Nights at home with his feet up and an asparagus parmesan in the oven, smelling up the joint and encouraging a shot of cognac to pave the way. Listening to the radio, watching some poorly researched cop show on the tube, maybe thinking about lying in the bathtub until the water's browned by the muck of the city all over him. Nights waiting for the Big Man to call Chance up on the telephone with his ratchety voice reminding him of the debt Chance owes, for that time back in Istanbul, and mentioning that yes, the Big Man has an assignment for him. Legwork. Dealing with an informant or encouraging a two-bit mugger to turn himself in. Put out the word that the Big Man's looking for somebody, or maybe adding a story to the rep going 'round down -- the Big Man eating crime-babies for breakfast or something. Getting the Big Man a set of secret keys to some "abandoned" warehouse. Nights of waiting for the damned phone to ring so he can hoof it out onto the street for an Inner Sanctum evening where everybody ends up dead, often by their own hands. The usual croon of, "I'll be sending Penny around with the car."
No, it was better out here with the story already in progress rather than the interminable, ticking wait. Standing on One Hundred & Eightieth Street with Penny Dreadful in a car round the corner, revving the engine and raspberrying stories under her breath at passersby. The lucky deck in his coat pocket and a clear bead on the Jerk, dribbling pale blue wallpaper paste onto the pavement in greasy blobs. Should he, you know, need to make the shot. The Jerk looked like an accountant left in the sun for too long, rotting unevenly inside. "Well," said the Jerk. "Chance Boulevard. You look fat, Boulevard. You've got too much rouge on." It was hard to apply disguise kit makeup in the dim, with no mirrors. It was always a trip to Mother's house, jawing with the Jerk.
Chance could almost taste the asparagus parmesan's little meteors of gristled cheese. "Can't believe you're wasting my Tuesday night with this petty vandalism, but the Big Man's word is law, so I have to bring you in. He wants to see you brought in."
The Jerk smirked, dumping a pack of tacks into the loose and dreamy puddle of paste. "Still playing the Big Man game, Boulevard?" Ha. Like the healthy paycheques came from the air. "You was thrown off the force for a reason, Boulevard, and making up stories about the Big Man's doing you no good."
Chance thumbed at his lapels and tugged at his pimento-red tie. "Penny Dreadful's around the corner, brother. I happen to know she doesn't like you very much." Neither did the pistol in his pocket, full of bullet-hot irritation.
"Penny's here?" The Jerk began to wilt.
"Yes, she is." The Big Man was a myth, maybe, or invisible, or prone to walking among men with a mask on his face but Penny Dreadful was very much present, if not alive. There was a certain currency in the undead. They had presence.