Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

A man turned the corner from the opposite direction, came toward her. His legs wobbled and he clung to the buildings for support. Sylvia stepped daintily around him, felt his bleary eyes slide down her body.

“Where are you hurrying to, baby?” The words were thick, wheedling. She was almost by him and he stumbled forward, caught her arm. “I said — where are you going, baby?”

She pulled her arm away, turned the anger of her blue eyes on him.

“Take your hands off me,” she said. Her voice was steady.

The drunk leaned forward, barring her way. He smelled of dirt and urine and cheap wine. His trousers were damp down the front.

She reached into her bag when the voice came up behind her, young, loud, full of fury.

“Let her alone, you old bastard.”

He was there now, in the open, and he swung a young hard arm. The old man swayed, a look of surprise on his gray face, fell. She watched him as he lay twitching. Then she looked up.

It was the one she had expected.

He was tall, slender, with sloping shoulders and a narrow waist. He had a shock of black hair, combed into oily waves and that grew like a dark lawn before each ear. The skin on his face was stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, a long nose. His eyes were black slits. His wide thin mouth was smiling, but his eyes were wary. All the eyes she had ever looked into had been wary.

“You need somebody to walk with you,” he said and took her arm. She moved away with him. His leather jacket brushed against her. She waited for him to speak.

“I’m Patsy,” he said. “You’re Sylvia, aren’t you?”

She kept her eyes on the pavement.

“I spotted you,” he said. “You’re new in the neighborhood. I’ve seen you come by lately. Where do you go — every night?”

She shrugged. “Away. Walking. Sometimes to the park.”

He released his hold a little, satisfied with the tone of her voice. “You got a guy?”

She looked up at him then. His lips were slightly parted, like a little boy waiting for a treat. She gave it to him.

“No,” she said.

The street lights had come on, but all around them was the night. He pulled her closer.

“You have now,” he said and with an expert movement swung her around.

He kissed her, breathing hard. His lips were rough. She was quiet in his embrace, testing her emotions. Then she moved. She brought her knee up sharply, accurately from long practice. As he reeled away from her against the building, she went for her bag.

“You God damn little bitch,” he said, and crouched, moved to spring.

She brought her hand forward where he could see it. The scissors sparkled dully, their blades open in her clenched fist.

“They’ll pick the eyes right out of you,” she said coldly. “Nobody takes me over, just like that.”

He hesitated a moment, then moved toward her. She stood her ground, readied her weapon. He stopped.

She thought a minute, then began to speak, choosing her words carefully. “I’ve been waiting,” she said, “for the right guy. But it isn’t going to be just any big stud that I put in with.” She ran one hand down the curve of her body. “I’ve got something to offer. Something special.”

He started to say something, to move to her. She brandished the scissors.

“Patsy,” she said. “I’ve heard of you. You’re the big wheel of the Robber Barons. I’ve heard of you.”

A puzzled expression crossed his face. “I’m the bossman,” he said.

“Yeah. Big rep you got. Anything for a ride and Patsy’s the conductor. That’s what I heard.”

His confidence was coming back. White teeth gleamed in the dark oblong of his face.

“You’ve got the word,” he said. “It isn’t just any skirt that gets this boy. I take only the best.”

She nodded. “I’m the best. I’m something special, I am. Choice merchandise, wrapped up in a pretty package. Just waiting for a buyer.”

His tongue came out. He licked his lips. “I’ll buy,” he said. “How much?”

She laughed, a gay tinkling laugh.

“I come high,” she said. “I come dear.”

He moved a step closer. This time she did not stop him.

“Anything,” he said and his voice was hot. “I made up my mind when I saw you, when I heard you weren’t shelling out. Anything.”

“You’re the one who made the offer,” she said, opened her bag with her other hand, dropped the scissors in.

He swarmed over her.

She looked up at him and the night became blacker. “Anything?” She asked softly.

“Anything,” he said and they moved at the same time. Their mouths met, moved against each other like living things.

His hands roamed her body. He whispered against her hair. “Where? Where?”

She melted into him. “I don’t care.”

He tried to control himself. “The park? It isn’t far.”

She shook her head. “Cops,” she said. “An alley?”

He kissed her. He couldn’t keep his mouth away, his hands still.

Together they moved — further and further into the darkness...

She chose a comb from her bag, fluffed her hair in the light of a street lamp. He smoked a cigarette, looking down at her. His eyes and the cigarette glowed.

She put the comb back in her purse, snapped it shut. She lifted her head. “Now,” she said. “The payment.”