[b]Victoria Clark - Brooklyn
4:46 PM[/b]

Vicky wiped her hand against the taxicab's filthy, dust-molested window. New York wasn't going anywhere, but she was. Sooner or later, she'd be right in the thick of these unearthly skyscrapers and the clarity of the city's skyline would be gone. She'd seen places somewhat like this before -- Chicago, New Orleans, among others -- and they were always so mesmerizing to look at from the outside. It was once you found your way into the maze and rooted yourself into its reality that the city lost its appeal. The cab driver, a black man wearing a weathered fedora, hollered back. "...Like what you see?"

"Yes, yes," was all Vicky could offer him in response during her very short break from the hypnosis. She was under a spell.

It was easy to tell, though, that New York was nothing like the others. From here, it looked like someone had smashed Chicago, Houston, and Los Angeles into pieces and meticulously put them back together into one massive, meticulous sculpture. Vicky could hardly believe that she -- and this nameless taxi driver -- was headed straight toward it. She was here because she had managed to pull strings at her sorority house after graduation and found a place with the founder's niece.

In a sense, Vicky was tremendously proud of herself, but when she allowed her thoughts to be honest with themselves, she hadn't the slightest idea of what to expect from this place. She was intelligent enough to know that the reality of New York City was masqueraded by its beauty, but she had not yet learned just how much was hiding behind its mesmerizing lights.


[b]Manhattan, 6:29 PM[/b]

415. This was the one. Vicky set down her suitcase and banged on the door. She looked around at the grimy walls of the apartment hallway and grimaced. This explained why she had managed to afford an apartment on Manhattan Island at all. The building was pretty disgusting and they sat directly above a nightclub, and she could already tell it would gruesomely subtract from her beauty sleep. Neon lights bled into the room from the window at the end of the hall.

The door barely opened and a the face of a gorgeous albeit makeup-smothered woman wearing hair-curlers poked out. "What?" 

"Are you...uh..." Vicky looked down at a piece of paper with [i]Julia, room 415[/i] scribbled onto it. "...Julia?"

The woman narrowed her eyes and further opened the door. "Uh huh...and you're Vicky?"

Vicky looked down at the floor. "That...would be me."

"Come in," Julia said. The girl, to Vicky's surprise, was in some sort of sparkly underwear and looked to be in the middle of getting ready for something. The pure splendor of it juxtaposed the apartment, which was about as ugly and decrepit as Vicky had feared.

"It's not much, but it's Manhattan. With luck, you won't be spending much time in here at all," said Julia as she winked back at Vicky. The living room, which the door entered into, was small, but had a single couch, a small television, and a large window with a neon-tinted view of the street below. Julia pointed at an open door. "That's yours."

Vicky nodded her head thankfully and said nothing else. She departed into her new room and looked around. It was empty. There was a bed, standing lamp, a desk, and literally nothing else. She tossed her suitcase onto the mattress and its steel supports clanged against its impact. She sat down and stared out her minuscule window. Vicky couldn't see jack shit out of the glass. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and rubbed against the window. Nothing. It was if the grime had encrusted onto the window. She hollered back into the living room. "I can't see the city in the dust on my window!"

Her future roommate hollered back. "Well? What do you want me to do?"

Vicky sighed and closed the door. She let her bodyweight fall onto the bed. She was so unbelievably tired that even the unopposed neon from the outside could not keep her from drifting into sleep.



[b]Jack Townley - Teddy's Diner, Manhattan
6:14 PM[/b]

"Can I get you anything else?"

Jack stared down at his salvation. A massive double-decker cheeseburger sat in front of him, flanked by a skyscraper-tall chocolate milkshake. There sat a monstrously hungry Jack and his burger -- predator and prey. He shook his head. "I have everything I need." He immediately dug into his food. A fusion of ketchup, mustard, and cheese escaped his lips and messily smeared all over his chin.

The rather cute waitress had not left. "You've got ketchup on your face."

Jack grumbled as he downed the massive mouthful of cheeseburger. He grabbed his napkin, slowly wiped off his face, and then set it back onto the table with delicate execution. He said nothing. He adored this place. He had seen the diner while on an evening stroll and purchased it in cash the next day. [i]That[/i] was the hallmark of Jack Townley's sway. This city was his playground.

"Did you see who the Times thinks is responsible for the Maldonado murder?"

"Who?"

"Jack Townley. The guy who owns this place. People will tell you he owns most of New York, actually."

Brilliant -- this woman had no idea who he was. She was trying to fuck his alter ego by making small talk about his real identity. He nearly spit out his food in response, but managed to keep a straight face and narrowed his eyes. "I doubt it."

"Why?"

"He just doesn't seem like the type."