Vermilion by Nathan Aldyne

heard his voice on the phone, the rift had been closed. They were fast companions since that time, and their friendship was broken only every couple of years or so by some violent pointless argument.
    She pulled her fur coat close about her shoulders and turned away from the painting. Valentine approached silently across the double-laid Oriental carpets. He was hurriedly pulling on his navy pea coat over a red hooded sweatshirt.
    â€œI’m late,” he apologized.
    She shrugged noncommittally, and buttoned her coat as they moved toward the wide glass doors. They didn’t speak as they descended the dark, short flight of stairs. They had just stepped out in the frigid night air when Valentine hurried to the edge of the street, stooped, and lifted a torn playing card from a pile of snow and ice atop a storm drain. He thumped it with his forefinger to loosen the filth on it, and slipped it into the pocket of his pea jacket.
    â€œGod!” breathed Clarisse, “how can I maintain my facade as a woman of fashion and leisure if I keep company with a man who picks playing cards up out of the gutter?”
    â€œTen of spades. Congress. Blue field, red filigree border. Probably part of a bridge set.”
    They dodged traffic to cross to the boulevard down the center of Commonwealth Avenue. Invariably they preferred this generous path to the much narrower sidewalk in front of the townhouses on either side of the street. Bare gnarled oaks and maples lined the island, and new street-lamps burned sharply behind their black branches. Daniel still said nothing, but as they were crossing Fairfield Street, Clarisse slipped her arm into his.
    â€œWhat’s the matter? You gain five pounds over the holidays?”
    He laughed shortly. “No, in fact I lost.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong then?”
    He took a package of cigarettes from his pocket. They paused beneath the statue of a bald man who had once done something, or said something, or caused something to happen quite by accident. Valentine lit one for himself and offered a second to Clarisse. She took it.
    â€œI saw Randy Harmon at the gym,” he said.
    â€œRandy’s always at the gym. It’s hard to believe him anymore when he tries to tell you how much he hates it.”
    Valentine, as they moved on, more slowly now, told Clarisse about Lieutenant Searcy’s raucous visit to the Royal Baths.
    â€œWell,” said Clarisse, “at least he’s living up to his name.”
    â€œStill think he’s cute?”
    â€œI see the man’s point. How could Randy not have noticed the john? I mean, he was interested enough to notice how long Billy stayed with him, and notice that he was carrying a bag of toys.”
    Valentine shrugged. “Think, though, Clarisse. He just didn’t. Just the way that I tune out the people who come to Bonaparte’s. It’s automatic. There’s such a thing as too much information—too much input. You don’t want to know all your customers. They order a drink, you fix it, you take the money, and it’s on to the next. The regulars I remember, but even that takes time.”
    â€œYou sound like a whore,” said Clarisse.
    Where Commonwealth Avenue ends, at Arlington Street, they stopped for crossing traffic. Clarisse pressed Valentine’s arm. “OK, I know you’re upset and I feel bad for Randy, but Randy’s just going to have to take care of himself, and we should all be so lucky as to have an ex who’s as good a lawyer as Cal. But tonight we’re going to have a nice dinner together, just you and I, and put all this aside. Tomorrow you have off. You have dinner with me, and then I’ll spin you around three times and send you out to a bar and you can pick up the most beautiful man in Boston.”
    Valentine smiled warmly. “If you weren’t a woman, I’d marry you. Where do we eat?”
    â€œI don’t care. Let’s try the Tudor