Baltimore
April 18th, 1951
I found Mrs. Amy Hunter at the florist shop where she worked.
I was a little less-nattily dressed this time around, and instead of the sample case I had Cromwell conjure me up a battered old attaché -- still all the same gadgets, but in a dark brown, weatherbeaten bag that hung around my shoulder. I had traded in my tailored salesman's suit for a long peacoat, Merchant Marine surplus, and I had re-done my hair into a more rakish style. Instead of shirt and tie I wore a ribbed black sweater. I was going for a gritty post-war pseudo-beatnik intellectual look, the mysterious stranger with a chip on his shoulder and unrestrained libido. Add in a cocky swagger, and you have the confident young poet who any recently-married and soon-to-be-widowed young lady might find attractive.
I wasn't going to try to make her in the store, of course, I was just scouting out the territory. Amy was working the register when she wasn't arranging more bouquets, and she was doing it in the slow, tired way that showed off both her proficiency and her apathy about the whole exercise. This was no giddy schoolgirl with a heart of gold. This was a long-suffering, depressed individual who took a cynical view on life.
She was almost the polar opposite of sweet, sweet Sarah, wearing a black turtleneck and large round glasses. A cigarette hung from her lip and was replaced almost as soon as it was gone -- that made her a rebel. In 1951 women didn't smoke in public, as a rule. She wasn't pretty, but she was attractive. Long facial features, long dark straight hair, short torso and legs, a modest bust and barely perceptible hips. As I overheard her interact with the customers and her boss -- a matronly lady whose face could go from smile to scowl in microseconds -- I caught on to her sarcastic wit and her generally pessimistic outlook on life.
You might think that would be a drawback, in my line of work. But the truth is you can make a depressed woman almost as easily as an optimistic one. You just push different buttons. Cynics like Amy got just as randy as any happy housewife, they just had a different path to their horny place than the June Cleaver model. She had been recently married, and had been getting it pretty regularly. With her husband gone her hormones, so devoted to pairbonding in the early stages of the relationship, would have her thinking in that direction. The fact that she drank would certainly help, too.
I bought a short bouquet of daisies from her, flashed the smile, gave her the warm-up to the mating ritual. Not too much -- I just wanted to catch her eye at that point, burn my face into her memory (along with a jolt of a powerful attractive pheromone) and touch her hand, lightly, just once, which I managed when I took back my change. Thank you, thank you, smile, look, linger, out the door, look back, go. Stage One was complete.
I knew she didn't get off until 3:00, and it was still late morning now. Plenty of time for a cup of coffee, read the charmingly quaint 1951 newspapers, and maybe cruise for a freebie or two.
I mean, I had my List, and those were the girls I had to visit. But I wasn't restricted, on most missions, to sticking to just the List. I was actually encouraged to pursue non-entangling liaisons (agency-speak for "quickies") that would help spread the biochemical gospel in my juice to as many women as possible. Having more testosterone coursing through my system as mortal man gave me a motive, and one does like to keep one's professional skills sharp. Besides, the preliminaries are always rewarding. Pure observation of the Fifties Female added to my database of seduction techniques.
In the space of two hours in that coffee shop I spotted five women I could have pursued -- each taking more or less time to successfully seduce. They ranged from a coquettish teen who had, in my professional opinion, likely recently discovered sex in some form and was desperately eager, to the middle-aged war widow who hadn't gotten any in so long you could see the desperation on her face. I noted details of style and dress and mannerism.
Ranking my choices, I put the widow as the easiest and quickest to score. A casual glance had a paper with the want-ads spread out in front of her, various jobs circled. Unemployed -- or underemployed -- that could be helpful. She was having a single cup of coffee and plain toast, no butter. That told me she was broke and watching her weight -- she could have gotten a rasher of bacon for fifteen cents. Toast and coffee was a dime. She had a pack of Lucky Strikes by her elbow as she read.
I slid into the booth across from her and handed her the bouquet. She looked startled and confused for a moment, then suspicious -- all perfectly natural and expected emotions, under the circumstances.
"For you," I said, graciously, bowing just a hint."
"For . . . me? Who are you?" she asked, brusquely. Trace of northern accent -- New York or New Jersey, maybe both.
"I am a representative of the rest of the universe, which has directed me to bring a little sunshine into your life."
"Uh . . . why?"
"Because you deserve it," I said, as if it settled the matter. She was still confused, but she was starting to catch on to my game, a little. I could detect the seed of a smile. Women are suckers for flowers -- that's a human universal.
"And upon what, pray tell, does the rest of the universe base that?"
"Hey, I just work here," I said in mock protest. "I get the memo and the work order, I go and dispense sunshine and happiness. I don't ask why." The smile was starting to blossom. Time to strike. "Hi, I'm Jack. Jack Morrow," I said, casting her my best friendly, disarming, enchantingly attractive smile as I offered her my hand.
She returned it, despite herself, and shook my hand. "Candace," she said. "Candace Greene." She took out a Lucky and lit it, staring at me intently the whole time. "So, you trying to make me, mister?"
"Please, call me Jack. And yes, Candace, I'm trying to make you," I said seriously, a trace of laughter in my expression. And I never looked away. That would be weakness, and with this woman you needed supreme confidence. "How am I doing so far?"
She shrugged as she exhaled. "You're still sitting here," she observed. "That's better than most."
"Are you so unobtainable, then?" I asked.
"No, I'm just very, very choosy," she replied. "But it's the middle of the day, I don't want to look for a job I've got to get, and I like your smile."
"What kind of work are you looking for?" I inquired, politely.
"A rich man's mistress, but there doesn't seem to be much call for that. Secretary, probably. I can type. Clerk if I have to. Waitress, if you put a gun to my head."
"Rich man's mistress," I said, stroking my chin. "Any good at it?"
"Never tried. But I'm willing to learn. I have all the tools." She exhaled again, pursing her lips teasingly. She probably didn't even know she was doing it. "You a rich man in need of a mistress?"
"Maybe," I shrugged, taking one of her Luckys without asking. Territorial thing. I was establishing my dominance. "But if I was that rich, I'd probably look for someone beyond entry-level." That was a term that wouldn't come into wide usage for another three decades. By using it I sounded clever. I also had shoved back, a little. "Mostly I'm a humble purveyor of daisies to pretty women, and when I'm not busy with that or the numbers of my diamond mines, I'm a gentleman of leisure. I had some leisure time, and you looked like the kind of woman who both appreciated daisies and who also had some leisure time."
