Son of the Morning

Startled, Grace considered that. She was much taken by the possibility. Her face brightened. "I did good, didn’t I?"

"You did good to come out of it alive," Harmony scolded, despite the grin on her face. "Girl, if you’re gonna get in fights, somebody’sgotta teach youhow to fight. I would, but Iain’t got time. Tell you what. I’ll fix you up with this guy I know, meanest little greaser son of a bitch on God’s green earth. He’ll teach you how to fight dirty, and that’s what you need. Somebody as little as you don’t need to be doing something as dumb as fighting fair."

Maybe it was the whiskey thinking for her, but that sounded like a fine idea to Grace. "No more fighting fair," she agreed. Parrish certainly wouldn’t fight fair, and neither did the street scum she would have to deal with. She needed to learn how to stay alive, by whatever means possible.

Harmony tore open another antiseptic pad and carefully washed Grace’s arm, examining the cut from every angle. "Not too deep," she finally said. She opened a small brown bottle of antiseptic and poured it directly into the wound. Grace caught her breath, expecting it to bum like the whiskey, but all it did was sting a little. Then Harmony took up the aerosol can and sprayed a cold mist on the wound. "Topical analgesic," she muttered, the medical terminology somehow fitting right in with her street slang. Grace wouldn’t have been surprised if her landlady had begun quoting Shakespeare, or conjugating Latin verbs. Whatever Harmony was now or had been in the past, she certainly was not ordinary.

With perfect calm she watched Harmony thread a small, curved suturing needle and bend over her arm. Delicately squeezing with her left hand, Harmony held the edges of the wound together and deftly began stitching with her right. Each puncture stung, but the pain was endurable, thanks to the whiskey and the analgesic spray. Grace’s eyelids drooped as she fought the fatigue dragging at her. All she ;: wanted was to lie down and sleep.

"There," Harmony announced, tying off the last stitch. "Keep it dry, and take some aspirin if it hurts." Grace studied the neat row of tiny stitches, counting ten of them. "You should have been a doctor." "Don’t have the patience for dealing with nitwits." She began repacking her small first aid kit, then slid a sideways glance at Grace. "You gonna tell me why you don’t want nothing to do with the cops? You kill somebody or something?"

"No," Grace said, shaking her head, which was a mistake. She waited a minute for the world to stop spinning. "No, I haven’t killed anyone."

"But you’re running." It was a statement, not a question. Denying it would be a waste of her breath. Other people might be fooled, but Harmony knew too much about people who were running from something, whether the law or their past or themselves. "I’m running," she finally said, her voice soft. "And if they find me, they’ll kill me."

"Who’s this ‘they’?" Grace hesitated; not even the stout whiskey was enough to loosen her tongue to that extent. "The less you know about it, the saferyou’ll be," she finally said. "If anyone asks, you don’t know much about me. You never saw a computer, didn’t know I was working on anything. Okay?"

Harmony’s eyes narrowed, a spark of anger lighting them. Grace sat very still, waiting for this newfound friend to become an ex-friend, and wondering if she would have to find a new place to live. Harmony didn’t like being thwarted, and she hated, with reason, being left in the dark about anything concerning herself and the sanctity of her home. She pondered the situation in silence for a very long minute, before finally making a decision and giving one brisk nod of her lemony-white head. "Okay. I don’t like it, but okay. You don’t trust me, or anyone else, that much. Right?"

"I can’t," Grace said softly. "It could mean your life, too, if he even suspected you knew anything about me."

"So you’re gonna protect me, huh? Girl, I think you got that backwards, because if I’ve ever seen a babe in the woods, you’re it. The average eight-year-old here is tougher than you are. You look like you lived your whole life in a convent or something. Know it’s not your style, but you’d make ahelluva lot of money on the street, with looks like yours."

Grace blinked, startled by the abrupt, and ridiculous, change of subject. Her, a successful prostitute? Plain, quiet, nerdy Grace St. John? She almost laughed in Harmony’s face, which would never do.

"Yeah, I know," Harmony said, evidently reading her mind. "You got no sense of style, you don’t wear makeup. Stuff like that’s easy to change. Wear clothes that fit, instead of hanging on you like a bag. You don’t want loose clothes no way, gives people something to grab, understand? And your face looks so damn innocent it probably drives a lot of men crazy, thinking how much they’d like to be the one to teach you all the nasty stuff. Men are simple sons of bitches about stuff like that. A little makeup would throw them off, make ’emthink you’re not so innocent after all. Plus you got one of thosepouty mouths all the models pay good money for, having fat or silicone shots in their lips. Damn idiots. And that hair of yours. Men like long hair. I guess I know why you’rewearin ‘ that tacky wig, though."

Harmony’s speech was a fast-moving mix of accents and vocabulary, from Chicago street to Southern drawl, with the occasional flash of higher education. It was impossible to tell her origin, but no one listening to her for more than thirty seconds would have any doubts about her mental acuity. Sprinkled among the comments on Grace’s appearance had been a nugget or two of sharp advice.

"Is the wig that noticeable?" she asked.

"Not to most men, I don’t guess. But it’s blond. Blond and red stand out. Get a brown wig, light brown, in a medium length and a so-so style. And get one that’s better quality. It’ll last longer and look more natural." Abruptly she got to her feet, first aid kit in hand, and walked to the door. "Get some sleep, girl. You look like you about to falloutta that chair."