Prudence Smith peered out into the black square of night that was the bedroom window and allowed herself one well-earned moment of respite. She wiped her bloody hands against the soiled white apron that covered her cotton dress with short, quick movements. Below lay Christopher Street in the heart of New York's Greenwich Village; hot, humid and bustling on this Saturday night in mid July. This place had been her home for all of her life, but it had become so busy, too busy in the last few years. Now it seemed like everyone in the world congregated below, either to shop in the charming bakeries and curio shops or to sip cappuccino at the crowded bistro tables. But Prudence had no time for any of that. There was too much to do and where, oh where was Stanley? Her quest for him had brought her to the window in the first place.
She and her brother had rented the downstairs apartment to Henry Desmond two months ago and everything had been just fine until last night. She had been so sure that Henry wasn't like all the others, but she had been wrong. Stanley would be mad because they would have to get rid of him and Stanley didn't like to dirty his clothes. She pursed her lips, thinking of the family reputation that they had to uphold. She and Stanley ran a respectable brownstone. They were even written up in New York Magazine once. She tried to remember when that was, but soon gave up. Besides, Stanley could have told her in a second if she ever needed the exact date. He was good at things like that.
She sighed into the night. He wasn't here. She couldn't change that. She couldn't make the smell of death seeping in from the kitchen go away either. Even Ripper, the family cat, wouldn't enter the small bedroom where the portly Mr. Desmond lay temporarily in a sort of peace, but more in pieces. She had to find a way to transport him into the large bathroom where she could work easily and privately and the blood wouldn't be that much of a problem. That's why she needed Stanley. Now.
She tried to remember exactly how they had done it the last time, each little step they had taken along the way. The experience hadn't been at all unpleasant, but she had blocked out the parts of it that reminded her of Mama. The inquiries and the men in blue who tracked across her nice clean carpet with their muddy shoes and their smelly cigarettes. She remembered them all right. Even now, two years later, the thought of how inconsiderate they had been made her furious. No respect for anyone else's property. No respect at all.
