Rotgut

She hadn't had real liquor before. That snapped the world back into perspective for him.

She sputtered on the vodka like a first-time smoker, her tender throat rebelling against the sting of the liquor. He understood that it wasn't her first drink, but he understood.

It was her first taste of fine, imported alcohol. She was used to rotgut.

Everything that had touched her lips before that moment had been cheap, dissolute garbage. What a shame. Girl like that deserved a nice dress and a big, silver car. And it was abundantly clear that she enjoyed Billy Flynn's big silver car, huge golden penthouse, and the platinum-colored illegally imported vodka he could pull in from his mob connections.

She also, frankly enjoyed Billy Flynn's prick. Had been since her opening night at the Onyx, where Billy had presented her with the vodka and his own version of number seventeen while Velma busied herself in the business end of the act.

With her, even that act was made almost innocent. She called it 'making whoopie', and every time she called it that he wondered how far he'd fallen outside of the hip set. She spoke almost exclusively in slang, with the occasional 'golly' or 'hell' that revealed her country girl origins. She was dizzying and maddening in her unsteady way, but she certainly cleaned up well.


***

She also needed to be taken care of. If the relationship started in passion and Roxie felt and behaved like a little persian kitten; ignore her and she would scratch your eyes out.

At least a persian knew when to stop biting the hand that fed it, grew up and learned to take direction. Roxie grew bigger, not wiser, and that was her worst flaw.

Billy noticed every single flaw, the closer he stood to that fire commonly called Roxie Hart.

She kept cabling him from across the Atlantic, wondering where her roses were, her notes of congratulations. He couldn't see the shows? Didn't mean he shouldn't tell her she's doing a great job. She was his girlfriend! She needed to hear from him hourly, daily. When he reminded her that he had other clients, she complained that he didn't want to see her. But she would return home with a locker of clothing and a new fur, and a trick some Argentinean gymnast had taught her.

At this point, Billy found himself wishing for a marchioness who might take pity on his poor mick soul and take care of him. At fifty, he was nearly too old to deal with a fledgling like Roxie full-time.

***

He had come to realize that Roxie wasn't a fledgling. That she wasn't, in any way, what he had tried to make her on that witness stand when they had first met.

Billy Flynn: silver-tongued lawyer, tap-dancer, brilliant man. Horrible at breakups.

When the irrevocable split occurred, they were standing in front of the Chicago. Velma had done it; made the duo a solo act. Roxie had begun packing on the pounds in France, and her every mistake was an occasion for tittering in the press. She was not handling the solo spotlight well. Members of the press called her new solo act too immodest for the changing times.

He had told her he was done with her there under the flickering lights where their affair had begun. She had screamed, spat, sworn, and he was revolted; her childish charms were worn down to poisonous needles.

She had grabbed him, swearing hysterically she would kill him. Her hands were what penetrated his memory; they were still the sweet, slim, birdlike ones which had stroked his body so sweetly. But now they were the nails of an enemy, dragging the flesh from his bones.

He turned and walked from her, walking as Fred Cassley had so many years ago. But she had no gun to end his life.

He knew she would have splattered his brains across the street. She was capable of murder, but he didn't fear a silly little chorine.


***

Later, he would discover that she had been murdered by a prowler over five dollars, and he couldn't even force himself to feel sadness. Death was his benefactor; his rich uncle, papering his pockets. She had been a nice lay, nothing more, nothing less.

Diamonds rusted out and bulbs blew out.

This was, after all, Chicago.




The End