The Bistro on East 43rd
Eve Kendall slipped unnoticed into a corner bistro on the Upper
East Side as a mild June afternoon settled beneath the Manhattan skyline.
The first to arrive, Eve perched primly on a stool at the mahogany
panelled bar. She handed her coat and
hat to the porter, one gloved hand pushing the back of her ice blonde hair off
her bare shoulders. A smartly uniformed barman stood before her, blocking the reflection
she was admiring in the angled bar mirror.
“May I offer you something to drink Ma’am?”
“A Tom Collins, please. Without the cherry.”
Eve smoothed her dress and from a small brown leather purse,
reapplied her crimson lipstick in the now unobstructed mirror. As usual, her
outfit was carefully considered: A cream silk grosgrain dress, off the shoulder
bodice and a full skirt to the calf with matching gloves and black stilettos.
A tall man in a double breasted suit sat across the bar from her,
still wearing his hat. One eye was dark and piercing, the other covered by a
suede patch of indeterminable colour. He drained his martini glass and signalled
the barman for another, the gaze of his good eye never leaving Eve.
Cantilevered shutters cast dappled light across the restaurant, the
exhale of Eve’s cigarette sending striped plumes of blue smoke dancing across
the window. She turned her attention to the door, where a couple enter arm in
arm and are seated in a booth by the door. Seeing that it wasn’t Roger she
glanced at her wrist watch and returned to her drink.
Eve’s thoughts were interrupted by the waiter presenting a note on a
small silver tray. Roger will be fifteen minutes late.
The one eyed man was still watching. Uneasy, Eve ordered another Collins
and sipped it quietly, conscious of the man’s steely focus.
A siren wailed in the distance.
*
Ten minutes earlier Roger Thornhill was running down Lexington. The
billowing smoke from eight blocks in front sent panic through his body and he
knew he was going to be late. A siren cried out not far ahead, stopping the
intersection at East 73rd. Imagining his new wife’s icey glare at his tardiness;
Roger ran faster.
*
Ice cubes clinking at the bottom of her high ball gave Eve an excuse to retire
to the powder room. Looking over her
shoulder, the one eyed man was watching. Feeling her pulse quicken, Eve locked
the door behind her and sat at the small dresser in the entrance. Her tortoiseshell
comb caught a strand of hair by the nape of her neck and broke. She straightened and a familiar feeling of
guilt mixed with fear stirred in her ribcage.
The one eyed man had moved two seats closer when Eve returned to the bar.
Roger was nowhere to be seen. Another drink materialised and Eve had only just sought
refuge in the murmurings of her mind again when a grey Mercedes hurtled across
the side walk and through the front window of the bistro.
As with the aftermath of many a disaster; a state of flux ensued. Screaming drinkers and diners were enveloped by dust and broken glass, falling masonry narrowly missing scattered bodies and thumping onto the bonnet of the badly damaged car. A steady stream of vapour cascaded from the Mercedes. The smoke lifted and those patrons able to walk stumbled towards the clearing.
Eve surfaced unharmed from under the booth she was thrown towards. Barely
visible through the rubble, the driver of the grey Mercedes was crumpled
motionless over the steering wheel. She pulled away the badly damaged door and
cleared a hasty space on the ground with her foot to drag the man from his
seat.
The driver was dead. The young man dropped heavily to Eve's feet, his
glassy eyes unresponsive. Reeling, Eve discovered the driver's hands were tied
behind his back. Tucked into the noose knot fastening was a note. Trembling,
Eve unfolded it.
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED, MISS KENDALL.
Stumbling backwards, Eve turned on her heel and fled what remained of the
restaurant. Hailing a cab through the surging crowd, she climbed in, failing to
notice a man with a suede eye patch watching from the phone booth.
"To Grand Central. Now."
*
Gasping for air, Roger arrived to a chaotic scene. Emergency staff were
everywhere and the remaining rubberneckers were milling about or slowly retreating
back into apartments and stores to speculate further. It took Roger only a
moment to realise that Eve was not there. Feeling ill, Roger bent over the curb
and recomposed himself.
Just beyond his knees, a folded note fluttered in the drain. An
instinctive cold sweat broke across his neck and he reached forward, the piece
of paper flitting dangerously close to the storm water channel. Roger opened it at the same time the cold
metal of a .38 revolver firmly pressed between his shoulder blades.
*
THE END
