An Angel Of Mercy
November, 1965
The Blonde was on the train again, the third or fourth Monday in a row. Jacobs saw her at once as he entered the car. She sat alone in an aisle seat, bold and bright and watchful. A widow, maybe, with little lines of independence at the corners of her eyes. The commuters in their gray suits glanced at her in morning weariness, like spent, inadequate lovers.Earth mother. Red-hot momma. Jacobs went to an empty seat across from her. Her perfume was too strong for morning; maybe it was protective, a...
