It was dusk, twilight.
                    Marguerite was unfamiliar with the neighborhood, though she hadn't lost her bearings. She had lost her place of residence and her prospective job, not uncommon occurrences in these lean years.
                    And she also lost her name. Not lost it, but gave it up. When she started making the rounds of clubs, another prospective dancer suggested that she change her name. Gertrude didn't really sound the part of a showgirl. She needed something more exotic. Gertrude remembered reading in a film magazine that Greta Garbo's first name was short for Marguerite. Since the ice-queen movie star wasn't using it, Gertrude figured she would take it. It sounded thrilling. At nineteen years of age, Marguerite was born.
                    Under her long coat, Marguerite wore a light dress for the dancing auditions she had planned to have that day; the girl had a round, full body, and the dress accentuated the curves of her breasts and hips. Her auditions were all planned out in her head, and she knew that she would be hired after the first. None really happened. She just went to clubs and asked if they needed anyone. They didn't. She had no training as a dancer, but she knew she had a natural grace. On her first two days, she had made it into a couple of places on her looks alone, but the auditions were unpleasant affairs. She wasn't acquainted with any terminology connected with the job, not understanding that she should begin after the count off of four by the pianist, not knowing what he meant about a change when he got to the chorus. The manager said she had nice gams, though.
                    On the corner, Marguerite took out her pocket mirror from her purse and checked her face. Her lipstick was good, which she was thankful for, as the bright red stick was almost used up. Her blond hair was cut in a relatively short style, requiring little management of her natural curl. Her cheekbones had never needed any rouge (though she would have enjoyed the luxury), as they were strong without looking masculine and her skin tone was natural pink glow. She would have also liked to have a little something to accentuate her blue eyes. At least she had plucked her eyebrows that morning. That didn't cost anything, though she was running out of the liner she used to darken them.
                    She replaced the mirror to its home. Standing on the cement, as the thinning throng passed, Marguerite looked at the hard brick buildings, the hard shadows that fell around her and the hard people that inhabited them. It frightened her. In her mind, she envisioned a scale with her hatred of Midville, her hometown, the known, on one side and her fear of the big city, the unknown, on the other. The fear had immediacy on its side, a darker fiercer quality to it, but her hatred, built on years of existence, was more steadfast. For the time being, she thought, she preferred the unknown.
                    For a moment, in the corner of her vision, she thought she saw an odd looking figure standing at the mouth of an alleyway. She turned, and the man was gone, but Marguerite was certain he had been there, wearing a dark black overcoat and wide-brimmed hat. Her mind's eye tried to reconstruct what she had seen or thought she had seen, and realized that the man had no face, or that it had been hidden in the shadows of his hat and upturned collar. Did he have an upturned collar? she thought. That seemed unlikely, as unlikely as the other thought that struck her, the shadowed form of the man's nose, which looked far too large and much more like a bird's beak than something in the center of a person's face. The city was getting to her.
                    It was then that the limousine pulled up to the curve. Marguerite had never seen a car like that until she arrived in New York. It was long and black, with a shine that almost blinded her, as the sinking sun reflected off of it. She estimated it as twice as long as any car she had ever seen in Midville. The few passerbies' ignored the vehicle, as nothing seemed to phase these cosmopolitans. Marguerite stared at it, though. All of the windows in the rear of the vehicle were covered with curtains, and Marguerite was frozen to the spot where she stood as one of the curtains pulled back to reveal the darkness within. The window of the car rolled down.
                    A face came forward from the darkness, a man's face. He had a long nose and thin lips, but they were balanced by piercing eyes and a strong chin in a way she thought pleasing, forceful. The man's hair was black and well groomed, parted smartly in the middle and slicked down, and she could see he was wearing a very nice dark suit and silk tie. He smiled a tight smile, his mouth closed, his dark eyes looking at Marguerite. He then bared his bright, straight teeth and sucked in air before speaking.
                    "Would you care to go for a ride?" he asked.
                    Marguerite stood still for a moment, realizing that the man had taken her for a prostitute. She had been contemplating such a course a moment before, but it was merely a thought. In her fancy, she could accept the role, but now her decision held substance. She hadn't thought about it as a real possibility, an actual decision to be made. And instead of trying to consider any ramifications, she embraced her first impulsive feeling.
                    "I think that might be nice," she said. It was the man's face that had made the decision for her, she decided. In it she saw something different from the other men she had slept with, boys and men of Midville. He reminded her slightly of a somewhat younger William Powell, radiating a sense of self-assuredness and sophistication.
                    The door of the limousine opened, and she began to approach. Inside, she could see the man, whose tall figure looked well-proportioned in his suit, but Marguerite also saw another figure in the darkness next to him, a woman. The girl decided immediately that this made no difference in her decision. In fact, it heightened her excitement at the newness of the experience.
                    The man took her hand and helped her into her seat. It was leather and comfortable, sinking beneath her in a sensual manner. Marguerite sat across from the couple, as they both looked her over. The woman impressed Marguerite immediately. She had red hair, straight and in a shoulder length pageboy cut, and it contrasted with her pale skin and light-blue eyes. She was thin and taller than Marguerite, who had always considered herself average height. The woman wore a beautiful dark blue dress, wrapped snug around her body, pulling up her small breasts to emphasize cleavage and drawing tight around her thin waist. The dress was cut to her knees, and the woman had legs that look proportionately fuller than the rest of her frame, giving them a voluptuousness that would not have been there if the rest of her body wasn't so thin. Marguerite judge the woman's age to be in her early thirties; the sophistication of her relaxed pose was so adult, worldly.
                    "So," said the man, in a pleased manner, "would you care for a drink?"
                    He pulled open a compartment beside the seat and displayed an array of colored bottles of all shapes and sizes. Marguerite looked at the liquids and shook her head yes.
                    "What are you drinking tonight?" asked the woman, slightly acidly.
                    Marguerite didn't know the answer to that. She sat mute for a minute trying to recall the names of drinks she heard of in movies. She didn't want to ask for anything too low class, but she didn't want to ask for something that they obviously didn't have, either. "You must try this cognac," said the man graciously. He poured half a small glass full and handed it to her. Marguerite took the glass in both hands and sipped from it. Her face and chest felt a warm flowing from within.
                    "Like it?" laughed the woman.
                    Marguerite nodded.
                    "What is your name?" asked the man, after giving the woman a quick glance of disapproval.
                    "Marguerite." She had almost said Gertrude.
                    "That's a pretty name," said the woman, and she sounded sincere. "You can call me Cali."
                    "And I'm known as Stolas," said the man.
                    These were very odd names to Marguerite, yet she had heard of many persons in New York with names unknown to her. She took another sip from her glass.
                    "These are not our real names," said the man. "If you don't mind, we would prefer to keep those to ourselves."
                    "That's fine," said Marguerite, the warmth of the drink now reached her belly.
                    "Without intending to offend you," the man spoke slowing, as if to pick his words carefully, "we would like to interest you in a proposition."
                    As he spoke, Cali poured herself a drink.
                    Marguerite sat quietly for a minute, letting the words float in the air. She wasn't sure what his exact words meant, but she was certain she understood what he was arriving at. A pleasant chill ran through her.
                    "That's what I'm here for," she finally said. Cali eyes smiled at her over the top of her glass.
                    "Then come sit next to us," said the man who called himself Stolas, as he gestured between himself and Cali. Marguerite lifted herself and felt the subtle rush of the alcohol, then sat between the couple; their warmth encircled her.
                    "Do you like your work?" asked Cali with a strange emphasis on the word "work".
                    "I've never thought of it as work," said Marguerite honestly. She knew they thought of her as a prostitute, but she would have come with them for free, out of curiosity. She didn't say this aloud, though, as she really could use some money.
                    "Yes," continued Marguerite, "I enjoy doing it very much."
                    "Do what thou will," said Stolas, as he put his hand on Marguerite's thigh, gesturing in a devil may care attitude with his other.
                    Marguerite didn't understand what this meant at all. The word "thou" always reminded her of the Bible, but it was always "thou shalt not". Cali put her hands on Marguerite's shoulder, and the warmth from it and Stolas' hand excited her.
                    As his hand moved slowly up and down the length of her thigh, Marguerite turned and lightly kissed his lips, then turned to kiss Cali's. All of their movements felt slow and sensual to Marguerite, and the warmth spread through her body, a rising heat in the center of her body.
                    Stolas gently turned her around, and in a gesture alike to, yet so much more flowing and convincing, the band director at Midville High School trying to gently bring in the flutes without them playing too loudly, he wordlessly told Marguerite to wait, to save it.
                    Marguerite felt electricity pulsing through them, flowing between the bodies on either side of her, an expectation she believed they all felt, yet this need this to hold back, at least for the moment, which she didn't understand. She felt very luxurious, that was the word that came to her head, like a huge bathtub in a fine hotel suite, and closed her eyes and let go for a moment.
                    They sat there, together. Marguerite opened her eyes, though almost fearing to do so for some reason, and she noticed Stolas looking at Cali, as if waiting for approval.
                    "We would like you to stay with us for a few days," whispered Cali.
                    "We chose you especially," said Stolas quietly, and Marguerite thrilled to the masculine hum of his voice.
                    "Charles Fort says that we are all fished for," said Cali, and her voice sounded sympathetic, perhaps, thought Marguerite, as if she too knew what it was to be chosen. She figured this Charles fellow was a friend of the couple, but the words made her think of a fisher of men, like in Sunday school.
                    "Yes," she said at last. She was saying yes to staying with them and agreeing that we are all fished for. No one knew her in New York, and no one would care where she was. Marguerite didn't think to try to give the couple an impression that there were people waiting for her. Again she was choosing the unknown.
                    "We hope you will enjoy our experiment," said Stolas. "We are explorers and wish to take you on an adventure."
                    Not quite knowing why, Marguerite didn't quite care for the sound of that, but she pushed this idea out of her mind, and took Cali by the hand. Stolas put his hand on top of theirs. They lay back for a moment in this position. Then, with his free hand, Stolas picked up a plastic pipe leading to the front of the car and said something inaudible into it.
                    As the car drove away, a figure in black, face hidden in darkness, stood at the mouth of a nearby alleyway and paused for a moment, before disappearing into the shadows