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Muro paused, and then switched direction. “We’ve known each other a long time. We have been fortunate to be on the same side of these things in the past. But Fortune, she is a crafty bitch.” Rontego didn’t know what Muro was yapping about. But he didn’t like being in the dark, and he disliked Muro’s cryptic conversation even more. On visits like these, in the past, there was banter, a few tidbits about the reasons such business was conducted, and life went on. Rontego liked that flow to the order of things. This was something different.
    He decided to take some of the power back.
    “Wel , if she is such a bitch, I could change her mind. I could take you out. If I wanted. Right now.” Rontego smiled. He had no intention of shooting anyone in a crowded theater. But Muro and he enjoyed a different way of communicating. “You know better than to keep your back so open.” Rontego lifted his eyebrow in surprise when Muro smiled and shook his head back and forth. “I know better. But you don’t know what I know Raf.
    Look under the seat.” Rontego placed his hand under his seat. His fingers groped, blind, until he touched a bulky object. He felt the tape and smiled as he pul ed it from under him and Muro continued.
    “You think I don’t have my gun pointed at you under my arm right now? Maybe you’re stupid enough to believe bul ets don’t go through chairs.” Rontego pul ed the carved wooden piece onto his lap and tugged the masking tape off of it.
    The chess piece lay in his palm, the pawn gazing up at him.
    Rafael smiled again and stood up, placing his hand on the back of Muro’s seat. “Til next time.” He started to turn away, when he felt a hand clamp down on his. He turned back and looked at Muro who final y spun around, his brick hand holding Rontego’s to the seatback.
    His eyes held Rontego’s for a moment. “Til next time.”
    Muro released Rontego’s hand and looked back at the stage. People began to file in, and the curtain on the stage lifted. Rafael Rontego went up the stairs, his hands back in his pockets, rol ing the pawn between his fingers. Something about Muro’s face alarmed him. What it was, he couldn’t tel . He filed the look away, and picked up his pace. He had to get out of the theater before the damned singing started.

    *

    Alex and Charlotte walked through the theater in silence. She seemed to enjoy the play and they seemed to get along as the night went on, but they always got along when they didn’t have to talk. They got along when they could bury their concerns with distractions. That was how they operated for so long.
    Alex didn’t know any other way. He glanced around the theater as they made their way towards the exit.
    “We should talk.”
    She said it soft and quiet and Alex tried to ignore her. He knew what talking meant. He looked at the ornate ceilings with their decorated tray crevices. The theater, a baroque masterpiece, was recently renovated.
    Worth every penny.
    Surrounded by the awe-inspiring theater and the mix of French Rococo and bits of Spanish architecture, he couldn’t help but look at her. She outshone al of it.
    “Fine, let’s talk.”
    He held the door open for her as a crowd shuffled by on their way out. The cold blast of Buffalo’s night air hit them as they exited. Charlotte shivered, but Alex didn’t know where to put his hands. So much was off limits these days. He watched her shiver again, and made to put his arm over her. He did it a thousand times in the past. This over her. He did it a thousand times in the past. This time, like the last time, she shrugged him off. The heat rose to his face despite the swirling winds.
    “Alex, you know what I want.”
    Alex looked at the ice on the sidewalk. “You know I can’t Charlotte. I mean, now, of al times.” Charlotte turned to look at his face. But he stil stung from her shrug, and refused to meet her eyes.
    “You can do whatever you want.”
    Alex looked past her. His irritation