She had expected so much

She had expected so much that the scene before her disappointed her.

Most of the people in Calloway's looked like normal, unimpressive people. Sure, Marissa had never seen a woman wear a dress that dipped quite so low in both the front and the back, but she recognized the flapper style from dresses she had seen on the streets. The men wore nice suits, nicer than those she usually encountered near the university, and everyone smoked long cigarettes which they propped on their upturned hands.

For a few seconds, she felt a little lighter in spirit, relieved that she had not run into anything too horrific. Of course, then she began to take in the smell. Beneath the dusty haze of the cigarette smoke, stronger than the mix of the patrons' perfumes, Marissa noticed, or rather sensed, an odd burning sensation in her nostrils. Shortly after she became aware of this, she smelled the smell that accompanied the burning: a sour, pungent scent. She thought she might have smelled it before, once when she visited her grandfather. The memory stood out to her because it accompanied an argument between Ella Erinson and her father the likes of which Marissa had never heard.

Looking back, Marissa began to think she knew the source of the argument.

On every table, she saw them, and in over half of the raised hands. Various glass containers of all sizes and shapes, each holding its own shade of amber or gold. Some looked clear, but Marissa did not expect that they contained water. Her grandfather's jug of clear liquid sloshed around in her mind as he gestured with it in his hand.

Marissa knew the smell, she knew the colors, and she knew the place. Marissa had just entered the underground world of illegal alcohol consumption.

Because she had either not encountered or not noticed alcohol at Marcel's, the realization arrested her forward momentum.

At that moment, Sam Lincoln looked up from his Scotch and spotted her, suspended motionless by the front door, her pearly pale skin contrasting against the battered mahogany door. The predatory animal within him stirred as he saw her. She was so soft, he thought. Entirely too soft for a place like Calloway's. Of course, to Sam, such a realization brought him rather more pleasure than concern.

He rose from his seat and sidled around the room, making sure to remain just out of her sight. When he reached the door, he slid between Marissa and a tall man who had just squeezed by her into the room. The effect brought him within inches of her, and when she glanced up to see who had just invaded her space, the look of recognition mingled with an, at least to Sam, amusing measure of fear.

"You came," he pressed in a hushed tone, and Marissa's shoulders rose and fell in rapid breaths. His sudden appearance had overwhelmed Marissa, and she didn't know whether to turn and run or stand completely still, much as she would with a rattlesnake back home. Though she sought the floor with her eyes, she could feel him pressed against her. She reminded herself of her newly discovered bravery.

What was the worst that could happen? she asked herself. She could think of several really horrible things that could happen, but she pressed these to the back of her mind, dismissing them as hysterics. Instead, she focused on the possibility that the police might raid the underground pub. Marissa forced herself to raise her eyes.

"Is this a good idea?" she begged commandingly, filling her voice with a bluster of courage. "What if the police show up?"

In answer, Sam motioned to a table of men who sat twenty feet from the door. "The police have shown up," he smirked.

Marissa didn't know three of the men, but she thought that she recognized one of them, a tall, swarthy man who held a short, wide glass of golden liquid in his fingers.

"Oh, I see," Marissa acceded, and most of the courage fled her tone.

Sam again reached for her hand. "Come have a seat," he insisted.

Though internally, Marissa chastised him for the contact, a shiver escaped her, a mix of terror and anticipation.

Sam, entirely too astute, grinned down at her. "I imagine you'll warm up pretty quickly down here. That drink right over there would make you forget you had ever been cold in your life." He gestured to a very small glass; it didn't seem like any more than a gulp.

He had led her past the ring of tables that guarded the front entrance, and he now dragged her through a thick crowd that swayed as one across a large clearing in front of the stage. The brash clashings of the jazz music mingled with a constant hum of conversation. Strangely, the pulse of the rhythm urged her eyes to close, her body to sway with the thrum of the instruments. Contrarily, her knowledge of the nature of Calloway’s – along with her companionship with Sam Lincoln – rendered all her instincts on high alert.

It was as if someone had locked her in a cage with a lion and then dosed her with a sedative.

Occasionally, raucous laughter would punctuate the hypnotizing buzz, and Marissa felt shocked to see the immodest display coming from women as well as men. At least in her experience, women usually behaved with slightly more decorum.

Finally, Sam's words sunk in, and Marissa rushed the words from her mouth. "I don't drink alcohol," she exclaimed, keeping her voice low lest she draw attention to herself.

To her dismay, Sam stopped walking right in the middle of the dance floor and leaned in as if to hear. "I didn't catch that." He pulled her close and began to sway. "What did you say?"

The shared movement of her body with Sam's mesmerized her, and for a moment, she couldn't speak. From the bodies around her emitted a sultry heat that made her head swim.

Only after Sam intertwined their fingers did the shock wrench her mind from its distraction. When she tried to step back, he wrapped an arm around her waist, restraining her escape. "I think I can hear you now," he whispered in her ear, and the heat of his breath flowed down her neck in an entirely unfamiliar way. Marissa almost couldn't breathe, much less speak.

He took advantage of her speechlessness and leaned his cheek down toward hers, not in tenderness, but as if in preparation for something. Still, she couldn't move except in the monotonous swaying that seemed to pull at her from both Sam's body and the general crowd around her. When he finally touched her face, the contact of his skin upon hers tore her from her ever increasing stupor, and she managed to stop the contact by turning her face to the ground.

Forget drawing attention to yourself, she realized. Marissa needed to stop Sam's advancing attack before she fell completely under his assault. Having never experienced such a sensation, she did not have any idea of her ability to repel its force.

On her second attempt, she almost yelled to make herself heard. "You said you wanted to talk," she accused, using her arms to press against his chest.

Sam only chuckled at her weak attempt to get away. "It's kind of hard to talk in here," he smirked.

"Well, maybe I should leave," Marissa offered angrily, turning to glare up at Sam.

Again, Sam laughed. "I'll take you somewhere else to talk," he kept his face as close to hers as her still-straining arms would allow. He finally released her waist, and when he turned and began dragging her across the dance floor, she pulled back against his progression. Unsure of his intent, she did not cry out. Sam knew where she lived; he knew when she walked home, sometimes after dark, alone. If he had wished her any ill, a roomful of witnesses would not be the best place to enact nefarious plans. Instead, she sensed that he dragged her with him in the same manner as he did everything else: completely unaware of any wrongdoing, merely trying to enact his will. More bully than psychopath.

Even so, the thought brought another gulp to Marissa's throat as Sam Lincoln pulled her through a doorframe from the boisterous and bright scene of a bar and into an opening maw of darkness.

***********************

"She went where?" Barbara barked into the professor's office phone.

"She went into Calloway's," came Mario's crackling reply. "I can't imagine what sent her into a place like that."

Barbara shook her head, worry warring with her anger toward her dear friend. Still, Barbara knew, "We did it, Mario. You know it as well as I that if she had been with us like she should have, she would never have sought out Sam Lincoln."

"You're right," Mario agreed, then he hesitated in his next words. "She went to him right after our little fight with her."

"What?" Barbara yelled into the phone.

Mario paused before continuing. "On Monday, when you sent me after her, she ran into him in the park. I only came in on the end of the conversation, but she mentioned dinner on Friday. Obviously, that's today."

"Hold on," Barbara commanded. Placing the phone down on the desktop, Barbara stood to her feet and began an angry pacing along the stripe in the rug. If she yelled at Mario, it would accomplish nothing, and both of them needed to plan, not to argue. Most likely, little harm would come from Marissa's "date" with Sam, though Sam no doubt planned some mischief. Calloway's, though. The very name seemed ominous. Though Marissa could not have known, most of the Irish mobsters functioned in or around Calloway's. If Marissa did run into trouble, Barbara could do little. Only one possibility occurred to her, and she didn't like it.

She paced back to the phone. "Where are you now?" she demanded.

"I'm standing on 20th St, staring at Calloway's broken-down doorway. Of course, there aren't any windows, and I can't exactly meander in. Not unless I go find some Italian mafia to escort me inside."

"Very funny," Barbara chastised. "Be serious. I have an idea, but it's not a very good one. You do realize that she is very likely to come out of there in an hour or so completely fine. We're most likely wasting our worry on nothing."

"I sure hope so," Mario agreed flatly. "So, what's this plan?"

"I'm going to go talk to my dad."

Mario turned his eyes to the sky in thought. "Your dad? What good will that do?"

"Well," Barbara explained, "if he agrees to help me, he can make a few phone calls to his Irish politician friends. They all have connections within the gangs, and I imagine my dad could trade a few favors..."

"But Barbara," Mario interrupted her. "Isn't that exactly the kind of thing we've been working against for the last few weeks? Even Marissa. What would she think if you bought off corrupt politicians?"

Barbara smiled ironically. "Actually, Mario, I think Marissa would be fine with it. She always chose to guard her friends and her friendships over all else. She wouldn't have stood on principle at the expense of someone's life or health. I was the one who was so willing to sacrifice everything for principle's sake."

For a moment, Mario said nothing. Then he spoke in a subdued tone. "And I was willing to let you," Mario agreed. "I basically chose you over Marissa, and I can't even claim the nobility of principle. I had just decided to play favorites."

With a statement like that, Barbara couldn't find fault in Mario. She liked that he favored her. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Sweetheart," she begged, using the endearment for the first time. "We'll get her back, and you and I are just fortunate enough to have found a friend that will always forgive us."

"I only hope she has the chance," Mario exclaimed solemnly.

"Don't be dramatic!" Barbara hushed him quickly. "Meet me in the park. I want you to come with me to talk to my father."

Barbara hung up the phone, threw on her fur-lined coat, and hurried out into the cool October air.

that the scene before her disappointed her.

Most of the people in Calloway's looked like normal, unimpressive people. Sure, Marissa had never seen a woman wear a dress that dipped quite so low in both the front and the back, but she recognized the flapper style from dresses she had seen on the streets. The men wore nice suits, nicer than those she usually encountered near the university, and everyone smoked long cigarettes which they propped on their upturned hands.

For a few seconds, she felt a little lighter in spirit, relieved that she had not run into anything too horrific. Of course, then she began to take in the smell. Beneath the dusty haze of the cigarette smoke, stronger than the mix of the patrons' perfumes, Marissa noticed, or rather sensed, an odd burning sensation in her nostrils. Shortly after she became aware of this, she smelled the smell that accompanied the burning: a sour, pungent scent. She thought she might have smelled it before, once when she visited her grandfather. The memory stood out to her because it accompanied an argument between Ella Erinson and her father the likes of which Marissa had never heard.

Looking back, Marissa began to think she knew the source of the argument.

On every table, she saw them, and in over half of the raised hands. Various glass containers of all sizes and shapes, each holding its own shade of amber or gold. Some looked clear, but Marissa did not expect that they contained water. Her grandfather's jug of clear liquid sloshed around in her mind as he gestured with it in his hand.

Marissa knew the smell, she knew the colors, and she knew the place. Marissa had just entered the underground world of illegal alcohol consumption.

Because she had either not encountered or not noticed alcohol at Marcel's, the realization arrested her forward momentum.

At that moment, Sam Lincoln looked up from his Scotch and spotted her, suspended motionless by the front door, her pearly pale skin contrasting against the battered mahogany door. The predatory animal within him stirred as he saw her. She was so soft, he thought. Entirely too soft for a place like Calloway's. Of course, to Sam, such a realization brought him rather more pleasure than concern.

He rose from his seat and sidled around the room, making sure to remain just out of her sight. When he reached the door, he slid between Marissa and a tall man who had just squeezed by her into the room. The effect brought him within inches of her, and when she glanced up to see who had just invaded her space, the look of recognition mingled with an, at least to Sam, amusing measure of fear.

"You came," he pressed in a hushed tone, and Marissa's shoulders rose and fell in rapid breaths. His sudden appearance had overwhelmed Marissa, and she didn't know whether to turn and run or stand completely still, much as she would with a rattlesnake back home. Though she sought the floor with her eyes, she could feel him pressed against her. She reminded herself of her newly discovered bravery.

What was the worst that could happen? she asked herself. She could think of several really horrible things that could happen, but she pressed these to the back of her mind, dismissing them as hysterics. Instead, she focused on the possibility that the police might raid the underground pub. Marissa forced herself to raise her eyes.

"Is this a good idea?" she begged commandingly, filling her voice with a bluster of courage. "What if the police show up?"

In answer, Sam motioned to a table of men who sat twenty feet from the door. "The police have shown up," he smirked.

Marissa didn't know three of the men, but she thought that she recognized one of them, a tall, swarthy man who held a short, wide glass of golden liquid in his fingers.

"Oh, I see," Marissa acceded, and most of the courage fled her tone.

Sam again reached for her hand. "Come have a seat," he insisted.

Though internally, Marissa chastised him for the contact, a shiver escaped her, a mix of terror and anticipation.

Sam, entirely too astute, grinned down at her. "I imagine you'll warm up pretty quickly down here. That drink right over there would make you forget you had ever been cold in your life." He gestured to a very small glass; it didn't seem like any more than a gulp.

He had led her past the ring of tables that guarded the front entrance, and he now dragged her through a thick crowd that swayed as one across a large clearing in front of the stage. The brash clashings of the jazz music mingled with a constant hum of conversation. Strangely, the pulse of the rhythm urged her eyes to close, her body to sway with the thrum of the instruments. Contrarily, her knowledge of the nature of Calloway’s – along with her companionship with Sam Lincoln – rendered all her instincts on high alert.

It was as if someone had locked her in a cage with a lion and then dosed her with a sedative.

Occasionally, raucous laughter would punctuate the hypnotizing buzz, and Marissa felt shocked to see the immodest display coming from women as well as men. At least in her experience, women usually behaved with slightly more decorum.

Finally, Sam's words sunk in, and Marissa rushed the words from her mouth. "I don't drink alcohol," she exclaimed, keeping her voice low lest she draw attention to herself.

To her dismay, Sam stopped walking right in the middle of the dance floor and leaned in as if to hear. "I didn't catch that." He pulled her close and began to sway. "What did you say?"

The shared movement of her body with Sam's mesmerized her, and for a moment, she couldn't speak. From the bodies around her emitted a sultry heat that made her head swim.

Only after Sam intertwined their fingers did her shock wrench her mind from its distraction. When she tried to step back, he wrapped an arm around her waist, restraining her escape. "I think I can hear you now," he whispered in her ear, and the heat of his breath flowed down her neck in an entirely unfamiliar way. Marissa almost couldn't breathe, much less speak.

He took advantage of her speechlessness and leaned his cheek down toward hers, not in tenderness, but as if in preparation for something. Still, she couldn't move except in the monotonous swaying that seemed to pull at her from both Sam's body and the general crowd around her. When he finally touched her face, the contact of his skin upon hers tore her from her ever increasing stupor, and she managed to stop the contact by turning her face to the ground.

Forget drawing attention to yourself, she realized. Marissa needed to stop Sam's advancing attack before she fell completely under his assault. Having never experienced such a sensation, she did not have any idea of her ability to repel its force.

On her second attempt, she almost yelled to make herself heard. "You said you wanted to talk," she accused, using her arms to press against his chest.

Sam only chuckled at her weak attempt to get away. "It's kind of hard to talk in here," he smirked.

"Well, maybe I should leave," Marissa offered angrily, turning to glare up at Sam.

Again, Sam laughed. "I'll take you somewhere else to talk," he kept his face as close to hers as her still-straining arms would allow. He finally released her waist, and when he turned and began dragging her across the dance floor, she pulled back against his progression. Unsure of his intent, she did not cry out. Sam knew where she lived; he knew when she walked home, sometimes after dark, alone. If he had wished her any ill, a roomful of witnesses would not be the best place to enact nefarious plans. Instead, she sensed that he dragged her with him in the same manner as he did everything else: completely unaware of any wrongdoing, merely trying to enact his will. More bully than psychopath.

Even so, the thought brought another gulp to Marissa's throat as Sam Lincoln pulled her through a doorframe from the boisterous and bright scene of a bar and into an opening maw of darkness.

***********************

"She went where?" Barbara barked into the professor's office phone.

"She went into Calloway's," came Mario's crackling reply. "I can't imagine what sent her into a place like that."

Barbara shook her head, worry warring with her anger toward her dear friend. Still, Barbara knew, "We did it, Mario. You know it as well as I that if she had been with us like she should have, she would never have sought out Sam Lincoln."

"You're right," Mario agreed, then he hesitated in his next words. "She went to him right after our little fight with her."

"What?" Barbara yelled into the phone.

Mario paused before continuing. "On Monday, when you sent me after her, she ran into him in the park. I only came in on the end of the conversation, but she mentioned dinner on Friday. Obviously, that's today."

"Hold on," Barbara commanded. Placing the phone down on the desktop, Barbara stood to her feet and began an angry pacing along the stripe in the rug. If she yelled at Mario, it would accomplish nothing, and both of them needed to plan, not to argue. Most likely, little harm would come from Marissa's "date" with Sam, though Sam no doubt planned some mischief. Calloway's, though. The very name seemed ominous. Though Marissa could not have known, most of the Irish mobsters functioned in or around Calloway's. If Marissa did run into trouble, Barbara could do little. Only one possibility occurred to her, and she didn't like it.

She paced back to the phone. "Where are you now?" she demanded.

"I'm standing on 20th St, staring at Calloway's broken-down doorway. Of course, there aren't any windows, and I can't exactly meander in. Not unless I go find some Italian mafia to escort me inside."

"Very funny," Barbara chastised. "Be serious. I have an idea, but it's not a very good one. You do realize that she is very likely to come out of there in an hour or so completely fine. We're most likely wasting our worry on nothing."

"I sure hope so," Mario agreed flatly. "So, what's this plan?"

"I'm going to go talk to my dad."

Mario turned his eyes to the sky in thought. "Your dad? What good will that do?"

"Well," Barbara explained, "if he agrees to help me, he can make a few phone calls to his Irish politician friends. They all have connections within the gangs, and I imagine my dad could trade a few favors..."

"But Barbara," Mario interrupted her. "Isn't that exactly the kind of thing we've been working against for the last few weeks? Even Marissa. What would she think if you bought off corrupt politicians?"

Barbara smiled ironically. "Actually, Mario, I think Marissa would be fine with it. She always chose to guard her friends and her friendships over all else. She wouldn't have stood on principle at the expense of someone's life or health. I was the one who was so willing to sacrifice everything for principle's sake."

For a moment, Mario said nothing. Then he spoke in a subdued tone. "And I was willing to let you," Mario agreed. "I basically chose you over Marissa, and I can't even claim the nobility of principle. I had just decided to play favorites."

With a statement like that, Barbara couldn't find fault in Mario. She liked that he favored her. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Sweetheart," she begged, using the endearment for the first time. "We'll get her back, and you and I are just fortunate enough to have found a friend that will always forgive us."

"I only hope she has the chance," Mario exclaimed solemnly.

"Don't be dramatic!" Barbara hushed him quickly. "Meet me in the park. I want you to come with me to talk to my father."

Barbara hung up the phone, threw on her fur-lined coat, and hurried out into the cool October air.