Minor Keys

Staggering out from the cast off safety once offered by the once classy flophouse, Margo was barely able to stay on her feet. The surge of power she had felt only moments earlier washed away by the bleak fear of an unknowable tomorrow. She had to get away. Far away. She could feel the sirens. They screamed at her from the alleys, shrill squawks of patrol cars crawling up from the sewer grates, hounds barking from shadows. All the whispered voices calling out shouting the worst parts of her for all the world to embrace. Harlot. Liar. Murderer.

Reaching the black packard took all Margo felt she had left. Clawing open its heavy door Margo collapsed into the driver's seat. Tears flowed freely from her cheeks. A violent fit of trembling threatened to overwhelm her. There was too much blood to wipe away now. How can there be a tomorrow if you've bartered away all your happy endings?

With no strength left to hold her head up on her already overweighted shoulders, Margo fell into the still machine's steering wheel. From somewhere inside her. Some forgotten bit of yesterday she could hear her mother's voice, Margaret Temperance Thatcher, sit up straight. The good lord didn't make my girl weak. You stand up tall and show them a girl gives as good as she gets.

Memories of stickball and fist fights brought about the oddest little giggle, "Mama, the bullies got big. Maybe too big." The words were spoken to no one in particular, but just saying them somehow began to sort out things.

Then get a bigger stick. That sounded like mama. Mama could always make it so simple.

Bloodshot eyes still filled with tears of tomorrow slowly scanned the dreary street staked out before here. Hidden beneath the mocking lights of a streetlamp Margo caught glimpses of shallow movement. That bastard. I said no. She was not going to give herself over to some devil-sparked double-dealing wanna-be.

The shadowed figure realized that it had lingered too long. Been too cavalier in its harvesting.

Wiping away the soul stealing tears of despair, Margo found that place her mother had forged in her over the years. Switches and belts, words and silence. All the vindictive traps and tricks parents use to shape the someday grown-ups under their charge.

Maybe there will be sunrises and star-topped pines after all.

As if sensing the fires of passion once more stirring within its metallic hulk, the deep black of the packard let the intensity glitter off its over polished surface giving a subtle halo in the long dark of the night. With a mighty roar the car had forgotten possible it sprang to life, its brighter than life eyes chasing away misspent shadows as it began to sprint towards a new freedom for its sole master.

The lonely figure stood close by as the car fled. It wouldn't be alone long, the sirens were coming.

Pulling away from her own self-pity Margo began to size up her situation again.

Keys. Coat. No shoes. No dress. No rags to help wipe away the memories and stains of her grim exploits.

Late night. This night. There won't be anyplace left open for a girl in trouble. The reminder of futility called to the little girl parts of Margo to bign flirting with that ever present and fatal despair. All at once the name Golden's flashed across her mind. Of Course, he always stays open tonight for the working girls. Besides why does an orphan Jew want off for holidays?. Making a hard right at the next narrow intersection Margo changed her course. The night might not be quite so bleak after all.

Barely five minutes waltzed by on the courthouse's clockface when the rumbling engine of her makeshift haven pulled up to the fog tinged windows of Golden's, or more precisely Golden's Second Chance Goods and Finery. It was a well known fence, most every sort of scum seen walking in the shadows of daylight had darkened the business's paint stained stoop. Almost anything could be found in there if you looked just hard enough, but the stink of contempt and loathing that Golden bathed his suppliers in was almost too much for most casual lookers to endure. Margo knew why the store had collected the treasures and trash that littered the cramped store's aisles.

Desperate people do desperate things. Sell their most cherished bits and baubles for a moment's release. Then when you have nothing left you steal away and sell the bits and pieces of those around you. And there was always someone like Golden there to hand over a few dirty bills and a claim stub that will never see its mate again.

It was something she didn't want to think about right then. Margo needed that greedy bastard tonight and needed him bad. Killing the great engine of her consort, Margo entered the store.

The cheap radio crackled out a jolly tune trying to lift the holiday spirit into a world that had forgotten what joy and peace meant. Her vision slowly adjusting to the glaring lights strung about the store, she made her way back to the small selection of women's clothes. She understood what it was that she needed. The clothes were there. Every worn thread and patched spot. The grey dress with black frill whose neckline would tease with barely concealed breasts. A white slip with fancy lace along the bosom. Comfortable shoes and a pair of stiletto heels to serve as a reserve. Every scrap she needed.

Only when she dropped the heap on the counter did Golden bother to look his last customer square in the eyes. Giving over only the slightest effort to poke through rags the waif had placed before him he flatly stated, "Thirty-two dollars. Not a penny less."

Keys. Coat. No shoes. No dress. No wallet. No purse. Margo gave a pensive bite to her lower lip. Thinking of anything she could do to cover herself she slowly rsponded, "Listen I don't have any cash. But this is overcoat is an Imperial, they go for three times that uptown," Margo sought for any tell that might give some hint, still the grimy little man just stared through her. "Well? Willing to trade?"

Finally he let slip a tell. His eyes rolled only for an instant over her form in the just unbottoned coat, "Oh yeah miss, we can trade." He saw the blood stains and didn't care. She wasn't the first dumb broad to off an asshole for hitting to hard, wouldn't be the last as long as the world kept spinning. Still, figured Golden, she sure as hell is going to make my holiday a little nicer.

"You'll take the coat?" Reaching for the lapels to remove it she understood all too well what the little man was thinking. She just had to hear him say it before she could accept another degredation tonight.

"Tell you what little lady, why don't you keep that coat so you don't up and catch a sniffle. In fact why don't you come round this counter and I can maybe help warm you up a little more and we can do a bit o' proper bargaining?" Reaching over the lecherous shopkeep dropped the latch that kept him locked inside his small counter.

What's one more, thought the again defeated woman. As her right hand fell to her side it bumped into the small hard object in the overcoat's pocket. Again she recalled the list of her few prized possessions at the moment.

Keys. Coat. Gun.

Reaching into the furlined pocket she felt the false sense of strength given to her by the small pistol. It still held three bullets. Three small lifelines in a world that had bet against her. Her delicate fingers worked over the grip andhammer, stroked the trigger in its guard.

Revealing for the second time in a single night her seemingly preturnatural speed, she had the .38 pointed straight at Golden's head. "Fuck you and bag the goods."