the chuckle that greets them, despite being a mirror of their own, feels like their own performance being thrown at their face: an insult, perhaps, but connie wouldn’t hedge his bets on the other being wilfully disagreeing; he simply can’t afford to play this kind of game with her, not when he doesn’t even know what she both knows and doesn’t, except for the vaguely alarming feeling that whatever it is that she knows is already too much. cedric fairchild, antiquarian, new orleans is supposed to be a mystery, some kind of one-man act on whom the curtains will fall on one day, audience members talking about the performance itself for years to come, but never the actor — and yet here they are: the one audience member he couldn’t trick.
what the fuck is he supposed to do now?
“i thought you’d appreciate the value in building good ties,” connie says, a neutral tone in his voice: semi-agreeable, all genteel-like and placid. he takes another sip and wishes he could drink himself to drowning at this very moment. “considering, yes, both our humble beginnings.” fucking new yorkers: always acting, thinking, existing on a level that made one think they held, as their most foundational truth, that they were better than you in every which way; yes, connie thinks, something in that fucking city rots you from within and turns you from person into whatever vessel of vice you’re fit to suffer and no more.
he should know. after all, he was one himself.
“though you know i could never have stayed for long,” he continues, “not after all that — mess.” he holds his glass loosely between his fingertips, lets his weight fall evenly on his feet, widely spaced; he meets their gaze and their smile and mirrors the latter with one of his own, down to the smallness of it, as if they are both conspirators to some great and terrible secret. “but what can one do?” he says, shrugging. “you know very well how the business goes.”
(all the while, he is thinking, like a mantra: fuck new york, and fuck all new yorkers.)
“and new york,” connie finishes, “is but a drop in the ocean that is the great wide world.” here: a tip of their head to the rest of the room, almost a challenge. “have you never had the urge to go beyond it?”
"Perhaps a long time ago." Maxine held his gaze with their own at his dig; cold, piercing stare that seemed to question: how dare you insinuate a lack of ambition? But perhaps there was a grain of truth to what was implied, for what did Maxine Cutter yearn for beyond survival? They felt too old to be a dreamer, blade blunted by the coarse stone of earth, polish eroded with the passing of years. The life they'd led so far, perhaps the spinning world had left them far too jaded to even consider of anything beyond mere living. That the Eastsides had offered them some semblance of family and protection, some degree of comfort that they didn't have to keep a constant look out for their behind was an added benefit that they did not take lightly. But any greater ambitions to rise the ranks, or to find a throne for themselves? There were none.
"But a change in scenery is merely that," they added, turning away to look at the glamour of the room they sat in, the glittering promise of wealth and opulence, of power that beckoned. Yet the rot still seeped, in the taste of their drink, in the whispered words that carried down the hallways. "Shifting veneers don't change the ugliness beneath." They returned their attention to the man before them. "Been to many cities, Connie? Every one of them has its dirty secrets, no?"
Maxine shrugged, placing their empty glass on a table nearby. "Anyway, surely New York would've forgiven you," Maxine hummed, eyeing him sharply. Here was where they had to play based on feeling and blind guesswork alone; there was little known facts that could've guided them in formulating a plan, and they hated it. Maxine leaned in, as though to lower their voice, one suitable for private conversation for two. Instead, their voice was pitched just a little louder, so slight Maxine wasn't even quite sure they had done so themselves. "Shed blood is a heavy price, but the collective memory moves on quickly. Come back home to visit, won't you?"
For all the times they'd spent lurking in the shadows, they thought, let the strangers stare today. They had questions they wanted answers to, and they were going to try to find the answers to at least one of them then.