CINDY CINNAMON

~New Paths~

by Mr. David R. Dorrycott

Cindy Cinnamon studied the old man standing before her. Victorian cape, strange hat. Like something out of a Sherlock Holmes novel. 'Another Viagra overdose nut' she decided. "Three hundred."

"Three hundred? Dollars? For an hour of your time?" the old man asked.

"That's the rate, unless you want kink. Then it's double. Per Hour."

"Very well young lady" he decided. He reached under his cape and Cindy stopped him.

"Not here dope. There's cops watching probably. My place, it's only a couple flights up." She looked into the pasty face again, "Sorry, Elevators dead. You can manage two flights of steps right?"

"Oh yes oh yes" her customer agreed, "I'm certain I have at least that much energy left."

'Great' she thought as she lead him into the flop house's short entryway. 'Another Cindy does all the work. I gotta find another line of work.' She walked slowly, making a point of keeping just far enough ahead that he had a free view under her too short skirt of her non-existent panties. Three hundred dollars was, after all, three hundred dollars. With the weather so hot lately business was non-existent though other crimes had risen. Opening the ratty door to her two room 'apartment' she let him enter first. More to make sure he made it than as a courtesy.

Her John stopped just inside the door, taking in her clean, but sparsely furnished lodgings like a pro. Instantly Cindy suspected he was a cop, or ex-cop. Continuing in he sat in the one good chair while Cindy locked the door, turned on the light and fan then dropped slowly on the bed.

"Three hundred" he said, handing her three one hundred dollar bills. "For that much my child you should be living in style."

"Cost of living" she answered. 'Here we go again' she thought, 'Always the same lines.' "So, what's your choice? Anything special or just the old fashioned way."

"Actually, none" he stated. She saw a flash of reflected light, barely had the time to think 'gun' and the world vanished.

                                                                -----

"You okay?" a gruff voice was asking. Cindy moaned, flickering her eyes open. "Yeah, I think so" she managed.

"Good, then you can tell us what happened." She opened her eyes to see the rough street clothes of a local detective. Looking around she found her room empty. Nothing, her few possessions were gone. All that remained were small piles of ash an scorch marks on the walls.

"My stuff" she swore. "He took my stuff!"

The detective moved aside, giving Cindy full view of what he'd been hiding. A body, badly burned, lay on the floor. Tendrils of smoke drifted up from burnt clothing. Her John. Quite dead. "Look Cindy, I know your a hot gal, but this is a bit outta that ordinary. So we got a dead John in a hookers apartment. Said hookers unconscious and looks like she's been twenty with the best. So, unless you want to take the fall I think you better start singing. I hear Riker's if pretty rough this time of year."

"Women aren't sent to Rikers Tank" she snapped, staggering to her feet. Her head felt like something had exploded in it, and something bumped against her chest. Looking down she saw a thin silver chain with a tiny figure attached. It wasn't her's but damn if she was going to tell anyone. "All I can tell you is we came in, I asked him 'So, what's your choice? Anything special or just the old fashioned way.' He said 'Actually, none.' I caught a flash of light and next I know your punting my head for twenty questions."

"Yeah. Nice statement. Mind if we go downtown and see if you can repeat it? DA might be interested."

"Sure Tank" Cindy agreed. She followed him through the burnt ruins of her door, down the stair to the unmarked car. Stopping beside the car she turned her back to him, holding her hands behind her.

"No need" he told her. "Your not that kind."

"Dead body in my home, no explanation and I'm not that kind. Do us both a favor Tank, just not too tight this time. I'm not inna mood."

"Whatever you want." She felt the cold bite of steel around her wrists and fell screaming to the sidewalk. Fire washed up her arms, she could smell her flesh burning.

"Sweet Mary mother of Jesus" the cop yelled. She could barely hear him over the roar in her head. Then she felt her hands free. Dragging them up before her she was just in time to see thin droplets of molten metal fall away. "Are you okay Cindy? Come-on, get inna car. Lets get out-a here." She nodded, managing with Tank's help to stagger into the car. It felt oppressive, like a prison. She wanted out but the crowds were gathering. With a roar of power the old car moved into traffic. "Damn Cindy, what's happened to you. Those cuff's melted off like butter." The car changed lanes. "I'm getting you to a hospital now."

She stared at her hands, unmarked. Not so her emotions. "Tank" she whispered. "I'm okay. Lets go to the office cause I think I'm gonna scream." The rest of the trip was made in silence. The Detective made no mention of what happened during her interview. They weren't exactly friends, but he'd been long aware where her money had been going. Her fathers medical care. No one knew it, but Tank was her best friend. Life though she thought, had changed.