Keats stood staring through the window at the mannequin. Well, not the mannequin precisely- but the suit it was wearing. That suit…

The young man looked down at his weather-beaten trenchcoat, which was ostentatious compared to the fraying private school uniform beneath it. He hadn’t exactly had enough time to pack when he’d grabbed Headmistress Walters’ purse and sprinted off to make his way in the world. The last few days had not been as glamorous as he’d hoped. He’d talked his way into a couple free hot dogs after the money ran out and met a few interesting people, but he needed to make a much better impression if he was going to be successful.

And that suit? That was his ticket. Ticket to where, exactly, was yet to be defined. But a man wearing that suit would be going places.

Keats retreated across the street and leaned against a lamppost. He’d need a plan here; the old grab and run wasn’t exactly applicable for a fancy store like this. Available resources? One tattered collection of clothing that would probably get him tossed out of the shop, about three leftover dollars in change, a top notch brain, and a capacity for bullshitting. That’d have to be it. Crossing the street again, Keats made his way around to the back of the building and dug through the trash until he found several pages that contained the information he was looking for. He then listened at the back door until he’d heard everything he needed to make the attempt.

Calmly, Keats stripped down to nothing but his undergarments, which were still relatively clean compared to the rest of his clothes. He then tossed his pants, shirt, coat, and shoes into the trashcan. Taking a deep breath, he steadied his nerves and began banging on the back door. After a couple minutes, a confused looking man peered out.

Keats shouted in mock horror. “My God! Open the door! I can’t believe you took so long, you brute. I know it’s April, but it is FREEZING out there.”

Pushing his way passed the confused man, Keats stormed into the building like he owned the place and crossed his arms to shield himself from the somehow terrible cold. Before the man could open his mouth Keats launched into a diatribe.

“So there I was, minding my own business. And this CRETIN with a knife dragged me into an alley and demanded my suit. And where were the police? WHERE were the police? Well I can’t even BEGIN to tell you because they absolutely were NOT in that alley. And at first I tried to tell him Do you even know who I am but he JABBED at me and so you tell me, what else was I supposed to do? I mean, really? So I had to skulk about 17 blocks to get here without anyone seeing me because God knows if anyone were to catch a glimpse of me I would absolutely, positively die. The gossips would have had an absolute field day with it, and they’ve only just finally moved on from that horrible misadventure I had in LA last year and- Oh my goodness how are you still standing there? Why are you not getting me something to wear?”

The man in the store, who looked like he was in his late thirties and thoroughly confused, finally managed to get a question out. “Who- who are you?”

Keats fixed a withering stare  upon the man and matched it with an expression of disbelief.

“Okay, I’ve had a very, very bad day and so I’m going to tell you this one time. What’s your name?”

“It’s, uh, Anthony.”

“Anthony What?”

“Anthony Marriani.”

“Okay, Anthony Marriani. My uncle, Richard Johnson, owns this store. Myself, his favorite nephew, is currently standing in the middle of said clothing store, entirely bereft of clothing. I need a suit immediately, or you’re going to have to explain to my uncle why you kept me standing here like a common beggar. So I want you to think very, very carefully about your next move- because I guarantee you there’s probably 17 other idiots in this city who would gladly have your job tomorrow if you decide to fuck around with me. Now the day is almost over. Would you rather I leave a message for my uncle and have him come down here and rip you a new one tomorrow morning? Or are you going to keep your job?”

Keats did everything he could to project confidence, locking eyes with the older man. After a few seconds, Keats exhaled a frustrated sigh, made a sound of resigned disapproval, and started striding across the room toward the phone.

“No- wait!”

Keats paused, his back to the man, hiding the grin on his face as he turned around.

“I- I will show you the suits.”

Ten minutes later, Keats strolled out the front door, dressed impeccably in a new black suit with an emerald green tie, felt fedora, and shining black shoes that clacked authoritatively as he made his way down the sidewalk. He winked at the young woman who passed him and he smiled at the setting sun, heading off confidently in a new direction. 

"Richard Johnson... what an unfortunate name..."

As he continued to walk through the streets, Keats tried to spot the truly powerful businessmen and women among the mere civilians. He'd have to learn how to walk like they did- to project power the way they did, if he was going to make his fortune. 

Zo slinks behind Keats before tapping him on the shoulder

Well look who cleans up nicely! Which dead body did you pull that suit from?

Keats smiles as he recognizes Zo.

Hello, Zo. Fancy seeing you again. And thank you. No violence was necessary, fortunately. But I thought my threads needed an upgrade.

No violence necessary! I wish I could say that for what I'm wearing...

Zo fiddles with the necklace she is wearing, lost in thought for a moment

 Anyway, what have you been up to? I haven't seen you for a couple of days.

Keats raises an eyebrow as he looks at the necklace and walks over with Zo to a quiet corner where they couldn't be overheard.

Did you have to hurt someone for that?

Zo dawdles for a bit

Well... This was more of a prize. Some catty girl thought she could pickpocket me and I slammed her to the floor. And then proceeded to pickpocket her. 

That's... very impressive. A natural reflex? Or did you learn to fight somewhere?

Regarding your earlier question, about what I've been up to... I suppose I've just been learning about life. Never been on my own before. Always lots of other kids around when I was growing up, food on the table- even if it wasn't any good. It's a different feeling when you're the one ultimately responsible for yourself. But I like it. And I think I'm getting the hang of it. At least I hope I am.

Keats sticks his hands in his suit pockets, trying to appear casual.

Well good for you! It is always hard in the beginning, but you sound like you landed on your feet. I had pretty decent reflexes when I first hit the streets, but being by myself really honed my skills. Besides, I catch people by surprise. Not many people expect a small girl to kick them in the face. Have any families reached out to you yet?

Keats glances at the crowd of people walking by, studying their movements.

There's... a potential contact there for me. I'm not sure how definite it is, but I plan on making my way to Detroit to find out. Particularly now that I look the part. Any advice on how to make a good first impression?

Be willing to do whatever they want you to do. Either that, or don't join forces at all. It's a shame you will be heading to Detroit though, I won't get to sneak up on you as much. 

Zo smiles to herself

Anyways, you'll be fine. Tell them the story of how you got the suit and they will be begging for' ya.

The sidewalks were crowded, an annoyance and unexpected on a midday and certainly one so extraordinarily chilly. The silver bangles on her wrist captured the cold and did not seem to absorb any of the warmth from her skin. She'd forgone a coat to wear over her skirtsuit and regretted it especially since a taxi was proving difficult to find and she was having to walk at least twelve blocks back to her hotel, wherever it was. Normally Via wouldn't have minded the exercise, but her legs were aching from standing since the shipment came in at 3 am and since she'd flown in late at night, she'd had little time to catch her bearings. She wanted nothing more than to return the the Ashley Arms, soak in a drawn bath, enjoy a glass of wine courtesy of the room service, and fall into a comfortable slumber well before the sun went down. 

The crates that had come in were prime quality. Only half had valid providences; those she could sell publicly in the gallery. The other half would be sold as well, but not at a public auction. She'd long ago lost the pangs of guilt that came with selling stolen art. But as she'd arranged to have it stolen from those cruel fascist anti-semites, who'd come into possession by stealing them first, Via felt that the two wrongs eventually made a right. Part of the money went back to the aid the liberators anyway, so one could reason by stealing the art, she was giving back to the original victims.

May God, whichever God, have mercy on their souls.

And on hers, as she admitted begrudgingly to being lost. Tomorrow morning and her flight back to Detroit could not arrive quickly enough.

She spotted a particularly well dressed, if not boyishly young man a few paces down deep in conversation. Most of the people on the street looked working class, but the suit he wore seemed to indicate that he'd seen very few days where his hands had to do manual labor. She approached, admonishing herself for being lost, and politely interrupted the couple's chat.

"Pardon me, young man," she said, a friendly smile painted on her face. "My apologies for interrupting. I'm in a bit of a spot, and I seem to have lost my way. The Ashley Arms. I need to return their, and it's impossible to get a taxi right now. Could you point me in the right direction? I can't imagine it would be too far. I remember being near the garment district."

Spending time on the streets tends to increase your perception. You just get used to watching people, sizing them up. Are they pissed? High? Late for work? Wealthy and trying to hide it, wearing an old overcoat over a new suit? Poor and trying to pretend they're not? The shoes tend to give it away. A person's manner of walking reveals a great deal as well. Some people trudge along, like they're being dragged along some inexorable, unexciting preordained path. Other people practically bounce with enthusiasm. But the powerful had a walk unto themselves. Not so much a strut, just a confidence exuding from them as they moved through life. The woman who approached him now had it, and Keats did his best to avoid looking tense as she approached him. It'd be just his luck if that stupid suit shop had more powerful connections...

But she didn't seem interested in that, thankfully. Cold, powerful... perhaps a little lost. 

Ah, shit. Awkwardness. Don't fuck it up, don't fuck it up. First order of business was helping her find her way- that much was obvious. 

Potentially apocalyptic scenario: Should he call her "Miss" or "Ma'm"? Miss seemed safer. A woman will occasionally laugh at being called "Miss", but it's usually somewhat playful. He had, however, witnessed several women morph into towering infernos of rage at being called "Ma'm". 

"Good afternoon, Miss."

Keats smiled earnestly, trying to convey a confidence that he wasn't precisely sure he possessed.

"I'd be happy to escort you to the Ashley Arms. I actually have a dinner reservation in that area, so I'm heading in that direction."

It was a hot dog. And his company would be one of the orange cats in the park, but she didn't need to know that. 

Turning to Zo, Keats made a quick goodbye. "It was nice to see you again, Zo. Thanks for the advice- perhaps we can grab a drink later? You pick the place and I'll be there." Winking, Keats turned down the sidewalk and began walking with the newcomer in the direction of the Ashley Arms.

"So what brings you to the city, Miss...?"

Keats trailed off, wondering what he should call his new acquaintance. 

"Parile," she answered. "Traviata Parile, and perfect. I'd love the accompaniment. I flew in last night and I've not had the opportunity to truly get my waypoints around. And I'll be leaving first thing in the morning so what's the bother?" Her laugh was more an exhalation than joyous, but no less genuine. As they walked, she stretched out an ungloved hand and shook his. Hers came in palm down, and his came out to the side. He recovered quickly and shook appropriately. It was enough of a slip that she could see some dirt in his nails. Perception was her gift and what had made her wealthier than most people dared to dream. She dealt in art by day, but secrets were where true fortune lay.

"And you are? I'd hate to travel all that way without knowing the name of my chivalrous escort." 

Keats inclined his head in a polite bow, before he self-consciously tucked a strand of hair back in place. His hair, which was longer and more ragged than the typical fashions of the time, rebelled against the wealthy image his suit suggested. He'd have to remedy that situation. Emerald eyes scanned the crowd as Keats continued to evaluate passerby. 

My name is John Keats. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Parile.  I've not been on my own very long, but I've gotten to know the streets well enough to know my way around- at least in this particular area.  May I ask what business brings you here?

As they walk, Keats does his best to seem calm, as if this type of conversation occurs regularly for him.

"Art," she answered simply, looking ahead but watching him in her periphery. He looked to be a well dressed street rat, which was a conundrum in itself. The suit made him stand out, where most of the petty criminals chose to blend in. His mannerisms were well mimicked but somewhat flawed and fell short of someone with years of aristocratic grooming. But the effort was commendable; impressive. Passable to the untrained eye. 

Via raised her chin and returned her full gaze forward.

"American culture is a bit more bawdy and uncouth than my European experience, but the 'keeping up with the Jones' mentality keeps me in business. Most of these new money types don't know a Monet from a Mondriaan. Tell them some pitiful looking art student canvas is really the depiction of strife and red oppression by a Soviet refugee, and they literally throw money to have such a conversation piece and feel worldly."

She turned to look at her escort this time, giving him her undivided attention.

"And what about you, Mr. Keats? What do you do when you're not filling someone else's shoes?"

Keats did his best to keep his poker face on as he listened to "Monet from a Mondriaan". Working his way through the public library, he'd read about Monet a little, but he'd never heard of this Mondriaan guy. Still, Keats was well read overall. He'd devoured as many books as he could his hands on while growing up. Mostly literature, hence his self-selected name, but a little bit of art history. Was it worth throwing his potentially minimal knowledge out there to try to impress her? Or would it just expose his larger ignorance? Perhaps the best move was a little bit of both. The way this woman talked about Europe made it seem like she had connections- the kind of person who could help him find a new path in life. 

"I must admit, I'm far from an expert when it comes to art, though I've developed a taste for it in my studies. I must confess I've never even heard of this Mondriaan you mention. I'm hoping he's more recent? I'm drawn more to the Baroque period, myself- Caravaggio in particular. I like the way he uses the darkness. Too many painters just don't want to acknowledge it's there. Though I suppose that's true of most people."

Speaking of darkness, Keats noticed a black sedan turn out a few blocks in front of them, driving slowly. Something to pay attention to, perhaps?

"More recently I've had far less time for reading and art than I would prefer, unfortunately. As you mentioned, I've been in the business of acquiring shoes. But I suppose that's a necessary sacrifice for a man trying to make his way in the world."

*The black Sedan slows and pulls over on the side of the road that Via and Keats are walking on. When they get within half a block of it, out steps Ewiv. His jacket is unbuttoned allowing clear view of his holstered gun. He gives Keats a cold stare as he judges him. After a minute having decided the young man poses no threat he buttons up his suit jacket and turns his attention to Via*

"Hello boss lady," he says with his usual greeting. "We've been looking for you for the last hour, are you lost?"

"Ewiv, I thought I'd missed you at the docks. I apologize if I've given you the runaround." She extended her hand, gesturing to her traveling companion. "May I introduce Signore John Keats, who apparently is a classicist at heart." Her attention back on the latter gentleman she smiles, perhaps underestimating this juxtaposed youth. "I'm intrigued. Caravaggio often inspires a very polarized following. His tamer earlier works seem to be regarded kindly enough but his more visceral and pointed portrayal of his Christian works seems to invite both adoration and vitriol. I am curious how you seem to be drawn to the darkness in his works, Mr. Keats. If you're ever in Detroit, I have a stunning replica of Salome with the Head of John the Baptist in my office. Most who don't appreciate both the darkness and the light in art find it gruesome. I would be interested to know your opinion."

With Ewiv standing near the back door of the sedan, Via made her way to the car to see if anyone else was inside. Finding it empty, she invited the lad to join. "I believe I have my bearings and the Ashley Arms is a mere 8 blocks from here, but these heels are more form than function. If you'd join me, my good man Ewiv and I can see to it you make your reservation on time."

Keats watches as the man, clearly carrying a weapon, emerges from the sedan. Panicking for a moment, Keats tries to think of some way of defending himself- uh, distract him with poetry? Try to bleed on his shoes? Note to self: acquire a weapon of some sort. Fortunately, Via didn't seem concerned and he'd just addressed her as "boss lady"; she must have even more power than he thought, if a guy like this worked for her.

As he was introduced, Keats bowed his head respectfully to the man she'd called "Ewiv". 

Keats dug into his memories as art came up again, doing his best to try to echo her hint of Italian as well.

"Thank you for the offer to view this painting... Signora. I would love to." Crap, I hope that means lady and not dog or something. Whatever it meant, time to make his pitch.

"I have always loved The Calling of St. Matthew, myself. The idea of a man, unknown, plucked from obscurity by someone with power, who goes on to accomplish great things- this has always given me hope."

Smiling, Keats accepted the invitation into the car, climbing into the back seat. 

"I don't want to be too forward, Miss Parile, but could you tell me more about yourself- how you've managed to rise so high in the world?"

The parallel wasn't lost as he explained his fondness for The Calling of St. Matthew. His attire with the dirty nails and the learnedness and culture with the unkept hair seemed to her like two sides of a coin waiting to be plucked from the sidewalk. Perhaps he was just an old penny, shined up but essentially worthless. But some pennies minted now were rare and quite valuable. She wondered if Keats were commonplace or collectable. He'd certainly done enough in a short time to pique her interest.

"Life is quite too short to beat around the bush, Mr. Keats." She began to mull over her next words as if deciding how they tasted before letting them loose from her tongue. 

"I'm not so sure 'high in the world' could be an apt phrase for what I am. It most certainly depends on which world you're referring to. The world which those people out on the streets believe is the one and only, or the world that exists below their miserably mundane monotony and well out of their purview. You might see my name on some society registers, but only as an acquaintance of the silver spoon crowd. My renown is much less universal."

She smiled and inspected her own manicure which was long overdue for a touch up. 

"But I told you honestly that art brought me to the city. It is also my conduit between many worlds. I may dabble in Daubigny and muddle with Millets, but really Mr. Keats, I make my trade in secrets."