Morality, like art, means drawing a line someplace.

--Oscar Wilde.

It was an hour past dawn and a bright bandit's moon shone through the tall cobwebbed window.

I perched on the sill, between the spiders, legs crossed, long stemmed glass in one hand. I knew suicide was the best, the only, course of action. But now that the time was here, to choose solid death or a living approximation, I lingered in the lounge. A clock muttered. Hank would arrive in less than an hour. I had to be breathless in a pool of blood before his leathered arm latched onto my elbow and chained me to his side.

“May I have this dance?”

My silhouette rippled and light from the chandelier caught in my lashes, fluttered across my face. Light on my sharp cheeks, big green eyes, luxuriant gold hair and my lip, bitten almost raw from nerves. I set my drink down and offered the man my fingertips. One last waltz for the condemned?

He guided me onto the floor. I placed my hand on his shoulder and we wheeled solemn past the singing violins and the mahogany bar with its pretty bottles of poison and the velvet curtains and the divans where elegant ladies gossiped. His face was uniform, the expected kind of countenance, well ironed, like his tuxedo. We spun past the entry hall where a man was handing a fedora to a butler. Then we were beside the divan again and I caught a snatch of excited chatter over the sound of the piano.

“And never in my life would I have expected Lady Carlen to bring such raff into a respectable--”

“Oh! But are you sure it's--”

“I always thought he had black hair...”

The song ended and my partner bowed me back to my perch. I plucked up my coat and pulled it around my bare shoulders, then headed for the door. The raffish man, sans fedora, had approached his disapproving acolytes and was attempting to obtain a dance from them. They giggled and frowned and fluttered his outstretched hand away.

There's a curious thing about knowing that you are going to end your life. One gets impulsive, wicked. A butler touched the door knob as if to open it for me, but I had forgotten my original departure plan and strode, beaming, into the ring of gossip.

“I'll dance with you, if you swear to be a trifle more entertaining than my last partner.”

He met my smile and raised it ten. If he ever played poker, I knew right then that he was the kind of man who could pull Aces out of thin air and was so extravagant about the fact that he cheated, that people called him a magician instead of a scoundrel.

“Let me go conspire with the band a moment, darling Lady.” He winked, turned, and flowed onto the bandstand. I dropped my coat on an indignant lap and smoothed my azure cocktail dress. There was laughter from the podium, hushed voices, a couple experimental squeaks of violin strings.

Then he was back. Music crashed into life and with a start I realized that I had crashed into him. He literally swept me off my feet and flung me in the air and when my high heels flickered against the tile he pulled me so close I could smell his breath (peppermint and Chardonnay).

A woman leaned into a microphone and accompanied the hurricane chords with lyrics. My strange partner spun me until my feet tangled and when I stumbled he tripped me into a dip, caught my shoulders inches from the polished floor. For a moment, I had the luxury of looking up at him, my head thrown back, my hair tousled over the tiles. He had iced skin, red brown hair, blue eyes, a lean nose and a pierced ear. His costume was fair, he had the requisite tuxedo, the shiny shoes and polished voice. But there was no way to mistake him for a gentleman.

Then I was on my feet again and the music crescendoed and faded and there was polite, if confused, applause. He bowed. The clock raised its voice. I looked up, and realized the hour was almost gone. Blood drained from my cheeks and left me lightheaded. I lurched toward the door and yelped improbable excuses. Mr. Raffish straightened and crinkled his brow.

Suddenly, the door crashed open and a dark figure coalesced under the chandelier glare. Red suit, salt hair, weathered skin, scarred cheek, gold tooth, iron eyes. His mouth twitched down at the corners. I froze. My blood froze. My heart stopped beating. Oh, if only it really had. Mr. Hank Artil, president of the shady Inteliskin Corporation, betrothed to the beautiful heir of the Maeve millions.

“Mara? Don't worry, hon, I know I'm late but there's no call to go looking for me! Did you think I'd forget about my own fiance?” Hank slithered up to me and wound his arm around my waist, and there it tightened, slow, constricting. “You smell like a proletariat. You've been dancing, haven't you? You know what I think of that sort of thing.”

“I'm sorry dearest, it was just one song with Mr. Wellironed over there,” I tilted my head to where he was boring a gaggle of women by the snack bar and, in a rush of inspiration, added, “if you'd like, I could go freshen up in the ladies room.”

The arm tensed, as if he could sense my plot. I held my breath. Then, “That's probably a good idea. Don't be long or I'll ask Mrs. Carlen to check on you.”

I could feel his eyes on me as I waded through the dance floor, pushed open the swinging door. When it pendulumed closed, I gripped my engagement ring, (ruby and white gold), tore it off and lobbed it at the mirror. It cracked the glass, clinked into a sink. I slid down the wall and let out a long sigh.

“Haven't seen someone so relieved to make it to the bathroom in awhile. I'm guessing this place will be rather unpleasant in a moment.”

I jumped to my feet and stifled a shriek. I'm not normally the type to shriek, but the surprise of being addressed when I thought I was alone, the surprise of being addressed by a man when I thought I was alone in a ladies room, coupled with the already strained state of my nerves, was almost enough to do it.

“What are you doing in here!”

Mr. Raffish methodically dried his fingers on a brown paper towel. “The men's room is typically a place where--”

“This isn't--” My eyes dragged over the obviously male machinery and magazines. My face burned. “Oh.”

He tossed his paper in the general area of the trash, pocked his hands, and sidled to the broken mirror. He smiled, frowned, made strange faces. “Just like the fun houses in old Pop's roadshows.” He glanced down. “You know, rubies are horrid for plumbing. Someone's goanna have to call maintenance.”

“You wouldn't!”

“Don't you want your gem back, darlin Lady?”

“Would I have thrown it if I did?”

The pendulum began to creak inward. Raffish strode over to it, poked his head around. “Sorry old chap, just two moments. I'm afraid Carlen's hors dourves didn't agree with me. Whole place reeks of capers.” He then leaned into the door, crossed his arms, raised his eyebrows.

I smoothed my dress and met those poker eyes. “It's none of your business.”

“Nothing I do ever is. My name is Malcolm Vermillion. And you, darling lady, are too splendid a woman to be wasted in unrequited matrimony. Now that you've disposed of your expensive promise and gotten out of his sight, what is your plan, exactly?”

“You wouldn't happen to have a gun on you?”

“That's a bit tacky, don't you think? You could at least poison him. Push him off the roof. Leave him out in the sun until his mind melts or better, tie him up outside for the Dreamers to find.”

I rolled my eyes. The men's room was large but the only window was set high in the far corner, a mere slit in the speckled wall. But, I was a thin thing, and tall. I sauntered over, cool smile, reached up, jumped, gripped the sill, hung there a moment, let go, coughed and considered the dusty glass above. Malcolm Vermillion, what kind of name was that anyway? Sounded like a crayola ad.

“Do you have a car?” Malcolm appeared at my side. “No? Sneakers? Your coat? Even if you could get out that window it would be suicide without at least enough money for a cab.”

I threw up my hands. “That's the goal here!”

He stilled. Then he took my hand and began to drag me toward the door.

I struggled. “Stop that! You don't understand!”

“I think I may. Be still, won't you?”

Violins crashed into my ears. Laughter from the punch table. Hank's eyes buttoned onto me. So that's it, I thought. Hatred slithered up my spine. Hatred for Mr. Crayola, for my fiance, for life in general. Maybe if I committed a murder Hank would think me too tainted to touch. There was probably a knife next to the sandwiches. But who would be more satisfying to stab? With his fingers curled over my wrist, Malcolm was an appetizing option.

“Hon, what took you so long? I was just about to--”

“I am afraid your fiance is in grave peril, Mr. Artil.” Malcolm held up my arm as if to demonstrate that I existed.

I glared at him, twisted. Grave peril? I hadn't even managed to nick myself!

Hank crossed his arms. “Sick is she? That's a delicate thing to talk about in public. Perhaps I should drive you home, Mara.”

“I am afraid that would be impossible, Mr. Artil. You see, the only malady plaguing Miss Maeve is this revolver I have pointed at her side.”

I gawked. He drew a sleek black something from somewhere and nudged me with it. What was he thinking? Was he serious? Serious about what? “You said you didn't have a gun!” I blurted out.

“What I said was that I thought they were tacky.”

Hank's features became rigid. His hand slid into his red dinner jacket and pulled out a checkbook. “I don't know who you are,” he murmured. “But perhaps we can complete this transaction in a privater place. If money is what--”

Malcolm laughed. The gun tickled my side. “I will send a ransom note by carrier pigeon tomorrow morning if you allow us to make a quiet exit. I do not want to be followed. Come now, Mr. Artil, nobody likes a scene.”

Iron eyes met poker cards. Hank nodded and slid his checkbook into a pocket. “I know what you look like, and in ten minutes I will know your name and address. Request your ransom. When I have my bride back, you're a dead man. Don't let anyone see you with that weapon. I don't want the tabloids to hear about this.”

The red suit melted into the dancers, the gun left my side, the butler gave Malcolm his fedora and put my arms in my coat, (long, black, fur around the neck) and then we were outside and the door was shut and the only light poured from behind the tall, cobwebbed windows.

The cracked sidewalk was littered with bullet shells and paper cups. Wind fussed plastic bags that had caught in the ivy that stretched like vipers over almost everything. The vipers were an improvement. Before the rains had started the city was nude in its degeneracy, all broken windows and shutters spread wide and the street lamps flaccid, blocking traffic. The snakes lent decency to the scene. They held bodies with green fingers, softened broken glass, dripped from window panes, hissed when the wind rattled their leaves. Malcolm hailed a cab and counted some bills into my palm.

“Ask him to take you to the Bonaventure Hotel on the East Bank. Register under an assumed name, Mimi or something. I will meet you there in the evening.”

“What kind of kidnapper are you?”

“A consensual one. And Mara--”

“Hmn?”

“Pray, don't do anything... tacky. I've just stuck my head in a noose for you. The least you can do is keep yours out of one for awhile.” He opened the cab door and gave me a sharp shove before I could protest. The driver asked directions.

“Bonaventure Hotel.” It was automatic. My brain wasn't clicking at full speed. The fact was that as much as I hated taking orders from a strange (strange, strange,) man, I had no where else to go. Hank was sure to have his men at the doorstep of every person I had ever passed the time of day with by now. The airports would be searched, train depots blockaded, highways straddled with check points. What the hell was I doing? The engine stirred. I twisted around in my seat and watched a lone silhouette, hat turned down over its face, hands deep in its pockets, stride along the broken avenue.

Twenty minutes later my finger pressed a gold bell button. A camera narrowed its eye at me. There was a sigh as an automated lock popped, the reinforced metal doors breathed open, and I strode into a luminescent parlor. Brass railings and popcorn crystal lamps, card tables, fashion magazines. A man in a security uniform gave me a once over before stuffing his taser back into his belt.

((((Look out for CHAPTER TWO!))))