Chapter Text
Artwork by Con, the author
Zaun. 1948. Of all the places she could'a walked into, She walked into mine. Stumbled is more like it. Stumbled in with a stab wound to the abdomen is the full truth. Her sensible heels clicked an irritated staccato as she swayed against the front door of The Last Drop bleeding out on my stoop.
Even from the blurry outline of her through the smoky glass on the top half of the door I could tell - She looked like trouble from the very start. Shining blue eyes cutting through the dark. Sharp enough to make out through the foggy glass. She was all angles - cheekbones to chin - in a smart fedora matching a smart dark suit jacket. Too smart for this side of town. Probably a victim of a mugging gone wrong, I mused as I hoped she’d continue moving and leave me out of it.
“We’re closed.” I tried to yell from behind the door. But she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She pounded on the wood pressing her face to the glass to see inside.
“Please. I am hurt. I’ve been stabbed.” She pounded once more on the door. “I need help.” She begged. I don’t do well when dames beg for my help.
Being the sucker that I am, I relented. I opened the door. It was the worst, biggest, and best mistake of my life.
Deep blue hair clung to pale cheeks and a sweaty forehead as she glanced wildly about the place. One hand clutched to her side, the other removed her hat. She had manners and wasn’t going to let them drop for a little mortal wounding. She groaned a breathy “Help… me… please.” It came out lightly accented. One I recognized from my time overseas.
“Fuck. Alright, English. I’ve got you.” I pulled her inside the bar just as I saw two jamokes round the corner down the way.
“Lock the door.” She commanded in a voice all soft and round vowels. Meant for a bedroom not an operating table. I tried to push that thought from my mind. Stuff like that was for the Bogarts and Bacalls of the world. Not the washed up Navy grunt with a dishonorable discharge, shrapnel in her knee and a keen desire for an early grave. This stranger bleeding out in my arms - all over my apron and best pair of slacks, by the by - deserved better. Clearly.
So I set her against the wall. Before I pulled my hands away, I asked, “Can you stand?” She nodded. She was lying. She slid down as soon as I let her go, but I did as I was told - Locking the door, deadbolt, and chain.
I figured picking her up off of the floor after I locked the door would be easier than explaining to the cops what would surely be a dead lady in a pinstripe suit in my bar after those yucks knocked all the teeth outta my mouth.
Then I made sure to pop the switches on the lights for good measure too. No sense in letting those jamokes see inside before I got a chance to hide the broad currently coating my newly cleaned floor in her own brand a’ crimson.
“Can you walk?” I asked. She nodded. She was lying again. I could tell by the way her nostrils flared and the way she scratched her thumb and forefinger together over the wound in her side. Nervous ticks. Clearly. This broad was under serious heat. Serious enough to get stabbed for it.
“Fuck. Alright, English. I got you. Up we go.” I pulled her to her feet. She did not like that and told me so with a groan that tapered off into a growl. She was hurt - hurt bad - but there was nothing I could do about it until I got her in the back. Couldn’t have her bleeding out all over one of my booths. Folks eat there.
I half-carried her through the bar. I continued narrating as we moved together. Learned in the Navy that was something you were supposed to do for somebody who was wounded. So I had that going for me.
“Good. That’s good. Alright lean on me. Okay we’re moving. And big step. And another big step. Alright there you go. Just a little further, now.” Just like narrating for little kids when they’re learning to walk.
We made it to the back. I pushed through the curtains and laid her down on my cot before pulling the string to illuminate the place. I told her, “Everything. Off.” before I realized that sounded bad and turned back to her to rephrase myself - like a gentleman, “I gotta clean whatever’s going on under there. So could you please remove your jacket and whatever else is covering the thing that’s bleeding and I’ll fix you up as best as I can?” She regarded me with the clearest blue eyes I’d ever seen in my life and my heart jump started like an old-school model T. I pushed that thought away. This dame was in trouble and I was gonna help her. That's all.
She didn't move. I tried again. “Listen, Sugar, you’re lucky you walked into my bar. I’ve stitched up plenty. You’re safe here, but you're gonna have to trust me.” She nodded warily, carefully evaluating every move I made.
"I’ll be right back.” I pushed back through the curtains and dug through a few boxes in storage to grab my old medic kit that had come in handy a few times in my ownership of this bar. I stopped off in a small alcove and snagged a bottle from my secret stash of extra special gin. If the amount of blood was any indication, the cheap stuff wasn't going to cut it for this.
I returned to the sight of a cobalt brassiere on alabaster skin and a slight blush that crept across this stranger's cheeks - like she’s been caught in the midst of something naughty. I had to catch my breath. A woman. Like that. on my godsforsaken cot. I tried to push those queer thoughts away and remember what I was doing - she had an open wound after all. Time was of the essence.
I opened my bottle of gin and grumbled. Taking a swig to calm my nerves before speaking. “Tell you what, I’m gonna help you and you’re gonna tell me how this happened.” I held the bottle out for her. She took it and took a swig. I didn’t mean to, but my eyes followed the motion of her throat. Delicate. I shook my head and bit my lip. Whatta fool thing to think. She took another swig and swallowed a second time. Larger gulps than I expected, but hey, sharing’s caring after all. I cleared my throat. “Then once you’re patched, I’m gonna tell you how to get outta here discretely.”
She took a third swig before responding. Wiping a dribble of gin with the back of her hand and quirking her chin as she talked. “You help a lot of women leave this bar discretely?
"Only the ones with terrible dates, Sweetheart”
She had huffed out part of a laugh at that. My heart hopped in my chest. The twinkle of a giggle petered out as she shifted on the cot and turned into a groan.
She clutched herself tighter and grit her teeth before asking, “Can I smoke in here?”
“You - specifically - can do whatever you want in here.”
The look in her eyes at those words. Well. That was something else. Whatever it was, she mopped it up in an instant before pulling a fancy cigarette case outta her jacket pocket. She popped it open and offered me one. I waved her away noting, “Not for me. Not until I’ve got you stitched up.”
“Oh? You’re going to stitch me, are you?” Her accent was musical even when she was doubting my skill.
“Well sure, lady. If you need it. You ain't going nowhere with that kinda gash. Not ’til you’ve been triaged. Not on my watch. Now sit back, shut up, and try not to kick me. This is probably gonna hurt.
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been told that.”
I cracked a smile at that. She sent one back to me. The air sparked. Edison-like for only a moment. I pointed to the barrel at the end of the bed, “Ashtray's right there, Sweetheart. Matches too if you need ‘em.” She traded the gin bottle for the pack of matches, lit her cigarette, and inhaled.
I fell to my knees in-front of her, setting the dopp kit below the bed. I wasn’t sure I’d need it, but with the crimson seeping through her fingers, I wasn’t not sure I'd need it either.
“Now lemme see that gash” Her eyes lit up at that. She inhaled and exhaled coolly as she grinned. Whether that light behind her eyes was chagrin or an opportunity to make a filthy joke I couldn’t tell. I was too embarrassed at my own wording. I felt the heat lift to my ears. I stammered as I motioned to the hand she had holding against herself over the slash on her side; exactly where the soft curve of her hip flared out. She removed her hand. I evaluated.
Lucky thing - the wound was deep, but didn’t seem to have nicked anything but muscle and skin. Less of a stab and more of a passing slash from my angle. She’d need stitches sure, but I could handle that. Wasn’t anything I hadn’t done overseas.
“You’ll need stitches.” I told her as I reached under the cot to grab my dopp kit. I opened it to get out all the bits and bobbles to patch her up. I set my supplies up on the side of the bed not currently occupied. She evaluated. Calculated. Flayed me alive with that ultramarine gaze as she smoked. I wasn’t complaining.
I took off my belt, folded it up, and handed it to her. She quirked an eyebrow at that and it made my heart stutter. Gods one pretty face and I’m a puddle of mush. I scratched at the nape of my neck before clarifying. “Something to bite down on. Can’t have you cracking a tooth too. I ain't a dentist.”
She hummed a single note, but it sounded like music to me. She stubbed out her cigarette and traded it for the bottle of gin. She took a fourth swig of the gin. At this rate, I was gonna be outta gin before I finished the first stitch. But I couldn’t begrudge her that. I was about to punch her fulla holes and tie her together with silk string.
“Alright,” I took the bottle back and soaked my hands and the supplies letting the gin splatter on the floorboards before holding the bottle above the wound. “This is gonna sting.” I put my thumb over the lip and let drops drip out to dribble into and around the wound. She hissed. I felt bad, but it had to happen. “You ready?” I threaded my needle with steady hands.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” She contorted herself to lean on her elbows. Twisting her body down the length of my cot to give me access to the wound on her lower right side. “This alright?”
“Works for me.” I ready myself to begin stitching. Any baker worth their sugar will tell you, concentration is important. Any surgeon worth their salt will tell you it’s good to keep folks talking to distract their minds when they’re in pain. So; salty; sweet; I did both.
“What’s your name?” I started. I talked slowly. Taking my time to let the words sink in as I pulled the curved needle through flesh as gentle as I could.
Her words come out in a hiss. I don't blame her. “Matilda.”
“Ah. Matilda. That’s a pretty name. Suits you.”
She bit into the belt as I pressed on with continuous stitch number 3. She mumbled through a mouth full’a leather. “Fank you.”
“So. What’re you doing in the Lanes, Matilda?" I pulled gently on stitch 4 and she hissed. "I don’t mean to pry, but a lady like you in a fine suit like that? I gotta say, you don’t look the type.”
She removed the belt from her mouth and began wringing it between her palms on the other side of the bed. “Visiting an old friend.”
“Ah. Old friend give you this as a parting gift?” I dipped my chin to indicate her wound.
"Yes.”
“Sounds like this old friend ain’t much of a friend, huh?”
“Friends like these, who needs enemies?”
“Ain’t that the truth. Listen. You don’t want my advice, I know. but I’m gonna say it anyway.” I took a big breath. “Blue’s your color, you’ve got an immaculate rack, cupcake”
“WHAT?!” She sputtered as I tugged the knot on her stitches tight - old trick I learned in the Navy; distract ‘em before the big pull. She yelped as her eyes flashed with rage. But the distraction did the trick.
I pulled my hands back immediately. The needle and thread dangled from her torso, still attached. I explained. “I’m sorry. Matilda. I didn’t mean anything by it. I swear. I needed to distract you and set you on your back foot so’s I could tug on the stitches to secure ‘em. And I figured the best way to distract you was to get you mad at me. So I am sorry. I truly am. I didn’t mean it. Honest. I promise.”
“You didn’t mean it?” If I were the hopeful type, I'd say she sounded disappointed. But I ain't; so I won't.
“Scouts Honor" I hold up three fingers to prove it. "I only said that to distract you. I swear on my whole life.”
Her anger simmered to amusement as she looked down at the wound. “So you’re done then?”
“Yup. Nine stitches. All secured. If it gets gunky, rinse it with warm water. You can come back here and I’ll take em out in a week or so, or you can/” She cut me off as she sat up on my cot.
“/Yes. I’m aware how stitches work. This isn’t my first rodeo, Cowboy.” She smiled warmly as she reached for the scissors I’d set out. She snipped the hanging thread and handed the bits back into my offered palm. Her fingertips lingered. Trailing along my skin. The electricity in the air was back.
I bantered. “You’re mad at me for saying, ‘blue’s your color,’ aren’t you?”
“Somewhat. My favourite color is Lavender." She quirked her lips to one side before a tease slipped into her voice, "However, I suppose I can’t be upset you’ve noticed my immaculate rack in this current position.” Her eyes glittered.
"It’d be impossible not to notice.” I grin at the floor and change the subject. Something about this conversation is striking a little too close to flirting and I need out. This Matilda is trouble with a capital T. “Listen, I got some painkillers in the employee bathroom if you want me to get 'em for you while you get dressed.”
"Thank you. I hate to impose. However, might I also borrow some clothes? It would be difficult to sneak away unnoticed covered in blood or in my current state of undress.”
I huffed out a laugh at that. “Sure. It’s a good thing I got spare shirts back here.” I leaned forward, nose to her knees almost as I reached to pull the duffel I keep under the bed. I unzipped it snagged a gingham flannel that conveniently sat at the top of the messy pile. I tossed it to her. “This might fit”
“Are you sure it will contain my impeccable rack?”
I tried to contain my grin as I moved to stand, but my lips betrayed me and she got a look at every single one of my teeth as I shook my head. My knee twinges as I straighten up. My grin turns into a grimace. I breathe a breath through gritted teeth as I hold still. I bite my bottom lip as I pray for the pain to pass. I’m gonna need half those painkillers myself after kneeling for so long. I try to distract myself too but I know the pain is sliding into my voice. “I’m not going to live that down, am I?”
“Certainly not.” She shrugs into the shirt. “Now! I believe I owe you an explanation.”
“I suppose you do.” The twinge in my knee dies down.
“I’ll get the pills. Employee water closet is that door?” She points.
“That’s the discreet exit I told you about.” I smirked before redirecting her point, pinching her wrist in between my thumb and forefinger. “Employee bathroom is down that hallway to the left. Pills are in a little glass bottle in the cabinet under the sink. Bring the whole bottle out, will ya?”
She hums her understanding before she continues, “I’ll get the pills. You take the booze to the bar and pour me a real drink. Then you may have my story.”
“Bossy.” I say as she buttons the shirt.
She cocks an eyebrow. It makes me want to tell her all my secrets.
“I like that,” I admit to my shoes. When I look up, she's grinning. Showing off a sliver of space where her front two teeth had a minor divorce. It sends a soft shiver down my spine. Warm in all the right ways. I hobble my way outta the room and toss her a mumbled, “I’ll see you out there” over my shoulder.
I don’t expect to see her again. But sure enough, as I’m finishing rinsing the rag from cleaning up the drops of blood marking our trail to the back, she reappears. In my shirt, pain pill bottle in hand. Makes me feel all kinds’a domestic.
She settles on the stool as I slide her a rocks glass with a splash of my special gin in it. “Now, That’s all you get.” I warn her, “I don’t want you seeping through your stitches.”
She rolls her eyes, passes me the pill bottle, and lights two cigarettes. Pulling flame through tobacco. She plucks one cigarette free and offers it to me, filter first, while keeping the other pinched between those perfect pouty lips. She exhales the sentence and the smoke in one. “Well, I suppose I should start from the beginning.”
I take the cigarette and set the ashtray between us. “I suppose you should.” I down my pills dry and go back to drying and stacking glasses at the bar while she talks.
She started talking. Said she’d been investigating some fuckery at play at Sister Cities Water and Power. A woman showed up. The wife of some engineer asking her to investigate, Make sure he didn’t have a mistress or nothing. Matilda followed him. Took the pictures she was asked to take. Heard a few things she wasn’t meant to hear.
I’m shocked by this. This broad. A Private Investigator? A True blue bloodhound. Takes all kinds, I guess. Explains the stabbing at the very least. I finish my cigarette and keep wiping down the bar as she talks. My knee already feels better.
“Anyway, my office was ransacked, my pictures stolen, and they ended up in the papers. Front page on every Piltovan news stand.”
She stubs out her cigarette and continues. “As I’m righting my office, a different woman opens my door and slaps me across the face. Suppose I didn’t need to tell her I liked it rough.” she huffs out half a laugh before she finishes her drink and pours herself another generous amount of my very special gin. I figured she’d been stabbed. She needed it. So I let her.
She continues her story. “Turns out. the first ‘Wife’ was a fake. I should've known. A fur coat; no gloves; plus she drove herself. It was a dead giveaway. And I didn't put the pieces together. And get this: now the philandering bastard is missing." She shakes her head admonishing herself. "So, I owe this woman for ruining her marriage. At the very least, I need to find the schmuck so she can divorce him.”
She pulls out two more cigarettes, lights them both and offers one to me. I lean forward and open my mouth without thinking she gently places the filter between my lips. Our eyes connect and something passes between us. This lady’s holding my cigarette. A girl could get used to this. I inhale and pull away, cigarette pinched between my teeth, shattering the moment. I exhale through my nose and raise my eyebrows for her to continue.
“So I do some digging. I follow some clues as one is wont to do. And get a knife in my stomach for the trouble. That’s my story. That’s all of it, so far.”
“That’s some of it. Sounds like there’s a lot missing, Matilda.”
“Well you have quite a few surprises in store for me, I’m sure. A bartender who stitches up strays?” She grins into her drink. “I didn’t catch your name, by the by.”
“I didn’t throw it.” I stub out the cigarette before giving into the quirked eyebrow she threw at me as she leaned across my bar. I'm such a godsdamned sucker. I mirrored her position. “It’s Violet. You can call me Vi.”
“Where’d you learn to stitch like that, Vi?” Her long lithe fingers played with her empty gin glass. Her eyes glittered. Probably from the liquor. That didn’t stop me from thinking I could spend my days drowning in that cerulean sea. But I knew better that to loose myself in a dame. I shrugged all non-committal like. She changed the subject like a gentleman but stayed close.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t mean anything by it. Just. I expected bartenders to have rougher hands is all.”
"I wasn’t always a bartender.” I murmured as I realized how close we were. She smelled like cigarettes and gun oil and probably tasted like syrup and sin. But I knew if I was going down, She was where I wanted to be.
She pulled back first. Evaluated her empty glass before slapping her palms on the bar. Having decided for both of us.
“Thank you, Vi. For everything.”
“My pleasure.”
Matilda promised to come back with my shirt - "cleaned and pressed just for me," she said - and some special gin to replenish my supply since we killed the whole bottle from my special stash.
She leaves my bar with my jacket over her shoulders.
I doubt I’ll ever see her again.