Bryan Da Silva 

Ravenhood

Chapter One

May 1969

She wished she didn’t have to get into these cabs all the time. Could anyone like the yellow smiles or the forced giggles or the nosy questions? The door clicked open as she yanked on the handle. It was always men, that was the problem. Of course, she knew, it was required, not the men but the taxis. The whole thing had to be believable, but the more you lie, the harder it gets to keep it up.

“Where to, ma’am?” the driver looked back at her, wrapping his arm around the empty passenger’s seat.

“Take me to the Sutton on Bay, please.”

“The Sutton,” he said adjusting his mirror. “Straight away.”

The radio was tuned to a dance FM broadcast, too loud to hold any conversation comfortably, but that didn’t seem to bother him as his lips yogurt mumbled the tune as they pulled away. She recognized the song. Hawaii Five-O – not the best background for a traffic jam. It’s too much… too alive. The irony – just last night, she had danced her feet out to this song, and now here she was, listening to it in traffic, as still as a corpse. Dancing calmed her before an important day. She closed her eyes and tried to forget how crammed she felt in the taxis, alone, with a man. Any man. Even if he looked as harmless as this one. They were never harmless. A deep breath; her chest throbbed, pulsating like a syncopated drum betraying her disquiet. Another deep breath and another, but the drum wouldn’t settle. She covered her chest, even though he couldn’t see her, and the morning sun touched her skin, peeking through the buildings every so often. Then, losing herself in her imagination, she saw herself dancing, swinging her arms and shaking her head, alone now.

“What do you do?” the driver interrupted. “For a livin’, I mean.” His big eyes peered through the rear-view mirror.

“Pardon?” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. Her chest tightened as the drumming quickened. She could feel her hands begin to shake. Stay collected, she thought, it isn’t like this is the first time a cab driver asks you questions. All you have to do is act normal, and he’ll forget you.

“I don’t mean to pry, miss, I’m sorry.” His eyes turned back to the road. “But we’re gonna be here for at least an hour, so I thought we could chat, and I didn’t see a ring if you know what I mean.”

Never harmless. A young broad in the back of his cab, no ring. It was all fair game to him. But he was right about one thing, might as well chat. Not for any desire of her own. Cooperating was always better. Disagreeing was pointless unless you could do something about it. And lying was not quite her strong suit – also ironic, given the task at hand. Just redirect the conversation. That was what the WLM taught her to do in these situations.

“I’m a nurse,” she said. True enough.

“A noble profession.” He peered again and smiled.

“It is.” She paused. “I help who I can.” Another hesitation as she looked out at the cars marching together, inching their way to their destinations. “But sometimes I do wonder if I could do more.” It slipped out in a thoughtless murmur, and she looked down at her hands wishing she had just shut up.

“Hey, I’m just a taxi driver, but if you ask me, (she didn’t) you’re a nurse so you already do plenty. I just drive people around, you’re out there savin’ lives.”

Was she though? Saving lives? She thought she was, and what more could you ask for, right? Dorothy had told her this was the only way to prevent the worst, and she was right. What else could they do? Society didn’t protect women. The WLM did. This was how they saved lives.

“You have a nice car,” she said, feigning interest, steering the conversation before it got a little too out of hand. It was the usual black and orange, but it looked sleeker. “It has something else, eh?”

“She’s a gas, isn’t she?” He caressed the steering wheel. “This here is a Citroën DS21, imported directly from France. Brand new too, just got her last month, she’s a beauty at the wheel.”

Her lips curled into a smile as she patted the smooth black leather. That’s it, he fell for it. Just another passenger here; nothing to see.

Another song blasted through the radio. Ugh. Billy Preston’s off-key country voice couldn’t be enjoyed at moderate volume let alone this loud. As the car slowly pressed forward, she closed her eyes again, blocking the noise out and populating the darkness with her mental forest. A calm but wild wind picking up the orange leaves, and the still lake extending to the horizon. Instant peace – every time.

“Do you mind me asking a question, ma’am?”

She exhaled, unhurried. “I don’t see why not.”

“You don’t have to answer, but it’s just buggin’ me.” Pause. He seemed to be building the courage to ask her something indelicate; at least he had the decency to hesitate (did that make it better?). “It’s just, what is a pretty nurse like yourself doin’ all dolled up at a hotel so early in the morning on a weekday?”

Pretty? For an instant, her heart stopped, the forest ripped away, replaced by an empty sea. The back seat like a raft in a storm. Breathe. She put her hand to her chest, trying to feel the rhythm again.

He snapped his head forward. “Never mind, miss, it ain’t my business, I’ll just pipe down and drive.”

No, answer him, she thought, like the pretty nurse you are. Be no one until you have to be someone. Right now, you’re just another woman.

“Nothing much,” she said with the best face she could manage. “It’s just a meeting with a few health professionals.” Cool as a cat; why wouldn’t he believe you? Just going from A to B.

“Ah.” Another look through the rear-view mirror. “So you’re a fancy nurse. Good for you, ma’am.” He looked back again, smiling. That’s it. Just look at the road. “I thought only the doctors had those, but I guess the ladies do too.”

She closed her eyes once more, disregarding the ignorance, and this time, he left her alone, tuning into the music, drumming the steering wheel with clumsy thumbs. She sighed in relief. He didn’t ask any more questions, and she gazed at the high-rise buildings, getting taller and taller.

“Here’s fine,” she said as the taxi turned onto Bay. “Thanks.” She tapped the back of his seat and began putting on her long, white silk gloves. They brought her luck, like an amulet of protection. The men might hurt a woman, but they would think twice before hurting a lady.

“Are you sure, ma’am?”

“Yes, very. It’s right there, I’d rather walk the rest of the way, or I might be late.”

The Sutton Place Hotel cast a commanding shadow over Bay Street. It was probably the tallest building in Toronto. The meetings were almost always here. Dorothy thought that way no one ever suspected a thing. As usual, she was right; the women walked in and out without ever being noticed. No one would question the guests of the fanciest hotel in Toronto. And the men certainly wouldn’t remember enough to say anything anyway.

On the curb in front of the main entrance, she took another deep breath and reached into her pocket. Her fingers traced the worn edges of the photograph; she could feel that smile on the tips of her fingers. It reminded her of why she did it. She longed for the day when that smile wouldn’t be stripped by her father’s heavy hand. It was easy to rip him out of the photograph, all those years ago, but it hadn’t changed much, not really.

Stepping through the revolving doors, she placed a thin, white cigarette on her lips – another one of Dorothy’s ideas, along with the heels that announced her arrival; she knew she was a piece of meat, ready for the lions. But lions could be tamed.

Two men materialised drawing lighters from their flashy coats; they sported overgrown moustaches like the bristly whiskers of an unkept cat. It was a fashion she could not even begin to comprehend. Did they think women were attracted to that? Maybe some were. Smiling at them, she plucked a lighter from her crisp white clutch and lit the cigarette herself (because she had two hands and knew how a damned lighter worked). Then she glided towards the elevator. Be no one, she thought to herself, until you have to be someone. The hotel had an old-world charm with its golden colours and dazzling chandelier. Belle epoque. Staff in thick, red coats and the smooth melody of a distant piano peppering the chatter of well-to-do guests. She liked it, this foreign land compared to the bare white walls she called home.

The elevator pinged, and the tenth floor offered her an opaque silence. She walked along the empty hall, happy the red carpet muffled her heels. The lobby was her entrance, where the women hid in plain sight, but any moment after the elevator was about control, over the situation, over the men. Room 1011. The door rocked forward as she gently knocked. He wasn’t the first to leave the door half-open, like Sean Connery in a James Bond feature film. But the women did the talking here. She would have rolled her eyes, but the nerves were kept steady by a thin thread tightened as she pushed past the door with one last deep breath. Her heart stilled now, the drum softening in a controlled, serene cadence. Heightened by fear.

“Good evening,” she said, slipping into the room. The man wore a dark brown suit and crisp blue shirt that choked his neck as she removed her silky white overcoat. He did that face they always did when she wore this dress, the short black dress. It never failed, and that, she thought, was one of the many reasons she had to do this. Dorothy knew it the moment she first told her to put the dress on. She bought it on the spot. With this dress, she was right where she wanted to be. No – where she needed to be.

“Hey, doll.” The man sat on the bed and licked his lips. “They said I would be dazzled but I didn’t expect such a gorgeous babe.” Ugh. Two words and she already knew he deserved what was coming.

Her reflection glided in the mirror as she made her way to the front of the bar cart and faced him, spreading her arms over the liquor. She never questioned the men in front of her. The WLM dealt with that, and she trusted them more than anything else (well, Dorothy). She wouldn’t be able to do it otherwise. They gave her the men, and she did her part. Easy, simple.

“Can I fix you a drink?” Her voice was so different. It amazed her how seductive she could sound. Where did the real her go when she did this?

“Sure,” he said to her tits, not even bothering to look up. “Whatever you’re having.”

A glance at the bottles. Sidecar it is. She nodded, slowly turning towards the bar, and prepared the cocktail in a shaker before pouring it into two coupe glasses. She kept her back to him, always listening for the sound of his body shifting, making sure he didn’t get up. Plucking the small bag from inside her glove, her practised fingers emptied the white powder into one of the glasses, never fast or discreet enough to avoid a bead of sweat resting over her eyebrow. The gloves weren’t just for the show (but that too); they were practical, a tool. The harder you work, the luckier you get.

The floor creaked with the man’s weight, and he snatched the coupe from her hands, feeling her thigh with his other hand. Wow, he just couldn’t miss the opportunity to be a brute. She turned around, set her drink down, then pushed him away with a single finger and an inviting eyebrow (fighting the urge to claw at his thick, bulging neck and run back to the echoes of her empty apartment, safe). Remember, she thought, be in control, that’s the only way you don’t get hurt. This needed to be done. If she was with him, he wasn’t with some other woman out there. One more woman protected, one more woman saved. She gently pulled on his necktie and undid the first button. “Shh,” she whispered in his ear. “Relax.” The blood would need to flow.

He gulped his drink and set the glass down so carelessly that it tipped over and fell on the ground with him barely glancing at the mess before turning his attention back to her. Then he watched. She closed her eyes and began to sway her hips, mesmerising, enchanting (struggling to keep the bagel in her stomach) as she felt her body. What she did with her body now was what kept him away for long enough. She tried to lose herself, almost forgetting there was anyone else there. Almost – forgetting what you’re there for was a rookie mistake. He sat on the armchair beside the bed and watched her some more as her body moved towards him, slowly, luring her into his imagination. She recognized the look, how he stripped her with his craving eyes. It was fine, just a little longer. After she knew it was working, when his lips dragged a little too skewed and his eyes began to glaze, she sat in the armchair facing him and crossed her legs.

“Is something wrong? This is all fun and games, but I’m not here for a drink.”

“Not at all,” she said, stealing a glance at her sidecar (if only he knew).

“What’s wrong, baby? You don’t want to play anymore?” He pushed himself away from the armchair, a beast seeking its prey. In a single, sharp movement, she got up just as quickly and moved away, keeping her eyes steady on him, especially his hands. He grunted as he stepped forward, probably annoyed that he wasn’t getting his money’s worth. She stepped back again and gasped as she felt the wall behind her. Then his face changed, and her breath released like a pressure valve – she recognized this look too, the moment they realised something was wrong, very wrong.

“This is for my mother,” she always said, more to herself than to them.

His limp body dropped to the ground with a loud thud. Another deep breath, this time, feeling her heart again with a nervous sigh, knowing it was over. For her at least. She peeled herself off the wall and stood over his body, peaceful now, almost harmless (never harmless, not even asleep). Would she ever get used to this? Probably not.

All she had to do was open the door to the team, already standing by in the room next door. Their timing was always flawless, as soon as she unlocked the door, they rushed in, all alike, all anonymous. Her job was done. She always left before they began the procedure, and she never assisted, though she had the skills. Another one of Dorothy’s policies. In and out, as quickly as possible.