Miles Corbin, a footloose writer of “Sinful Persuasion”, and a number of other trashy novels now in Bethlehem, a town in New York, chasing rainbows and Bohemian girls. He lived alone in a cheap apartment over a massage parlor, kept a yellow canary, and wrote pulp fiction in a third-floor walk-up. The elevator was “out of order.”
The last time Miles Corbin saw a woman drink whiskey like that, she’d shot him three days later. The memory twinged in his shoulder as he watched her now—long fingers wrapped around the glass, nails chipped but sharp, like she’d been digging her way out of something. Or into it. Miles took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his weary face, his fedora pulled low to shield his eyes from the weak light. He knew a dame in trouble when he saw one, and trouble was his middle name. A hollow laugh echoed the sentiment as the worn keys hit another low, discordant note. The night was young, and the city, it seemed, was full of old, familiar sins waiting to be uncovered.
The lounge, wasn’t the Tea House of The August Moon, it was Nick Big Six, bar. The piano player missed a note. Not by accident. That was a signal. Miles exhaled slowly, hand drifting to the holster beneath his jacket—only to find the woman in scarlet already sliding onto the stool beside him. Up close, she smelled like The last time Miles Corbin saw a woman drink whiskey like that, she’d shot him three days later. The memory twinged in his shoulder as he watched her now—long fingers wrapped around the glass, nails chipped but sharp, like she’d been digging her way out of something. Or into it. Miles took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his weary face, his fedora pulled low to shield his eyes from the weak light. He knew a dame in trouble when he saw one, and trouble was his middle name. A hollow laugh echoed the sentiment as the worn keys hit another low, discordant note. The night was young, and the city, it seemed, was full of old, familiar sins waiting to be uncovered.
The piano player missed a note. Not by accident. That was a signal. Miles exhaled slowly, hand drifting to the holster beneath his jacket—only to find the woman in scarlet already sliding onto the stool beside him. Up close, she smelled like Sulphur matches (spunks), and roses. You’re late,” she murmured, voice rough as the gravel outside. Her lips left a smudge of dark red on the rim of her glass. Not lipstick. Blood.
Miles flicked ash into the tray, eyes never leaving hers. “Late for what, exactly?” The piano hit another sour note. Behind the bar, Nick wiped a glass too slowly, knuckles white around the rag. The woman leaned in, her breath warm against Miles’ ear. “To be saved and offered forgiveness and “receive eternal life”, touching the cross hanging from her neck.
The last whiskey in Miles’ gut turned to ice. He’d heard sermons like that before—right before men with too-clean shoes put bullets in his ribs. The cross glinted under the flickering lights, cheap gold plating flaking off to reveal tarnished metal beneath. Salvation, his ass. He’d met preachers who carried more sin than the whores at Madame Lou’s. “Sweetheart,” he said, thumb brushing the revolver’s grip under his coat, “I’m allergic to holy water.”
Her laugh was a rasp of broken glass, fingers tightening around the cross until her knuckles matched the blood on her lips. The piano player struck a chord that didn’t belong—three notes too high, the sound slicing through the smoke like a warning. Nick’s reflection in the cracked mirror behind the bar showed him reaching for something beneath the counter. Miles didn’t need to see it to know it wasn’t a bottle opener.
“You ever meet a man who bleeds silver, detective?” Her whisper was venom wrapped in velvet. Outside, the neon sign sputtered, casting jagged shadows across her face—half saint, half butcher. Miles exhaled through his nose, catching the scent of cordite beneath her rosewater. Too late to walk away now. The canary in his apartment would be singing to an empty room by dawn.
The cross swung forward as she stood, revealing the hollow inside—a snub-nosed Derringer nestled where scripture should’ve been. Miles’ chuckle died in his throat as the piano lid slammed shut. Barstools screeched as Nick’s boys fanned out, hands in pockets where no honest man kept them. “Funny thing about salvation,” Miles said, flicking his cigarette at the nearest thug’s eyes, “it’s always got a price tag.”
The first bullet tore through his trench coat as he dove behind the bar, shattering bottles of bathtub gin that smelled like antifreeze and bad decisions. Glass rained down as her laughter chased him—hysterical, Pentecostal, the sound of a woman who’d danced too long with serpents. Miles’ revolver barked twice, and the piano player slumped over the keys in a dissonant crescendo. Nick’s sawed-off erupted, peppering the ceiling with buckshot that sent plaster snowing onto the blood-slicked tiles.
The woman’s cross clicked open, the Derringer flashing like a guilty thought. Miles rolled behind an upturned table just as the shot creased his temple, hot blood trickling into his eye like tears he’d sworn never to shed again. He fired blind through the smoke. Her gasp was wet, surprised—the sound of a choir girl realizing hell was real. When the haze cleared, she stood swaying by the broken jukebox, clutching her stomach where his bullet had painted her scarlet dress darker. The cross swung empty from her neck, its hollow belly gaping like the mouth of a sinner mid-confession
