Loot for the Unlucky Lady

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She walked slowly, because walking is easier than standing, and attracts less attention. Slowly from the Astor Bar entrance up the few short blocks to Lindy’s and back. In the heart of the tourist crush. In the granular slush of December, by the corners where the lean scarecrow Santas warmed their fingers in their armpits and jangled the tired bells while the change dropped into the wire-covered pots. She was jostled and buffeted about, hearing the torn bits of conversation around her, fixing her mind on those overheard bits to keep from thinking of Al: “...So I tells him there’s holes in his head and...”

“She ought to pay more attention to...”

“It’s a lousy show and why it don’t close is more...”

“Okay, okay, so it was five drinks...”

“And this other one, the blonde, says...”

“Get off my feet, stupid...”

It was a crosstown wind and at the corners it whipped her thin, worn coat, and chilled her ankles where the taxi wheels had spattered her stockings.

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