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i run and then i hop, hop, hop. i wish that i could fly.
there's danger if i dare to stop and here's a reason why:
i'm over-due. i'm in a rabbit stew.
can't even say good-bye, hello.
i'm late, i'm late, i'm late.
▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆ Harry was late late late! This was an important date that he couldn’t miss. Harry don’t want to keep the mafia waiting. Nobody wanted to keep the mafia waiting. Everything was done on their schedule. If they so much got a whiff of chicanery or FBI involvement, Harry would have gotten a bullet strait into his head. Luckily, Henry was a straight-shooter who had no contact with the FBI whatsoever. Once upon a not-so-long ago, Henry had been the sort of man that had every hair tucked in place and an unbreakable moral code. That was before he entered into a very dubious dealing. Already, Henry was regretting the decision. A week had past and it felt as if his life had turned upside down. There wasn’t any real change, no tangible evidence that anything was different. Harry still woke up every morning at five forty-five ante meridian. He still ate a very healthy and nutritious breakfast before arriving to work thirty minutes early. Really, nothing had changed. Haha. Only an idiot would believe that. Now the easily startled Henry jumped at any faint sound or disturbance. When walking down the street he always had to glance back, just to make sure no one was following him. There was no more stopping to smell the roses. Now Henry walked with the intention of getting from point A to point B as quickly as possible. It was such a shame. Henry loved roses - especially white roses. He loved everything that was beautiful. Art, theater, nature - it was all beautiful in Harry’s eyes.
And that was what had gotten him into this big mess in the first place. Harry owned a humble little art gallery nestled between Main Street and 32nd street. It was a modest little place, occupying a single floor above a coffee shop. The art was a mix. Harry had everything, from sculptures, to painting, to abstract art. His favorite pieces were the ones with a little bit of humor. It was uncanny how funny art could be. The way that art could present the world with such snide and subtle commentary fascinated Harry. Mixed media pieces captivated Harry the most. He had left university with a degree in economics and art history with the intention of settling with some big company. He had gotten a job in Manhattan, but it didn’t work out. It wasn’t much a loss though. Within six months Harry found a job working in an art gallery. The owner said that he had an impeccable eye. Every single piece that Harry hand picked ended up selling in less than a week. At twenty-six, Harry hoped that he would be able to transfer that same success into his own gallery. So far no good. What Harry failed to realize was that few clients would want to journey to his fart of a gallery. It was in a shitty location and no one even knew it’s name. White Rabbit Art? What was that? See. No one recognized the name of Harry’s gallery. Despite his impeccable taste, he had no costumers. The art gallery he had previously worked in had renown. People knew what and where it was. Thus, they trusted the quality of the art. The funny thing about humans was that they didn’t know art, or beauty for that matter, unless it was pointed out for them. On their way through the subway they could have listened to the most talented violinists of the modern era and they wouldn’t know it.
The thought of that sent a nasty shiver down Harry’s spine. As he cut through the cool night air, his breath forming in front of his nose, Harry couldn’t help but muse about beauty. Now, after all these years, he finally understood how people just didn’t see it. Harry didn’t see beauty anymore. All he saw in the world was danger. For the past week he had been going over and over his decision to enter a deal with the mafia. It wasn’t really a deal. A better description would be that Harry was creating a friendship with some very powerful people. That meant that Harry’s gallery would soon be very successful. In turn, Harry would become a friend to these people. Maybe friend wasn’t the right word. At the moment Harry felt like a captive, but he was never very good at breaking the rules. Even when he was young, Harry was a shy little thing. He would never talk back to teachers and had a little habit of fidgeting when he was nervous. He would wrap his right hand around his left index finger and begin twisting it. It was just a nervous little tick. Harry would have to learn to control that if he was going to get any deeper into this mafia business. Dammit! Harry was playing with his hands again. He stopped walking, closing his eyes for a moment and breathing in the dense city air. The choice to walk, as apposed to hailing a cab, had been a conscious one. Call it a pathetic attempt at procrastination, but Harry really didn’t want to go to this club tonight. It was one of the many clubs operated by the mafia. The fact that Harry was a huge home body didn’t really help with his anxiety either. Harry’s few attempts at clubbing had been during high school, college, and a few times with friends. Each time Harry found that clubbing wasn’t really his thing. His favorite part of the evening was crawling back into bed, away from all of those thrashing limbs and loud music.
“I’m gonna be alright. I’m gonna be alright. I’m gonna be alright -” Harry whispered under his breath, as if the prayer would save him. Now that he reached the outside of the club, Harry found that there was no going back. Glancing down at his watch, he gulped. It was ten-forty eight PM. Harry was three minutes late. Harry hated being late. He was always ten minutes early to every meeting. Being right on time was considered late for Harry. He had always been a straight shooter who lived by knowing the rules. Now, standing in line to get into the club, he felt lost and suffocated. After ten minutes of being shoved and pushed around, Harry fought his innate niceness and pushed his way to the front. It was an awkward process. His ‘sorries’ and ‘my apologies’ falling onto deaf ears. No one cared about what he had to say. Why was he surprised? All that mattered to these people was that they got into the club and got plastered. Finally, Harry reached the bouncer. Next to this intimidating man, Harry knew he was a pathetic specimen. His body language reeked of weakness. The bouncer picked up on that very quickly. Raising an eyebrow, he appraised Harry, wondering what a meek man like him was doing here. The bouncer didn’t ask Harry’s name. It took Harry a few moments to realize what he should be doing. “Ha-Ha-Harri-ri-son Finnen.” Harry had barely managed to stutter out his name. The bouncer looked at him. The man, standing at 6’4, several inches shorter than Harry, cast a stony gaze on the blonde. Harry felt his pulse jump. He wanted to escape, to run home and forget all about this nasty business. The bouncer thought that Harry’s pathetic stuttering and nervousness would have been funny if it wasn’t a long night. Right now he was in no time for jokes. Without even looking at the list, he dismissed Harry.
For a moment Harry began to panic. There was no way he was going to let the mafia down. “He’s with me, Paul.” Whirling his head around, Harry caught sight of Michelle Baily Vilin. Where he came from women didn’t look like that. They didn’t have piercing eyes and full busts that looked oh so good in dresses. The girls that Harry knew also lacked the dangerous edge that seemed to define Michelle. Harry was terrified and fascinated by her at the same time. The fascination was due more to his respect of her influence as apposed to lust. She was his one friend in this wild and crazy world. “I was beginning to worry that you weren’t going to make it,” she said, winking. Taking his hand, Michelle pulled him into the club. Harry took one deep breath before disappearing into the smog and pulsating music of the club.
Unconsciously, Harry’s fingers began to tighten around Michelle’s hand. He knew what was happening, but he was powerless to stop it. Harry felt lost and afraid, like a little child in the dark. Michelle laughed at the reaction. “I have a boyfriend, Finnen. Keep your hands loose.” Michelle’s fingers tightened around his. Harry was confused for a moment, his mind working in overdrive. Didn’t she just say she had a boyfriend. Despite being shy and slightly awkward, Harry was not socially retarded. He knew that the tightening of her fingers meant that Michelle was interested in him too. In the end, he decided not to read too much into the gesture. Harry was just glad that he had someone to guide him through the labyrinth. “I’m gonna leave you here, sweet cheeks. Can you handle being alone for a few minutes? I’m going to go fetch the men. Try to enjoy yourself for an hour or two. The big bosses can’t be hurried.” Rolling her eyes at her last comment, Michelle shot him a devilish look. Now Harry was sure that she wanted something from him. He smiled tightly, the lump in his throat preventing him from doing much. Michelle blew him a kiss and disappeared effortlessly through the tangle of bodies, her hips swaying seductively just for him. Harry tried to close his eyes and calm himself, but there was no air in the room. Already he knew he was in too deep. Michelle was toying with him. She was having fun with him. From that moment, Harry realized that he had no friends in this world. He didn’t have any choice. All he could hope to do was stick close to Michelle. Without her, Henry would have been lost.
His current predicament proved it. Five minutes after her disappearance, Henry found himself trapped between the jumble of bodies and sounds. With his elbows and his hands (all of Harry’s polished politeness had disappeared) he managed to push his way to the bar with great difficulty. Rapping on the counter with her knuckles, he tried to capture the attention of the bartender. It was to no avail, the bartender was too busy leaning over the counter, his tie in the hands of a beautiful brunette. “EXCUSE ME!” Henry yelled. Another bartender slid over and eyed Harry. “Your strongest drink, please.” Harry heard his voice crack. He didn’t care. His dignity was beyond compromised at the moment. His only goal was to survive and get out alive. Some liquid courage would help with that. Sipping his drink slowly, Harry did all that he could to kill time. Glancing down at his watch, he saw that over an hour had passed. It was eleven fifty-two, eight minutes to the witching time. Feeling a little tipsy, Harry paid for his drinks and slipped off the bar stool, stumbling slightly.
He had to find Michelle. She told him that she would get him in an hour. It had been past an hour. Had they forgotten about him? The buzz in his veins personified his nervousness. Sidling along the walls, Harry tried scanning the room for Michelle. No sign of her. With a heavy sigh, he rested his head against the wall. He wasn’t alone. Next to him stood a pixie-like blonde. Harry found his eyes drawn to her. Even in his state he could recognize beauty. It sounded cliche, but Harry knew that this girl was beautiful. He felt the same strike of lightning that sizzled through his nerves when he found the perfect painting. Perfect meant that it was more than beautiful. There was a little something else to the art. It was that elusive, intangible something that no one could ever describe or capture. Harry had to talk to her. He just had to. “Uhh - excuse me.” His voice was soft. He doubted that she heard him. Harry truly, madly, deeply hoped that she had. “Do you know where Michelle Baily is?”
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