The Great White Way

I lit a cigarette and watched the rain slick the pavement, turning the crosswalk into a smeared ghost of itself. The Great White Way, they called it. Not this stretch of cracked asphalt, but the one uptown—where dreams got made, or more often, got swallowed whole.

I knew a thing or two about getting swallowed.

She walked this way once. Heels clicking on the white paint. A little too fast. A little too nervous. Said she had a job on Broadway, but her voice wobbled when she said it. Some men don’t know how to spot a lie. I do.

Now she was gone, and all I had was this damn street. The crosswalk stretched in front of me, a pale beast rising from the pavement—scratched, scarred, worn deep. A great white leviathan, waiting to drag another poor soul under.

I’d chased one of those before—figuratively, anyway. A case I should’ve let go. But a man needs something to pursue, even if it eats him alive. Mine had been a woman with a name too perfect to be real, eyes like deep water, and a past stitched with bad luck and worse choices. I told myself I could save her. She told me she didn’t need saving.

Thing about chasing a white whale? You don’t realize you’re drowning until it’s too late.

A horn blared. I stepped back onto the curb, flicked my cigarette into the gutter. Broadway was a long way from here, but the streets had a way of pulling you back. I turned my collar up against the wind.

I still had questions. And the whale was still out there.