The Iron Slipper

 

As nightclubs went, it wasn’t all that smoky, but the atmosphere hung thick with the anticipation of escape. You could taste the desperation between the gin and the jazz. Everyone there was waiting for someone — or running from something.

The singer crooned from under a single spotlight, her voice like warm whiskey poured over broken glass. She wasn’t young, but the way the crowd leaned toward her made you think she still had a few debts left unpaid — and a few hearts left to collect.

In the corner, a man in a tan suit stirred his drink without ever taking a sip. His eyes didn’t move, but they were watching everything. I’d seen that look before — the kind that tells you he’s not there for the music.

I wasn’t there for the music either. I was looking for a woman who wasn’t supposed to exist — a redhead with a smile that could make a man forget his own address. Word was, she’d walked out of a deal that went south and took something that didn’t belong to her.

What that something was, nobody seemed to know, but the kind of men asking questions made it clear it was worth more than money.

The bartender caught my glance and shook his head, just barely. That was the thing about this place — everyone knew something, but nobody said a word unless they were paid or dying. Preferably both.

The band picked up the tempo, horns wailing like sirens in the fog. Out on the dance floor, the crowd moved as one — sweating, swaying, pretending not to notice the danger crawling in under the door.

Then I saw her.

She was leaning against the jukebox, tracing the rim of her glass with her finger like she was trying to find the right frequency to disappear. The red hair was real, the smile wasn’t, and when her eyes met mine, I knew two things for sure:

She’d been expecting me, and I was already too late.

 Everyone seemed to know, The Iron Slipper would last forever but forever be uncomfortable, and at this moment I was.  Why I kept coming here I didn’t know.  She began to walk towards me.  I could feel a cold bead of sweat running down my back. The keyboard player hit a sour note.  As if that were some sort of signal, she stopped and turned towards the exit.  My gut told me following her was a bad idea, but so far, my life had been built on bad ideas.

 

to be...