Somewhere in the slums of Philly, the echo of lilting violin music drifted through an open window, carried lightly on the chill of the a nighttime breeze. The soft succerance of parchment danced on the air, the walls fluttering like a thousand watercolor wings as the soot-stained gust stirred Barbara’s tiny one room flat to life with sound and motion. A small candle flickered precariously in one corner of the room, casting twisting and shifting shadows across the sketches that covered every visible inch of the walls, several drifting to the floor as the night coaxed them loose from their bonds. Hissing from the perch of a rickety stool, one leg worn and bent from her incessant hunching, Barb cast a furtive glance toward the open window but - despite the hiss of a dying fire and the shiver that reverberated through her - she simply couldn’t bring herself to close it.

Clutching a thinning flannel blanket just a little bit closer, Barbara tucked a splintering paintbrush between her teeth as she turned back to the bevy of barely-lit canvas that seemed to eternally haunt that corner of the room. Always half finished, a hodgepodge of color and charcoal stood haphazardly propped on and around a makeshift easel like some monolithic monument to unwritten dreams and unrealized potential. A million worlds seemed to peer out of half-formed canvas portals, as if somehow frozen in the very middle of their primordial creation. Each one seemed alive with its own sharp touch of realism, yet each - like all the others - stood blank in the most glaring of places, like a body without a heart.  A gilded Parisian ballet stage veritably glowing with the flicker of old-world lighting gaped in abject horror at the angular and stark white sketch of unpainted dancers. A verdant spring park brimming with oblivious masses seemed to seethe around the unpainted hole of a lake, aching for the glimmer of light across its absent waters. A towering lighthouse stood stark against an empty expanse of misplaced waves, hauntingly lonesome with no sea to guard or ships to guide. A quaint cottage pouted in the woods, the smoke from the chimney so real it seemed to dance as it faded into the empty, incomplete space above. Barbara could never bring herself to finish them. There was something so final in painting that last brush stroke, so permanent, like a death blow to the creative process. And, as she leaned over tonight’s canvas - one of her most frequent victims - she wondered if God ever hesitated when breathing life into the world.

As she agonized over the evasive curvature of a moon-kissed ankle, a knock so violent in its intensity that she nearly swallowed her brush jarred the artist from her cliche contemplations; dust and charcoal drifting to the floor as the thin walls of the decrepit flat shook with a force that demanded attention. Growling under her breath, Barb jabbed the splintered end of the brush into the matted clump of unkempt curls that nested atop her head, shoving her paint-streaked flyaways out of her face with mottlede and smudged fingers. Stretching, her stiff joints complained loudly as she made her way lackadaisically toward the door; a dance-like sway to her saunter as she fished a crumpled and half-burnt cigarette from her pocket, a worn and beaten zippo en tow.

Another barrage of rageful banging ripped through the flat, hardly qualifiable as a knock at all for its vulgar intensity. A flurry of dust and ash powdered the woman’s messy curls like a Victorian wig as she leveled a bored gaze at the door; a roaring screech of a male voice bombarding through the paper-thin walls loud enough to wake the neighbors upstairs.

 “BRAGANZA!” The landlord boomed, eliciting an unperturbed roll of Barbra’s eyes as she slowly tugged the door open with the most ‘fuckless’ expression she could muster.  The glow of a red hot cherry illuminated the man’s blubberous, soot-stained features, a look of anxious meekness tinging the ill-disguised dread that danced across his face as if choreographed to the protesting creak of the worn hinges. 

Tense silence poured from the open door as Barbara met the man’s gaze with a blank and unimpressed blink, so thick and heavy it seemed as palpable as the mixed scent of tobacco and bud that billowed into the hall as she exhaled listlessly into his face. 

“George,” she stated flatly, taking another hit from her spliff as she eyed him... waiting for the inevitable barrage of plebeian drivel that would inevitably tumble from his mouth like a waterfall of sewage and offal. 

“It’s the...” 

“26th,” Barb cut him short with a wave of her hand. “I know what day it is, George. Ya don’t needta wake the whole complex to remind me.” Remaining firmly wedged in the thin slice of the cracked door, she stretched back toward her candlelit corner - the only light visible on the whole floor, aside from the streetlight glow of her shouldering cigarette. Reaching into the umbral cavity of a frontless desk drawer, she retrieved a small, sealed envelope and waved it to him teasingly. “I toldjas, I got a job. I’m making the delivery tonight.” 

Shaking his head, the man shouldered his way through the door, knocking her back several steps as his hand raised in irate protest. “Don’t try to feed me that bullshit, Braganza. You conned me with the same line for two months now. The only reason I haven’t kicked you out on the street...” 

“Is because yas still hoping I’ll fuck yas for it,” she quipped, her sharp eyes slicing sideways as she cut him short... in more ways than one. “Don’t go playing Mr. High-And-Mighty with me. I got no delusions about EXACTLY where ya benevolence comes from, George.” she hissed, reaching down to squeeze his testicles with an uncomfortably tight grip as he tried to push further into her home. 

“I toldjas, I got a job. ‘I got a job’, means I GOT. A. JOB. But I can’t GET PAID unless yas getchya fat, oily, nasty ass outta my way and let me get on with it.” Shoving him out the door with a defiant shoulder check, she pulled it closed behind her before finally releasing his boys. “You’ll have all the money I owes ya... with interest... by tomorrow afternoon. Scout’s honour. And, if not... then maybe I’ll finally letchyas take it out in trade, hm?” Smiling with an impish wink, she smacked his forehead condescendingly with the envelope before tucking it safely into her bra, suppressing a soft chuckle at his predictably baffled expression. “Grumble all ya want, Georgie-boy. We’ll haveta continue this stimulating convo another time. There’s places I needs ta be.”

Not sparing a single second more, Barbara snuffed her dying cigarette on the smooth bottom of her threadbare Mary Janes and kicked the far door open, disappearing into the cool night breeze and the woeful whine of Sicilian violin.

The breeze was brisk in Philly, especially for Johnny who was still relatively fresh off of the West Coast. Huffing hot breath into cupped palms then rubbing them together, he shuffled his weight on his feet as he tried to warm the chill from his bones. His long coat was still, assumedly, in Las Vegas where he'd originally been, and he'd barely made enough to eat this past week if it weren't for the hospitality of Kaya and the Coven. The few jobs he'd been granted, this one included, had at least been enough to keep him dry and warm at night. Philly streets weren't as kind to street peddlers as the fair city of Vegas had been. He really needed to step up his game if he wanted to make ends meet. Then again, this chick Barbara was supposed to be the real deal. If so, he'd have to try and sweet talk her into helping his con-game out.

Where was she, anyway? She was fifteen minutes late according to the traffic lights overhead. Huffing into his palms again, this time he jabbed them into his pocket and produced a lighter and pack of cigarettes. Quickly lighting one, he leaned against the lamppost and immediately regretted that decision as the cold seeped into what little warmth his clergy vest offered.

"Son of a bitch!" he yelled, and a few people looked at him strangely. "What?" he grumped back, lifting the cigarette to his mouth and tugging on it in frustration. Grumbling to himself, he began looking around. "Just where the hell is this chick? Shit, she better be fuckin' good at what she does."

Johnny jumped up and down, trying to get his blood flowing, before flicking his cigarette at the onlookers who still shot him dirty looks. "WHAT IS IT?!" he yelled at them, throwing his arms up...

"We just expect more out of our men of the cloth around here, you, you heathen wretch!" one of them called back callously.

"What?" Johnny exclaimed, then looked down. "This? I'm sorry..." He tugged the small white collar from the vest and tossed it to the ground. "Better?"

Shaking his head, Johnny turned away from the family, grumbling under his breath. Where. The. Fuck. Was. Barbara?

Barb snickered a little as she approached, pausing just long enough to appreciate the ironic artistry of the tableau occurring across the street. Under normal circumstances, she would have paused to sketch out the absurd scene. No doubt adding it to the menagerie of hand-drawn candids that papered her walls. As it was, she was late and thus sacrificed her typically whimsical airs to the altar of practicality; quietly turning her collar against the buffeting breeze as she slinked across the cross walk. 

A low whistle, almost perfectly blended to the whine of the wind, drew the man’s attention as Barb offered him a little wiggle of a wave. You know, the kind that only touches the fingers, not the whole hand; a playfully nervous, awkwardly silly kind of squirm of the digits. “Forgive me, Father...” she started with a grin, “Bit of a hold up at the pearly gates, y’know?” She chuckled, snapping her teeth around a bubble of bright pink gum with a loud pop as she wriggled her hips ever so slightly. The combination was both coquettish and crude in a way that would make any normal adult wonder if she’d been gabbin’ or fuckin’. Though, truth be known, it was neither. 

Eyeing the indignant jumble of onlookers, she grinned wickedly, snaking her hands around Johnny’s waist as her warm hands dipped below the back of his belt. “I could warm yas up, real nice. But it’ll cost yas extra.” She winked before turning and snapping her bubble gum at the flustered woman who’d spoken up before. Huffing, the lady grabbed a man - whom Barb assumed to be her husband - by the cuff and drug him away with a mumbling racket, her hair a fluster of incensed and outraged shaking  that sent Bobby pins ricocheting off the pavement as she hiked her way up the street to the next stop, family en tow. “Aw, c’mon, sugar. The more the merrier. I’m sure I could teach yas a thing or two,” Barb called loudly after them, teasing tone echoing up the street, “Betchyer beau would appreciate it!” She watched with an impish grin as they rounded the corner, the man looking back over his shoulder one last time before being YANKED out of sight. 

There was a moment’s pause, Barb’s gaze trailing after the group... making sure no one would return. For a moment she remained awkwardly sandwiched to Johnny’s side, seeming almost entirely oblivious to him at all as her keen eyes assessed the street around them. It was weird. But, it was also warm. And, judging by his LACK of squirming, he didn’t seem to mind. Or, at the very least was smart enough - or quick enough on the uptake - to understand the con. 

Finally satisfied that the lookie-loos were well in hand, Barb quietly slipped herself under his arm, guiding him silently toward a nearby alley as the remaining stragglers - obviously more accustomed to the streets than Ms. ‘Karen’ and her family - simultaneously lowered their gazes and busied themselves with ‘not knowing anything’. Unhanding her contact, Barb rolled her eyes with a shake of her drywall dusted curls, “Now that that’s outta the way, You’ll find everything in order. I’m sure.” She nodded to his waistline, a small Manila envelop deposited perfectly in the small of his back. “Looks it over if yas want. I’ll wait. Fair’s fair, after all. And we should prolly gives it a minute just for appearances sake.” 

Reclining against the brick wall of the narrow alley, Barb rested the heel of one boot on crate across the way. Holey fishnet stockings peaked out beneath layered kerchief skirts as she fished her zippo from the laces. Straightening, one hand disappeared beneath her faded t-shirt, rearranging her her tits this way and that for a few moments before returning triumphantly with a tarnished, brass cigarette case. Winking, she lit one with a content sigh, offering the case to him once she’d settled in again. “Spliff,” she asked flatly, watching his reactions closely from the corner of her eye as he looked over the documents she’d slipped him. 

It was good work. Damn good work. There were several building permits, property deeds, government bonds, passports for several associates, birth certificates for others, even several of those new ‘social security’ records. They weren’t unfailingly foolproof, of course. Some of the papers felt just a the tiniest bit thin to well-trained fingers... the hand-blended watercolor washes of the background just a touch off from an original, the hand-lettered typeset almost too perfectly imperfect. But they were, by far, the best forgeries he’d ever seen. Even the tiniest details replicated to near perfection. And Barb smiled as she watched him admire them. She didn’t LIKE faking someone else’s work, of course. Few artists did. But she ALWAYS loved watching people admire HER work. And this paid... well. 

“So...” she mused softly, already knowing his answer, “Whaddayas think? It’ll do, yeah?”

Johnny was quick on the take, his arm sliding behind Barbara. "Bout time, girl! I've been waiting for ya!" He smirked, feeling the envelope deposited into his belt against the small of his back. Smirking at the 'Karen' as Barbara gave her a what for, Johnny couldn't help but chuckle. He liked this girl already. Hopefully her work was as masterful as her quick-witted, and warming, con.

As the Karen-family exited around the corner and the pair made their way to the alley, he offered a quiet, "Thanks. For the deflection and the warmth." He smiled his pearly whites at Barb and then turned back, pulling the manilla folder from his back and opening it. Waving his hand at the spliff, he commented casually, "Not until I check the rest of these over. But these first few will do alright." Alright? Was he crazy? These were the closest to flawless he'd ever seen. But he couldn't let her know that. Not yet.

His eyes played ping-pong with Barb and the forgeries as he continued to look over them. Everything was in great order. Even the passports for the new crew members coming over. Pulling a manilla folder from inside the front of his trousers, he chuckled. "It's passable work. Honestly, probably the best I've seen in Philly. It's all there too, so that's great. Last person did this job, failed to include three of the passports and two of the business ledgers. Incompetence at it's best." He chuckled, offering the fat, folded envelope.

"I'll wait while you count it. As you said, fair is fair. Hundred grand, like discussed. Then, then I will take that spliff and we can discuss some more business if you're interested."

Placing the envelope directly in her hand, he gave her a hard once over before releasing it to her. Easy on the eyes, even in her near rags and bubble-gum popping appearance. Artists. Johnny smiled. He loved artists. Every one of them was so different, yet all the same in so many ways. He could appreciate everything about her appearance, to her work, to her attitude as she approached.

"Also, if ya need help at the pearly gates next time, lemme know. I got this priest thing partially worked out." He chuckled and leaned against the wall, waiting for her to count the cash...

As she summed it all up Johnny smiled, "So, about that spliff, eh?" Taking it from her with a nod, he pulled out his own zippo and lit it, inhaling and holding a moment. Silence between the two as they stared at each other, Johnny fighting the cough reflex like a good stoner until he finally exhaled and started talking.

"I'll be completely honest, I'm in need of some items personally for my trade. I've seen you're work and it's not bad. Not by any means. Ever done anything with disappearing ink, playing cards, other items like that for illusions and parlor tricks?"

He hit the spliff again, holding the smoke in again, but for a shorter time before exhaling in a light coughing fit. "Damn good shit in here... Oh." He offered his hand officially. "Johnny Christ, since we didn't actually introduce ourselves, Barbara." He smiled.

Smirking, Barb shouldered Johnny playfully. Her work was better than ‘passable’. He knew it. She knew it. And the look they shared in the dim light of the cramped alley confirmed they each knew the other knew it. Pocketing the cash, she took his hand with a bright smile. “ ‘Barb’ is fine,” she assured him. “Braganza, if we’re exchanging patronymics. Though, forgives me for sayin’, it’d take a special kinda idiot to believe Yeshua is yours.” She chuckled softly, finally returning the once over. 

Pretty boy. Keen eyes, but kind. A little too clean cut. Young and world weary all at the same time. The duds were old, but very well made, well maintained, and nicely tailored. A twitch of curiosity tugged at one corner of her mouth, but she kept her musings tightly locked behind the ivory bars of her teeth. Those were wondering best left for another day. 

Shrugging, she nodded as she sucked another long hit from her spliff, burning it nearly down to her fingers tips in one long draw. She didn’t cough like he did, but there was a silent twitch that jerked through her shoulders, making her layered skirts dance round her ankles as they stirred in the whistling breeze. After a few moments, she tilted her head skyward, slowly exhaling a plume of blue-grey smoke like a low-burning chimney as she melted into the cold support of the weathered brick alley. 

“Can’t say I done any ‘professional’ work in that field as a yet. But I ain’t opposed. Did some toying with hidden images back in my hayday... glow paint, temperature sensitive shit, fire paper, light play, things like that. But the series never really panned out,” she admitted with a pouting shrug, flicking the dying ember of her cigarette down the alley. She was silently contemplative for a long moment, the wheels behind her eyes seeming to connect the dots as she eyed the constellations above. “With the right supplies and the right incentive I’m sure I could rework some a that into a useable format, depending on whats yas want. Whatyas got in mind?” 

Johnny thought for a moment, wheels spinning as quickly as hers. "Imagine temperature sensitive fire paper with playing card stock. You could burn the front off a card to reveal the correct one after everyone thinks you got the trick wrong... It's always fun to see people's face when they think you flubbed." He took another drag of his own spliff and held it in, successfully not coughing this time but making a strange, almost choking, snorting noise as he fought his bodies need to exhale.

"Well," he barked out before exhaling...

"I at least enjoy their faces. Especially when you perform the rest of the trick. And, if you're any good, you could be my wingman...er. Wingwoman. Lifting items, or picking out marks that would be easy for me to lift things while we do tricks. Ya know, easy money when the magician creates the distraction." He looked at her and smiled. "Or, we can go bigger picture too. Do the gambling card tricks. I can work a poker table with the right cards."

He shrugged and looked up at the stars. "But, I'm good with people even without magic. I'm one of the best grifters you'll meet this side of Detroit I'll wager. We could do anything you wanted with your level of forging expertise."

He hit the spliff one last time before snuffing the small ember that was left between his fingers. "The world is our stage, beautiful. One for us to make whatever reality we want of it."

To her credit, Barb did her best to hide the rising sparkle that welled up as he spoke... to little avail. Being the good looking, easy talking con that he was, she was sure Johnny was used to playing people as easily as a gambler played cards or a jazzman played the axe. And despite her best efforts, a begrudgingly inspired smile defiantly wriggled its way slowly to her lips. She was prey to her inner nature just as much as anybody else. And in the hands of a skilled grifter she was just as vulnerable as the next bloke, to an extent. It was just the way of things... of people. An endearing and utterly vexing part of the human experience. 

She was no simpleton, that much was sure. Where other people were an open book, Barb - despite her candid manner - played things close to the breast. She only barely buckled under his impeccably placed and priming programming. Because she knew better. But she was human... fallibly, messily, exquisitely human. And, she knew - they both did - that he moment he started talking all grandiose and artsy, he’d cracked the spine, at the very least, on her tightly pressed pages. 

Despite every steel hard lesson she’d ever learned on these stone cold streets, there was a piece of her, however small, that was hooked by the hope he peddled like handle down trinkets. The part of her that still dreamed... sometimes. The part of her that still longed for connection... occasionally. The part of her that, while she knew it was a blatant lie, she liked to tell herself she’d outgrown. THAT part of her smiled at him... uncontrollably. AND SHE HATED IT. 

“Don’t do that,” she snerked derisively, more at herself than at him, as she scooched a little farther away. “I ain’t buyin’ whatchyas sellin’,” sheinsisted with a sour pout. But the assessing glance she shot him as she shoved her hands into her pockets revealed that was only half true. She was quiet for a long moment, starring up at the stars as she sucked her teeth. She hadn’t left or dismissed him... yet. But she didn’t look at him either. In fact, it seemed that after her initial show of weakness, she did everything in her power NOT to look at him at all. 

The silence stretched out into the night like salt water taffy as she contemplated her next move. She wasn’t in a position to lose the work, if he was serious. But she wasn’t in a position to lose her head over pretty eyes and fancy words, either. 

“Y’know...” she finally started after what seems like FOREVER, “Ifs yas wanna do it that a way, ya’d haveta be pretty careful and REAL slick.” She pivoted slightly, leaning her shoulder against the wall to face him as she spoke. “Temp sensitive flash paper is doable with a friction coating... I think. But ifs it’s gonna work like I think, then yas risk the whole deck goin’ up ifs it rubs too much.” She chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully as she rolled the idea around, “Cuz it ain’t so much justa matter a changin’ ink colours. Ya’d haveta actually overlay a flash piece on the base card. Rice paper and phosphorus, maybe... or something similar. Thata way, when ya rub the right spot, that thin top layer goes ‘poof’ without singing too much of the underneath.” 

Barb smiled as she mulled it over, tickled by the creative possibilities. “Prolly haveta go with red on top if yas went thata way,” she nodded. “I could run some tests. See what works best. Ifs yas serious and wanna back the research, a’course,” she nodded. “And ifs that pans out, then maybe we discuss further endeavors.” 

She finally eyed him up and down again, allowing just a touch of excitement to shine through. A carefully calculated acquiescence; enough to invest but not exploit. “I hear the fine art scene is pretty ripe for pickin’, ifs yas got the right skills,” Barb grinned wickedly as she held his gaze, teasingly leveling the challenge at him. After all, two could play at that game...

Johnny smiled as he leaned a shoulder against the wall and faced Barbara. He knew she was hooked, even if she wasn't certain herself or had her own doubts. "I'd invest five hundred on the spot if you're really interested, doll." He pulled his money clip from his pocket and sifted through the few bills he had left. Five hundred. It was almost everything he had on him. Then again, he still had another two months to earn and get himself settled after his recent...move.

"As for the fine arts? I've seen your skills, Barb. I can call you Barb, right?" He smiled, absentmindedly tapping a finger against the top of his other hand. "Between you and me, we can take your skills and easily replicate some of the finer pieces. Then I can get you connected with interested buyers." Shrugging, Johnny stuck his money clip back in his pocket for the moment and rolled away from her. Leaning his back against the wall and staring at the sky, he whistled softly.

"Or, and hear me out here..." He looked in her direction. "We can go big and assemble a small crew, take those replicas, and put them in museums and art galleries while we, oh I don't know," he shrugged. "Borrow the originals?" With a sardonic chuckled, he eyed her. "Black market pays really well for originals, and pretty soon the only thing the public world would have would be Braganza Bootlegs!" He smirked.

"People will be callin' you for the Mona-fuckin'-Lisa at a bootleg bargain price!" He clapped, then chuckled. "We could make you go legit so you don't get caught up in the hustle of it that way... And you can slave away, a nickle and a dime here for your paintings until you die and make someone else a fortune off of your originals that people all of a sudden want."

He rolled back and smiled, "Or, you stick with me, and you see that fortune yourself." He reproduced his money clip and pulled out the bills, but as he neared her he crumpled the bills into his fist. With a quick tap on his balled fist, he rolled his hand and opened it palm up, empty. Smirking, Johnny winked and spun around. "But first, you should check your tits. Might find something a little... Extra."

He spun back to face her and watch, from a safe distance as he continued to back away in case he pissed her off. Though she didn't seem the type to be angry at five-hundred bucks magically appearing between her tits.

“Ya motha fucka!” Barb’s voice echoed after him with a disbelieving (albeit impressed) scoff. Bills waved from between her fingers as she shook an indignantly clenched fist at his back. “If yas gonna fondle a brawd, at least lets her enjoy it,” she called jokingly, stuffing the wad of cash into her breast pocket without counting. They’d attracted far enough attention for one night without her drawing the jealous attentions of desperate eyes. 

There was a grudgingly chipper bounce to her satisfied saunter as Barb made her way home. She almost resented it, but the skies seemed clearer, the stars brighter, the city just a little warmer. Even the sight of George’s greasy, fat ass waiting at the office door as she entered wasn’t enough to suck ALL the pep from her step... though it did sour her smile just a bit. 

“Don’t even fuckin’ start with me,” she beat him to the chase, silencing his protest with a wave of Johnny’s wrinkled advance. “I toldjas. Everything I owes, with interest. And, just sos you’ll leaves me tha hell alone, one month in advance.” Smoothing our the crumpled bills, she handed him three with a condescendingly self-satisfied smirk. Swatting at his hand, the snatched the rest of the money away with a sharp, “nun-uh!”

Keeping the rest of her payday carefully under wraps, she leveled a surly glare at the squat American as she tucked Johnny’s remaining investment into her blouse, “I ain’t givin’ yas a another cent, ya hear me. Not now, not ever. One month, and I’m out... for good. I gots bigger fish now, Georgie-boy. I’m done witchyas limp-dicked would-be charity.”  Spinning on her heels, the flickering, grimey light of the office faded behind her as she rounded the corner. The mournful, lilting crescendo of Sicilian violin medaling orchestrally with the squealing shriek of uncoiled hinges as she disappeared into the enveloping darkness of her decrepit one room flat. Resting against the door, she chuckled and then sniffled as - for the first time tonight (or at all in ages) - she allowed herself to melt into the knowledge that FINALLY SOMETHING felt like it was gonna be okay.  Hugging her cash-laden coat tightly to her chest, she breathed into the weight that tugged at her pockets; knowing that even if it turned out to all be a con, or a lie, or worse yet a failure, she needed that momentary glimmer of hope, as much as she wished she didn’t. 

Feeling her way through the familiar lightless expanse of her ‘home’, she lurched to the desk that held what little valuables she owned; the tiny dwindling stump of a candle still precariously perched atop it’s broken and slanted top. Striking her very last match, Barb wiped the tears from her cheeks as it’s small sputtering flame jerked to life. As long as it burned - which wouldn’t be long - she would pour herself into the new ideas and inspirations Johnny left with her... waking groggy but hopeful to start again with the creeping light of dawn in the morning. 

Some jobs weren’t worth taking, she knew. But, in stark contrast to George’s disgusting offers, THIS was an opportunity impossible to pass up.