than a mask, it was a distraction. She had never, ever seen Dorian in jeans and a T-shirt. His version of casual involved Dockers, polo shirts, and loafers. Boating or golf attire. He always had a bit of polish because, as he said it, he never knew when he might run into someone who needed impressing. She could never imagine him standing out in the rain, wearing a T-shirt and a goofy smile.
Maybe that was the point. She had seen Marta in half a dozen shows, playing ingenues and dutiful daughters, unrecognizable from one role to the next.
Later that week, they didn’t meet for dinner, but she came over to Dorian’s place anyway, late, to spend the night. Dorian was in the kitchen, pouring himself a tumbler of scotch.
“You’ve been working late a lot,” she said, watching for his reaction.
“Yeah,” he said, in a mock long-suffering tone.
“What exactly do you do?” She winced because it sounded accusing.
“Paperwork, mostly, believe it or not. I meet with people all day so the paperwork gets put off. And the police work late. I like to keep track of them.”
“Ah. I guess I’ve never had a sense of what goes on in a real job.” She quirked a smile, trying to make it a joke.
“That’s why you have writer’s block. You need to get out in the real world and then you’d have something to write about.”
She tried to remember how the masked man had smelled. She’d been close enough to smell his skin, his sweat. Maybe she could tell if he and Dorian smelled the same. But all she remembered from him was the smell of rain on fabric, and the sensation of warmth when he touched her.
Get out in the world so she’d have something to write about. Yeah.
WHILE DORIAN SLEPT, Charlotte was about to go sit by the window when Dorian’s phone rang.
He seemed to be ready for it. “Hello? Yeah?” He rolled out of bed and took his phone into the next room. Sitting very still, she could hear.
“You got them? They’re cornered and not surrendering… Of course I want to be there. Give me fifteen minutes.” He came back into the bedroom and dressed quickly—he didn’t even bother with a tie.
“What?” she said.
“Never mind. Go back to sleep. It’s all right.”
“But—”
He was out the door. He’d never even turned on the lights.
Something was happening. Or was about to happen.
Charlotte got up and went to the next room to turn on the TV, but whatever was going on, the news hadn’t picked up on it yet. Dorian’s laptop sat on the desk, and she went there next, fired it up, and checked “Rooftop Watch.”
A dozen updates had been posted just in the last ten minutes. “It’s those jewel thieves, the cops are there.” “Any supers?” “On the lookout for supers.” “The police seemed to be centered on 21st and Pine.”
She was turning into one of those superhero stalkers who haunted Web sites like this and posted conspiracy theories. She didn’t care.
Then she read the latest post: “Blue Collar’s been sighted! Just for a second!”
Charlotte found her phone and called Dorian. Waited, and waited, but got no answer. And maybe that was her answer. She called a cab while getting dressed, reached the curb just as it pulled up, trundled into the backseat, and told the sleepy-looking driver the address.
“And hurry!” she said, like this was some spy movie. He sighed.
They didn’t get there. The police cordoned off the area a block away. A dozen squad cars parked, flashing lights reflecting off the concrete walls of body shops and warehouses, red, white, and blue, fireworks and Christmas at once.
The driver glared at her like it was her fault. She paid him and left.
She ran, just to see how far she’d get until someone stopped her, which turned out to be pretty far, because no one was looking out to the streets for crazy women. They were all looking inward, to the unfolding drama. She joined the inner circle, the edge of the stage, and watched.
Six masked jewel thieves sprawled in a heap on the ground, their purple outfits streaked with dirt, their ray guns in a neat pile a few feet away, as though someone with superspeed had snatched them away and placed them there.
And there he was, her rescuer, standing over them and looking worn out rather than particularly heroic. His arms hung at his sides, and he seemed to be trying to catch his breath. A couple of suited men who might have been detectives stood across from the thieves, who seemed like prey that he’d caught and delivered to them. Also with the detectives was Dorian. Dorian and the masked man were looking at each other.
Then the masked man saw Charlotte. When he turned to look, so did everyone else. The jig was up.
Dorian called, “Charlotte! What are you doing here?”
The uniformed cops on either side of her looked her over and glared.
She didn’t say anything, hardly noticed that the tableau had unfrozen, and police were now collecting the thieves, putting handcuffs on them, and shoving them into cars. That left Dorian, the vigilante, and Charlotte.
“I told you you guys should work together,” she said lamely.
“Charlotte—” Dorian exclaimed again, a word that was a question, demanding explanation.
“Are you having an affair?” she asked him, because it was the only other thing she could think of.
“What? No! For God’s sake, what gave you that idea?”
He was indignant enough that she believed him, but she also wasn’t sure she’d be able to tell if he was lying. She watched actors on stage all day, and actors on stage did nothing but lie while convincing her they were telling the truth.
“It was all those late nights,” she said, and tried to explain all at once, to both of them. “All those broken dates and the evasions and I thought, I thought something must be going on. Then I met
He looked at the masked man, looked at Charlotte, and sounded a little forlorn when he said, “I told you, I was working late.”
“And how many men have said that to how many women? It’s like something out of a bad play.” She stopped. Here they were, three on the stage at the close of the curtain, a gothic postmodern shambles. The police lights flashed and didn’t seem real. She knew exactly what gels would make those colors on stage.
She walked away, upset at how disappointed she was and how foolish she felt. This all seemed so plain, so messy. Couldn’t we make it… prettier, she had said to Otto.
She got to the end of the block when the masked man appeared in front of her. That was what it looked like, he just appeared, after a blur of motion.
“The thing is,” he said, “I can’t take you out to dinner. I can’t be there for the openings of your plays. I can’t answer the phone every time you call. I can’t do any of that. But I can still… I can still try.”
She could have a hero, or have someone who was always there to take her to dinner, but not both.
He took off his mask, and she didn’t know him. He seemed young, but the faint stubble and even fainter crow’s-feet—laugh lines—gave him rough edges. He was handsome. He was sad. She knew nothing about him.
One thing he could do, though, was stand over her broken body, striking a pose and looking tragically bereft before he flew off into the night. And it would be pretty, dramatically speaking.
She leaned in, hand on his chest. He stood still, body tense. She felt his heart racing—much faster than a normal person’s. Faster than Dorian’s. He still smelled like rain. She brushed her lips against his, which trembled in response. Barely a kiss. More like an apology.
Then she walked home, and nobody tried to mug her. She was almost disappointed.
CHARLOTTE AND DORIAN split up. Dorian prosecuted the jewel thieves and talked to the press about putting in for DA in a couple of years. He started dating a painter whose gallery shows were making news.
Charlotte finished the next play. Otto liked it. Marta liked it. It needed some work. She would have been worried if it hadn’t.
