she was handling the forgery. I could tell it deeply distressed her, and yet despite that, she still allowed herself to enjoy her life when she could.
About five minutes passed, during which I contentedly sat. Then I began to look around the crowd. Madeline had said that many people from the art world—artists, managers, gallery owners, collectors, print makers, art writers—could be found there.
Another five minutes passed.
When the waitress came, I asked for a glass of water. I wanted to stay a little longer. I wasn’t quite ready to stop basking in the light that was Madeline’s attention when she shined it on you.
The water was delivered. More time passed. No Madeline. I looked at my phone—no texts or calls from her.
I got up and went to the restroom, but she wasn’t there, either. I walked around the club, scanning the crowd. It was small and quickly evident that she wasn’t to be found.
When I returned to our table, Muriel came up. “How was your night?”
“Delightful,” I answered. “I love your place. I wouldn’t have known about it if it wasn’t for Madeline.”
“Madeline,” Muriel repeated with a smile. “Isn’t she incredible?”
I nodded quickly. “She is.”
“She paid the bill,” Muriel said, “so stay and enjoy yourself as long as you want. Let us know if we can get anything for you.” She smiled beatifically.
It was only then I realized Madeline was gone.
7
A s I left the club, two doormen stood there, both huge, dressed in shearling coats and hats.
“Hi guys,” I said. “Did you see a woman leave here recently?”
“Uh, yeah,” one said, and I could tell he wanted to add, duh.
Muriel had said she didn’t know why Madeline left, but that nothing had seemed odd. Madeline had told them to put everything on her tab, and that was that.
“She’s a Japanese woman,” I said to the bouncers.
Neither responded.
“She’s really beautiful,” I said.
“Lotta pretty women here,” the other bouncer said.
I thanked them and left, stepping onto the sidewalk. Like a dark painting, the canvas outside was mostly black. Steel charcoal-gray beams slashed back and forth overhead, carrying lit boxes—the El train carting people east and west. Aside from the train, the neighborhood was desolate, very few cars.
Suddenly I wondered if Madeline was sick. Could that be why she had left so quickly? I walked up the block, looking in alleys. No sign of her.
I walked back, past the club and down a few blocks, doing the same thing. I was thankful I didn’t find her throwing up in an alley, but I was still worried.
I pulled my phone out of my purse. I texted, Hi, it’s Izzy. You okay?
I paced the sidewalk again, hoping for a reply. An occasional car passed. It had snowed a little since we were inside, and the tires from each car shot a little spray of slush onto the street.
I tried calling her. Nothing.
I tried again. This time I left a message. Hi Madeline. Sounds like you left. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Can you call me?
I couldn’t shake what she had described—feeling like someone had been in her place.
One more round of pacing the sidewalk, then I decided it was time to go. I started searching for a cab but saw none.
I was making my way back to the club, to ask the doormen for help, when a sudden flurry of white and blue pulled to the curb. A Chicago police car.
The front door opened. A man stepped out. He wore a big gray jacket, bulky, not because he was fat but because he was wearing a bulletproof vest. You got used to the look in Chicago.
He turned to me. And I got a flash of a memory.
I opened my mouth. I could find only one word. “Vaughn.”
8
N either of them noticed anyone but each other that night, not Madeline or the redhead.
For nearly two hours they talked, a friendship seeming to grow on the spot. How easy it was for Madeline to connect with people when she wanted. It was always about what she wanted.
They drank the martinis Madeline
About five minutes passed, during which I contentedly sat. Then I began to look around the crowd. Madeline had said that many people from the art world—artists, managers, gallery owners, collectors, print makers, art writers—could be found there.
Another five minutes passed.
When the waitress came, I asked for a glass of water. I wanted to stay a little longer. I wasn’t quite ready to stop basking in the light that was Madeline’s attention when she shined it on you.
The water was delivered. More time passed. No Madeline. I looked at my phone—no texts or calls from her.
I got up and went to the restroom, but she wasn’t there, either. I walked around the club, scanning the crowd. It was small and quickly evident that she wasn’t to be found.
When I returned to our table, Muriel came up. “How was your night?”
“Delightful,” I answered. “I love your place. I wouldn’t have known about it if it wasn’t for Madeline.”
“Madeline,” Muriel repeated with a smile. “Isn’t she incredible?”
I nodded quickly. “She is.”
“She paid the bill,” Muriel said, “so stay and enjoy yourself as long as you want. Let us know if we can get anything for you.” She smiled beatifically.
It was only then I realized Madeline was gone.
7
A s I left the club, two doormen stood there, both huge, dressed in shearling coats and hats.
“Hi guys,” I said. “Did you see a woman leave here recently?”
“Uh, yeah,” one said, and I could tell he wanted to add, duh.
Muriel had said she didn’t know why Madeline left, but that nothing had seemed odd. Madeline had told them to put everything on her tab, and that was that.
“She’s a Japanese woman,” I said to the bouncers.
Neither responded.
“She’s really beautiful,” I said.
“Lotta pretty women here,” the other bouncer said.
I thanked them and left, stepping onto the sidewalk. Like a dark painting, the canvas outside was mostly black. Steel charcoal-gray beams slashed back and forth overhead, carrying lit boxes—the El train carting people east and west. Aside from the train, the neighborhood was desolate, very few cars.
Suddenly I wondered if Madeline was sick. Could that be why she had left so quickly? I walked up the block, looking in alleys. No sign of her.
I walked back, past the club and down a few blocks, doing the same thing. I was thankful I didn’t find her throwing up in an alley, but I was still worried.
I pulled my phone out of my purse. I texted, Hi, it’s Izzy. You okay?
I paced the sidewalk again, hoping for a reply. An occasional car passed. It had snowed a little since we were inside, and the tires from each car shot a little spray of slush onto the street.
I tried calling her. Nothing.
I tried again. This time I left a message. Hi Madeline. Sounds like you left. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Can you call me?
I couldn’t shake what she had described—feeling like someone had been in her place.
One more round of pacing the sidewalk, then I decided it was time to go. I started searching for a cab but saw none.
I was making my way back to the club, to ask the doormen for help, when a sudden flurry of white and blue pulled to the curb. A Chicago police car.
The front door opened. A man stepped out. He wore a big gray jacket, bulky, not because he was fat but because he was wearing a bulletproof vest. You got used to the look in Chicago.
He turned to me. And I got a flash of a memory.
I opened my mouth. I could find only one word. “Vaughn.”
8
N either of them noticed anyone but each other that night, not Madeline or the redhead.
For nearly two hours they talked, a friendship seeming to grow on the spot. How easy it was for Madeline to connect with people when she wanted. It was always about what she wanted.
They drank the martinis Madeline
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