Philadelphia Noir

kiss me now or kiss me later?”

“Now,” she whispered back, not certain whether Alex’s discretion was merely that or part of a deception, and amazed either way by what happened. The kiss was brief, but warmer and more promising than any she’d had in a long time.

It was almost six a.m. when Alex accompanied Beth outside to wait for a cab. Bands of pink light appeared in the sky in the east. Beth shivered.

“Here,” he said, placing his jacket over her shoulders. It felt warm and smelled like Earl Grey tea. She closed her eyes and inhaled. They kissed.

“Let me get your number,” he said, reaching around her waist to get to the phone in the inner pocket of his jacket.

A cab finally appeared.

“Have a nice morning, beautiful,” Alex said. “I’ll be in touch.”

But he wasn’t, not later that week or in September, and Beth felt too awkward to call again after leaving two messages. She slogged through the humid days, working and taking lunch breaks in Rittenhouse Square, often sitting on a bench near the little bronze statue of a goat with her old friend Leah, who reminded her there were plenty of guys out there when Beth whined about Alex.

“And these guys don’t have girlfriends,” Leah added.

“Who knows if she’s really his girlfriend?” Beth replied.

“After all the trouble you’ve had, all you’ve gone through…” Leah continued, as if to say, Enough said.

Meanwhile, Beth started another acting class and dyed her hair jet-black, much to her mother’s dismay.

“That color only works with certain skin tones. Change it, at least for your sister’s wedding.”

But strong choices was the theme of Beth’s class and she ran with it. Sure, she was playing another aging, tragic Tennessee Williams character, but she was shining in the part. Rehearsals kept her spirits up. She even went on a few dates with someone Leah deemed a nice, normal guy-a forty-something divorce named Todd who worked in computers. He never made her laugh but he was attentive.

When she received a text one October night while watching Law & Order reruns at home, she assumed it was Todd until she read it: Please rescue me. She didn’t recognize the number and it had been a long day. An elderly patient in for the routine removal of a skin lesion had suffered a heart attack and was transferred to the hospital but died a few hours later. This meant paperwork, and the next day the widow would be coming to the office to pick up her husband’s belongings that hadn’t made it onto the ambulance.

Then another text appeared: Thinking of you, Beth. Sorry to disturb.

Beth texted back asking for clarification and her phone rang.

“Hello, beautiful,” Alex said.

She felt awake again.

Half an hour later in Rittenhouse Square, she sat on a bench and waited for him, peering into the damp fall air until he materialized on a lamp-lit path. He smiled. His hair was slightly unkempt, making him appear boyish despite his suit. He carried a briefcase, and when he reached Beth, he dropped it to the ground before dropping to his knees.

“I kept thinking about you,” he said. “I had to travel, unexpectedly, and now I can’t go home, it seems.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighed, resting his hands on her knees. “The arrangements I made for rent fell through while I was abroad. A ridiculous misunderstanding.”

“Isn’t Chloe there?”

“She’s in France,” he said.

“You broke up?”

A smile spread across Alex’s face, emphasizing a slight cleft in his chin. “She’s in France visiting our uncle.”

“Your uncle?”

“With our parents gone, he’s our closest relative.”

“She’s your sister?” Beth asked.

“Yes, we just get on well and share a place sometimes. I thought you knew that.”

“No,” she said, smiling too.

“No?” Alex asked, standing up, helping Beth up, then kissing her. He ran his hands through her hair. “It’s a shame I missed the end of summer with you… So much family business. But the good news is we’re here now.”

“Just in time for the rain,” Beth said, holding out her hand.

“I don’t suppose you have an umbrella?” he asked.

“I know where we can find one.”

It was a quick dash to the blush-colored suites of Drs. Morris, Kent, and Fleischer on 19th Street.

“We’ll borrow one of these,” Beth said, indicating the umbrellas stored behind the reception desk. They were pink, large enough to shelter a picnic table, and said, Beautiful dreams come true, in bold black letters.

Alex eyed them skeptically. “I guess masculine pride will take a hit tonight.” He surveyed the office. “Very pink, but swank. Is this your desk?”

Beth nodded.

“Who forgot his clothes?” Alex asked, pointing to the pile of things on Beth’s chair.

“They belong to a man who died, actually,” Beth said, at which point Alex laughed. “I’m not making it up,” she protested. “The man had a coronary!”

“Not funny at all,” Alex said, with such seriousness he meant it was. Then his face lit up. “I may have no roof over my head, but I’d like to take you for a drink. Have you ever gone to Nineteen?”

Ten minutes later, the gilt-framed mirrors of the Bellevue Hotel elevators sent Beth and Alex’s reflection back to them from multiple angles, all bathed in golden light. When they sat down in a love seat next to the fireplace in Nineteen, Beth already felt tipsy. More alive than she had in years.

They drank until almost two a.m., when Alex made an announcement.

“Surprise.”

He pulled out a platinum American Express card bearing the name Gerald F. Mitchell. Beth’s heart began to race. It was the dead patient’s card.

“How did you get this?”

Alex looked at her. “You’re not worried, are you?”

She knew Leah would walk out. Call the police. But Leah wouldn’t be in this bar with Alex in the middle of the night in the first place, and Beth felt a strange, giddy sense of trust in him. If he’d pulled out a gun and said they were going to ditch the check by shooting their way out, she would have been game. Strong choices, she thought, not sure it applied but feeling too elated to question it. With the fire behind him, Alex seemed to possess a kind of glow, and Beth was enveloped in it.

Alex continued: “I’m sure the widow hasn’t canceled his cards yet. With everything going on, she probably won’t notice extra charges.”

Beth watched him hand over the stolen card, the waiter bring it back, and Alex devise his best Gerald F. Mitchell signature.

“By the way,” Alex said to the waiter, “we’d like a room. Can we book one without going down to the lobby?”

“Of course.”

They spent the next eighteen hours in a suite, sleeping little, moving from the bedroom, with its red drapes, king-size bed, and countless pillows, to an airy off-white living room where light streamed in from the south and west the following afternoon. Beth had called in sick and now gazed out the window.

“We’re in heaven,” she smiled, polishing off what remained of a room service cheese plate.