving: he told her to make good use of hers.
But it was her parents that taught her about timing.
She walked into the street when the driver was closer and because she understood time and timing she understood his mind was focused more on sex than his machine. She feigned walking in front of the truck and he over-corrected and despite braking lost control. In the snow and at the speed he was moving, not anticipating her movement, he rolled over the curb and into what she guessed was a sycamore.
The grill and hood cracked and folded, the airbags deployed, and she continued walking, now on his side of the street, on the sidewalk, not looking back.
The loud and colorful obscenities behind her made her eyes squint as if she was laughing. She tried to contain a smile and could not. She considered turning to salute Wilcox but thought that would be showing off.
The Foursquare Hotel stood at the corner of Lenox and Main. She stood at the path leading to the hotel and saw the marquee of The Regal .
“ON ENIGTH OLNY” were the words she could make out. However, her common sense told her it was “ONE NIGHT ONLY”. The words below those were even more of a jumble. She dyslexic was like her mother, unsure of the printed word but sure of the meaning of words. And like her mother, she could read well enough, and like her, she lied to everyone about her own dyslexia, everyone but her parents. It had taken the better part of a month, every day for a month, to understand what her godfather had written. She could not let the lawyer know as men, and women, no matter what they purported to be, liked to take advantage of people like her and her mother.
She imagined the late Senator Smith as a young man, watching a tire bounce in front of his patrol car, the harbinger of two deliberate deaths and one who wanted to die. She imagined the next step: her godfather standing in the lobby of that old theater waiting to kill a man that had murdered his in-laws.
So few people had experienced so much violence. It was as if her family was cursed.
Behind the hotel, within walking distance, was a New York State Trooper helipad. It must’ve seemed a good idea at the time. It explained why the hotel was so empty. The night before she’d endured the chop and thump of a late night arrival and departure. She had considered firing a round at the beast. She considered tactics and odds. It wasn’t the movies. SWAT would storm the hotel and she would die with no reason other than wanting sleep. In addition, her thirty-million dollars inheritance wasn’t worth losing over something as trivial as noise. Ambien was a smarter choice.
These thoughts distracted her as she listened for the shoes in the snow behind her.
“ What the hell is wrong with you? Are you crazy?”
The driver of the red Ford truck was a foot taller than her five-four frame and out-weighed her by at least one-hundred pounds.
Not that it mattered.
When a hand touched her shoulder, she reacted in an automatic method, sure, precise, and final.
Her parents and godfather had disciplined her, taught her, and practiced her. The large man crumpled as she bent his wrist and broke three of his ribs with one kick of her black, low-heel boot.
Foursquare does not have an abundance of surveillance cameras, and despite the fact she was less than a tenth of a mile from the trooper helipad, she was able to completely terrorize, hurt, and otherwise humiliate the large man who she assumed wanted to rob her or rape her.
“ Listen ,” she said. “ Listen up .”
Her words found their way into his brain.
She searched
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