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The year was 1945. Through a radio in the corner, Doris Day cooed the lyrics to Sentimental Journey. Blades of a fan twirled lazily in the summer air and the light of a dying afternoon slipped amber-yellow through the window shades. The air smelled of oak and whisky, tobacco and perfume.
It was all a bit of strange juxtaposition, considering the blood spewing from the crown of a man’s head as he toppled from his bar stool onto the slatted floor. Madeleine stood over him, a silver key swinging from her neck and a broken bottle in her hand. The lines up the backside of her pantyhose were crooked and perspiration stuck strands of hair to her neck. “That’s what you get for not calling.”
She crouched next to him and raised her cigarette over the wound for the sole purpose of ashing it at the first opportunity. “And that… is for sticking your Johnson in my roommate,” she hissed.
People were staring. Strike that, men were staring, regulars she knew from the bar, each of them with their own string of conquests. She wiped her forehead and yelled, “What?!”
A row of hats slowly pivoted back to the bar.
The memory of that moment – and all those faces – was as fresh today as it had been in 1945. So when Maddy saw the profile sitting at the bar, she stopped throwing darts and elbowed her way through a crowd of drunk people shouting at the Celtics game. “Hey! Hey, you!”
It was all a bit of strange juxtaposition, considering the blood spewing from the crown of a man’s head as he toppled from his bar stool onto the slatted floor. Madeleine stood over him, a silver key swinging from her neck and a broken bottle in her hand. The lines up the backside of her pantyhose were crooked and perspiration stuck strands of hair to her neck. “That’s what you get for not calling.”
She crouched next to him and raised her cigarette over the wound for the sole purpose of ashing it at the first opportunity. “And that… is for sticking your Johnson in my roommate,” she hissed.
People were staring. Strike that, men were staring, regulars she knew from the bar, each of them with their own string of conquests. She wiped her forehead and yelled, “What?!”
A row of hats slowly pivoted back to the bar.
The memory of that moment – and all those faces – was as fresh today as it had been in 1945. So when Maddy saw the profile sitting at the bar, she stopped throwing darts and elbowed her way through a crowd of drunk people shouting at the Celtics game. “Hey! Hey, you!”
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on 2014-04-19 08:40 pm (UTC)Then he heard her. It was impossible to miss over the din.
Whistler instinctively grabbed for his hat and pushed it onto his head. He didn't need another bloody gash.
The Agent pivoted on his bar stool.
Her dress clung tighter than hickory smoke on barbequed ribs. Her curves played tighter than a classical violin.
The hairstyle was new.
Whistler's brain went into self-preservation mode while his body traveled back to 1944.
"Goddamn, but the years have been good to you, Maddy."
Forty years were just a few steps away. He hoped time healed all wounds, and not just the one on his head.
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on 2014-04-20 12:54 am (UTC)The drink was too good a temptation, and why let it go to waste? She hefted and gulped. “The thing is, Gus, no emissary of white light ever paid me a personal visit. The other guys, though, I’ve met on several o-ccasions. It makes raising my metaphorical spear and going, ‘Rargh!’ for the good guys all the less likely.”
And what would she do, anyway? Collect secrets and trinkets like before? Unlock doors so that people could catch their enemies unaware? Back in the 60s, whenever a serious ne’er-do-well was burglarized, they always pointed a finger at Maddy whether she’d provided access or not. Being the easy one to blame was a real pain in the ass.
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