It was unseasonably cold as Susan left the theater following her final rehearsal before filming began in the morning. The part was a small one, a local band had needed dancers for their latest music video, but it would give her a foot in the door for more lucrative work. That was it would if the song in the video did well. If the song was a flop it was unlikely anyone would remember the dancers in the video much less offer them further work.
Jennifer Gibson cursed herself. She should have run to a well lit public place with lots of people around, but she followed the lessons drilled into her by her paranoid, batshit crazy, survivalist father and went for cover. Now she was trapped at the end of a blind alley staring up at the tallest brick wall in the world.
Her father may have been insane, but he was insane on principle. The psychopath advancing on her armed with a crowbar was insanity in its rawest form. She determined not to be like the girls in horror movies who spent their last moments sobbing, screaming and begging. Jennifer stood firm and met her killers gaze as he approached. She wanted to sob and scream, but she did not.
Time to make the donuts, Ben thought as he climbed the weathered concrete steps and entered through the doors of the precinct house. The wind was up today blowing thick grey clouds over the harbor and out to sea and he turned his thick collar down once the double doors shut behind him.
The long swishy sounds of wind and traffic were replaced by staccato bursts from a dozen conversations firing from every corner of the first floor. Holidays were the worst, particularly the long weekend variety. People drank too much, acted the fool, and either got hurt or crossed a line and ended up here, in booking.
Technically it was after hours, but Tia Evita, proprietor of the Little Havana restaurant, had one more customer to serve. She prepared the meal herself after sending the kitchen and wait staff home. There were now only three people in the restaurant; Evita, the boy who sweeps up after closing time, and the Clown. She marched the plate of Arroz Con Pollo to her bizarre customer and placed it in front of him.
"It looks delicious, Tia. Like always. Thank you so much."
"Don't mention it." Tia said flatly
It was the cliché to end all clichés: little old lady with no local family or support in rent-controlled apartment tormented by the shitty building superintendent who takes advantage. For Manhattan it was a sad, all too common tale. For Ms. Berezowski it had been a living nightmare.
The club was in full swing, busy even for a Friday. The after work Wall Street types were still blowing off steam and the late crowd arrived in drips and drabs until the place was maxed out and a suitably long line for such an exclusive night spot.
Chance is fickle by her very nature. Chance will keep you out of trouble or sink you, depending. Chance can put you in exactly the right place at the right time or the wrong place at the wrong time or the right place at the wrong time or… well, you know. The kicker is that there just isn’t any way to tell at any given moment, for any given set of circumstances, what chance is going to do. Unpredictability is the essence of chance.