She didn’t look like she was having much fun with the greasy, tallow-looking guy with the meandering hands, but she was trying her best to keep up the act. I made my way through similar sweaty circumstances across the smoky — thankfully dark — bar, past congealing puddles of alcohol and ash, and sat across from them shooting looks at her occasionally and rattling the ice in my now-empty collins of whiskey.

With a final shake of her leather-bound ass against his leg, she straightened and walked over to me.

“Need a refill?”

“Not really, but since you’re here, I’ll have whatever passes for whiskey in this place. On the cheap, if you don’t mind.”

“Can do.” She winked at me, seemed like sincerely; her eyeshadow was expertly chosen and applied.

“That guy was giving me a rash, and I don’t know if I’m being figurative,” she said, a little too loud, as she stepped behind the bar and served me up another. The other bartender, Jay, was busy chatting up some friends at the far end.

Almost up to the shoulders her arms were bound in ratty, wide-holed fishnets black against the cream of her skin. Silver rings on a few of her fingers, no visible tattoos, between the lattice of the fishnet her tour shirt read “Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.” She had dark shiny hair, that fell just shy of her shoulders. Obviously, the owner liked her to work here because even customers without much in the way of cash would spend it here, trying to impress her. Her motivation was less clear.

She was pretty and young — too much so of either — but already had that presence and attitude of the older waitresses and strippers employed at Tank ‘n’ Tabby’s. And she obviously had a head on her shoulders. Probably just liked being the big fish in this scummy pond. I pitied her, that she felt she had to choose this life. Or worse, wanted to.

“One cheap whiskey,” she said, handing back my glass. “What could be cheaper than on the house? Thanks for the assist.” The bar was noise from end to end. Even I had trouble hearing her.

Without thanking her, I sipped my whiskey and watched her flit from table to table, a butterfly in black and white.

—

Marco was a good sort of guy to have around if you were a squatter. He could barely read, but he could get into almost any building. Either he knew how to get past the lock, or he’d simply clamber up the building in through a window. He said he used to hang out with a bunch of rich kids who did parkour, a sort of urban gymnastics. He kept up on it because they would buy him lunch once in a while. They apparently got wise to him, though, because now he mostly hung out with me and Jimmy and Troy.

Good-looking kid, too, which helped on the sympathy angle if we had to panhandle a few bucks here and there. Mostly, though, we stole it and he was good for that, too.

Marco pulled aside the plastic sheeting that served to keep the chill November air out of the squatter’s den where the girl lived. Her name was Kristin, Troy said. We all had spent some time warming up at Tank ‘n’ Tabby’s but Troy the most by far. He had seen Kristin more than once, first in her professional capacity and recently as an outside friend. And that’s why we were here. No one knew where Kristin was and Troy, love-struck and horny, suggested we go to her place and see if she was all right.

Troy and Jimmy had seen Kristin fighting with her latest boyfriend outside the bar two nights ago. She hadn’t been at work since. Happens all the time, I said. But these were all kids I hung out with, kids lost after the Towers and the war left the city in ruins. Grudgingly, I had assumed the role of big brother. Shit, I had nothing else to do today, and they promised to buy the first round once we found out where she was.

We plodded up the concrete steps to the apartment that Kristin had been squatting in. The door was open. Normally, that would not surprise me, but Troy said she actually had a locking door, and kept it that way. We all ignored the stalker connotations of Troy’s advance knowledge and pushed our way inside.

“Not much for housekeeping, eh, Troy?” I heard Jimmy say. Covering the floor were discarded t-shirts and jeans, newspapers, books and comics. Every surface had an ashtray with several butts in it. The kitchenette to one side of the main room had never been used to prepare anything, except maybe a bong. No needles, though.

“Fuck you, Jimmy. Obviously somebody tossed it. Look at it.”

“Whatever.”

“C’mon, Dean, tell him.”

“It wasn’t tossed, Troy. And someone’s been looking after it until very recently.” I said. “Look at these comics and books. None of them are lying open. They’ve all been just put down. Plus, all the ashtrays are still standing.”

“Girl’s just a slob, man. She’s fine, I won’t lie. But she’s a fucking slob.” Jimmy and Troy slugged each other lazily behind me. While I sat on her creaky bed in the center of the room and paged through some of the comics, I saw Marco squatting down in one corner, examining a bookshelf.

“What’s she want with all these books? She could sell half this shit and get a halfway decent place. She wouldn’t have to work in no strip club, at least,” Marco said, wistfully.

She likes to read, I thought, putting down a copy of Wonder Woman #218, the alternate reality issue where she caught the planes that hit the World Trade Center. When I had time for comics, this was one of my favorites. Plenty of Batman, too, and Alan Moore novels.

“You know… I don’t wanna be a dick,” Jimmy said, “Seriously, I don’t. But if she ain’t back in a few days, we should grab this shit and sell it before someone else does. I think Kristin wouldn’t mind, if she ain’t gonna be using it no more.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Troy said, his voice cracking enough that even Jimmy capitulated.

Marco was still fingering the books on the shelf. I stood next to him before heading into the tiny bathroom, read titles like “A Brief History of Time” and “The Republic.”

“She’s got good taste,” I said quietly, “Let’s see what she stocks in porn.” The mirror was relatively clean and free of cracks, but the porcelain of the sink bore the dark patina of a girl who dyed her hair. I opened the cabinet underneath; nothing but a few cleaning supplies, some extra rolls of toilet paper (the good stuff) and a curled up catalog for goth clothing. The shower curtain was pulled to one side, revealing mildew and soap scum, but the room smelled of expensive shampoo and lotions.

“You think she’ll be pissed if she finds us here?” Troy said from the doorway. The other two were still enjoying the relative warmth and welcome of the apartment I wouldn’t have pissed in eight years ago. I thought about telling Troy the truth; she likely was not coming back, wherever she went.

“She… likes you Troy. I doubt she’ll call the cops, anyway.”

Around the sink was a wide array of cosmetics, colors and combinations that must have cost more than she made at the bar, even with the kinds of tips she earned. Strangely I found myself smiling at the Q-tips boxes stacked at one side. An old-fashioned girl, or maybe a theater major or beautician. Boxes. Two of them. Both open.

I picked them up and shook them. About 100 left in each box. Quirky, I guessed, until at my shaking a small slip of paper, folded in half, stuck out from between the swabs. I took it out, noting the dirt caked on my hands in contrast to the white of the clean paper. An address, typed out, torn from a larger piece of paper.

“What’s this?”

Troy came and looked at it. “An address? 13th St. I didn’t think she knew anyone over there.”

“If she knew them well, she probably wouldn’t need the address.”

Marco said from the main room. “I found something, I think.”

I stepped out from the windowless bathroom into the natural light from the windows of the main room, blinked a little. Marco had turned his attention to the newspapers scattered around on the floor and bed. In his hands, he rustled some clippings that someone had torn from them. They referred to eleven buildings that were marked condemned and the plans to restore them to their original state from blueprints and photos found in the city archives. One mentioned possibly unearthing the original train station from its abandoned state beneath the city for use as a municipal building, and a symbol of recovery from the destruction of the war with Al-Qaeda.

“She ever mention this stuff, Troy?”

—

The dream ends there because I had to get up for work. I tried to keep it to see where it was going, but no such luck.