Working on a thing
It's a slipstream bayoupunk thing. We shall see
The client glided into Clay’s office, a vision in sea-grass green and saffron.
“I want you to murder my stepdaughter.” Her reflection smirked from a scratched mirror in the corner, licking its lips as it patted its long, blonde curls. “Kill that little twist bitch and her coon bedwarmer deader than Sunday’s catch on Monday morning.”
The client glanced at the mirror, watching the reflection glare back at her before sitting. “Mirrors lie,” she said coldly. “It’s unseemly to leave them exposed.”
Clay smiled. “Cleaning lady’s off, Mrs. Marchand.”
Emmeline Marchand’s perfect eyebrow arched.
Everyone knew Emmeline Marchand’s story, or the story of a hundred girls like her. They worked a dime-a-dance hall on Carnival Road or sold cigarettes and lemonade from a rowboat to the oil rig boys. They were the bright stars of the steno pool, glove-and-tie salesgirls who watched and waited and learned their regular clients’ birthdays and favorite colors, too ambitious to scorch in the refineries or rot in the swamp.
Emmeline had been a personal nurse for Old Man Marchand’s wife, feeding her and sitting up through the night during her fits. When Old Man Marchand’s wife smothered in her sleep, Emmeline moved from the side of the sickbed to the head of the line. Once Old Man Marchand took sick, Emmeline stayed there. Some muttered about oilmen’s curses, while some turned their heads and whispered a quick devil-go-no-further when she walked by, but no one cast any doubt on Emmeline Marchand under a full moon or where a mirror might hear.
The client glided into Clay’s office, a vision in sea-grass green and saffron.
“I want you to murder my stepdaughter.” Her reflection smirked from a scratched mirror in the corner, licking its lips as it patted its long, blonde curls. “Kill that little twist bitch and her coon bedwarmer deader than Sunday’s catch on Monday morning.”
The client glanced at the mirror, watching the reflection glare back at her before sitting. “Mirrors lie,” she said coldly. “It’s unseemly to leave them exposed.”
Clay smiled. “Cleaning lady’s off, Mrs. Marchand.”
Emmeline Marchand’s perfect eyebrow arched.
Everyone knew Emmeline Marchand’s story, or the story of a hundred girls like her. They worked a dime-a-dance hall on Carnival Road or sold cigarettes and lemonade from a rowboat to the oil rig boys. They were the bright stars of the steno pool, glove-and-tie salesgirls who watched and waited and learned their regular clients’ birthdays and favorite colors, too ambitious to scorch in the refineries or rot in the swamp.
Emmeline had been a personal nurse for Old Man Marchand’s wife, feeding her and sitting up through the night during her fits. When Old Man Marchand’s wife smothered in her sleep, Emmeline moved from the side of the sickbed to the head of the line. Once Old Man Marchand took sick, Emmeline stayed there. Some muttered about oilmen’s curses, while some turned their heads and whispered a quick devil-go-no-further when she walked by, but no one cast any doubt on Emmeline Marchand under a full moon or where a mirror might hear.