Chi-Town Blues

by D. J. Herda

  Cartel grabbed Lombardi's arm. "Oh, and Captain? Make sure you head right back to the station with her, you hear? No side trips to the coffee shop. We don't want any misuse of official department resources."

  Lombardi glared. "You. You'd better watch your step, Cartel. You could still end up pounding a beat."

  Cartel smiled. "Might not be so bad. I could use the exercise."

  As the cop turned away, the old lady stopped and peered back over her shoulder. "But what about my two girls? What about Mrs. Fougherty? I have to bring for them the dinner. I have to ..."

  "Don't worry," Cartel said. "I'll make sure they're looked after."

  "Until I come back?"

  He smiled. "Until you come back."

  "Can I call them? Can I talk to them? They will worry about Velchenka." A tear formed in her eye.

  Cartel shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Mrs. Rasci. At least not for some time. But I'll tell you what. I'll call them. I'll call them for you. And I'll come to see them from time to time, too, just to make sure everything is all right. And I'll pass along any information you want."

  She turned and reached out her hands, placed them—two dainty, wrinkled, fading white lilies—inside his. "I like you, Mr. Cartel, darlink. You are such a gentleman. And so smart."

  Cartel smiled and held her hands for several moments before finally releasing them. As she turned to accompany the uniform down the steps, she stopped to look up at Lombardi, a frown suddenly creasing her face.

  "You? You, I don't like!"

  FIVE: The Union

  TO THOSE WHO GO THERE, it's the Union, and its hallowed halls have stood forever. It was there before Bronco Nagurski. It was there before George Halas. In fact, it was there before football, for Chrissake. Some undergrads insist its foundations run back to He, Himself, the Creator of A.T.F. (All Things Football). And that He, too, had once been a tackle majoring in history at the University of Illinois-Chicago.

  Scarier, still, some people believe He’s still there. Which, if you ask me, is a damned long time to spend in pursuit of a basic B.A. Still, it is not impossible for me to believe. After all, He can do anything, if I am to accept the approximately 647 thousand hours of religious training crammed into my skull by the good nuns of St. Simon and pushed through my brain until the excess seeps out of my ears like processed pork out of the business end of a grinder. So why wouldn’t He attend UIC? Sit in the Union, sucking on a Carling's Black Label? Or anything else He wants to do? You don’t believe me, ask Sister Francine.

  So I, too, sit in the Union, thinking of things to write. Although at the moment, I find myself seriously distracted by a white-bloused, yellow-skirted honey of a woman of obvious Norwegian ancestry. Her hair is the color of yellow birch, gathered at the base of the neck, flowing down the shoulders, and spilling down to the small of the back. Her eyes are pure azure—the hue of the Scandinavian seas in the summer. What else would they be? Her lips are berries growing wild by the hillsides overlooking the sea and discovered by accident, stumbled upon, plucked, and devoured wantonly.

  But it is those azure eyes that I find fascinating as they watch me while I write, search me for the answer to some unknown, long-lost question, search long and hard above a small, straight nose and gently parted lips. Yet, it’s not the azure eyes nor is it the rosebud-and-cream complexion that distracts me most nor her legs, which swell into long, full thighs, opening and closing like the gently parting lips of a giant gaping clam, at once peaceful and inviting and then monstrous and foreboding. Nor is it, as incongruous as it may sound, her two mountainous breasts which she thrusts suddenly toward me by leaning back into her wood-spindled librarians’ chair and running her hands through thoughtfully disheveled mounds of thick, billowy hair.

  None of these things distract me from my writing as I watch her watching me but, instead, her fingers. Or, to be more precise, her finger. One finger. The finger. That finger. Long and thin, nicely shaped, perfect for her stature. And, most importantly of all, free from such oft-encountered encumbrances as pear cuts, teardrops, marquise, and other such appropriately named slices of glass. I find myself wondering how so perfectly formed a creature as this cannot be married. Nor engaged. Nor, at the very least, indulged. I mean, is there a God in heaven or isn't there? And, if so, why has He created no world-renowned heart surgeon, no semi-infamous criminal lawyer, no bank trustee, corporate vice-president, Mafioso chieftain, or university humanities-department chairman who has noticed this golden treasure, this full-blown woman who makes all others pale before her? Not only noticed her but also betrothed to her his everlasting loyalty? His fortune? A lousy villa in Cannes, for Chrissake?

  She closes the book in her lap and says a few silent words to a pale and fragile brownette seated across the table from her, drinking beer. I wonder briefly about both women, neither of whom looks studious enough to be enrolled in the university. And then I dismiss the thought, assuming that maybe they met there simply for a quick brew and the stimulating atmosphere. Glancing around the Rathskeller, I see the goddess say in tones growing increasingly louder for my benefit that she is tempted to grab an hour that afternoon and spend it dangling her feet in the bubbling cool waters of the Memorial Fountain.

  Before I have time to comprehend what that means, she rises like the Phoenix from the ashes, turns her magnificent profile toward me, and disappears behind a mammoth frieze-adorned pillar before she reappears from behind another, disappears, reappears, and finally disappears again for good no matter how hard my 20-30 eyes strain to discern otherwise.

  I look down at the blank piece of paper on the table and look up to where the image had been, her aura lingering for a second like the mist over Lake Michigan, and I mutter to myself, Oh, shit. You've done it again. Blown the goddam chance of a lifetime.

  My eyes scan the perimeter, furtively seeking a replacement goddess on whom to feast, someone for me to worship from afar. Beyond the Gothic glass panes, my vision falls upon a braless redhead on the patio. She is dressed in shorts and a gauze top, her sudden movements sending delightful ripples across her blouse, stern tracings of erect nipples made firmer, still, by the filmy material and highlighted by the playful light beyond. Still, she is no goddess.

  Back inside, my vision strays toward the very darkest abyss of the room, its cavernous bowels where a thin young girl with no chin and mousey-brown hair leans forward, exposing a portion of one very small breast and none of the other, which I suppose is equally small. Her eyes catch mine. She looks surprised, appalled. Could any man tall, slim, and athletic find her appealing? She glances to the side and back, a peculiar Who Me? look in her eyes, before leaning even farther forward and exposing even more of her to my lean and hungry gaze. By rights, I should be ecstatic. Thank you, oh, Lord, for sending me this golden opportunity. You are, indeed, all-loving, all-understanding, all-caring. But in place of ecstasy, I feel disappointment.

  Slowly I maneuver a mechanical pencil across the page, forming very carefully, very methodically, the letters, s-h-i-t. I stab the page, breaking the point on the pencil and drawing condescending glances from a million pairs of glowering, beady eyes unsympathetic with my plight and ready to burn me, via some communal telepathic process, to a lifeless, dreamless, spermless cinder.

  Not this time, I tell myself. Not again. I will not lose her. I cannot lose her! I stuff the paper and my mechanical pencil into a brown case and burrow my way toward the exit, bumping students with full food trays and empty beer pitchers (“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, so sorry, excuse me, please”). I muscle my way to my destiny to where I expect to see my golden-trussed goddess dangling her shoeless feet—dainty, I'm sure—in the cool, bubbling water. I can picture her clearly. She has shed her clothes—for she's just that spontaneous a Child of Nature—and her creamy white breasts spill their 38 glorious inches out and across her chest. As she laughs, they shake gently, firmly, her large, taut nipples swelling in eager anticipation even as I imagine coming upon her.

  "Pardon me
," I picture myself saying, "but I couldn't help but notice you in the Union."

  She looks up at me quizzically, the slightest hint of a smile dancing in the deep blue pools of her eyes.

  "You are without a doubt the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” I continue, “and I would very much like to make love to you."

  It is my fantasy, but it turns out to be short-lived.

  "Watch out, for Chrissake," a gravelly voice growls as I swing the heavy wood-and-glass door of the Union open as if made of cardboard. "What the hell's a-matter with you, anyway?"

  "Sorry," I respond blankly, reality finally settling back in. "Really. I'm sorry." I bend over, making a gesture to help pick up his books before the fantasy returns, and instead I dart past him in my search for my golden goddess.

  "Crazy Goddam son-of-a-bitch!" the voice calls after me. But I am already vaulting down the steps, rushing toward the street, dashing like a crazed halfback through an opening between a Toyota and a Volkswagen. Suddenly, I slow to a walk. It will not do to appear too anxious. I have lost the battle with more than one foe by falling into that trap before—by appearing too anxious, too flustered, too anxious—or did I already say that? Regardless, I will be sure not to visit that bottomless pit again soon.

  As I approach the memorial pool, my eyes dart from one person to the next, settling for a moment on an overweight sausage of a woman stuffed obscenely into an orange-and-green bikini and sunning herself at the edge of the water. To a young toddler splashing bare-assed in the shallows while his mother chats on her phone. To a pair of young lovers wrapped oblivious in each other's arms. But nowhere do I see my dream woman, my mystery goddess, my fantasy of fertility. Not shoeless. Not clothesless. Not topless. Not at all!

  "I might have guessed," a voice behind me says.

  I whirl around and stop, frozen, an ignitable stone on a bed of hot lava. Somewhere, there is a God.

  “What?

  "I said I might have guessed ... you know, that you’re a writer. I was watching you in the Rathskeller."

  "Oh, yeah. Yeah?"

  “You are, aren’t you? I mean a writer?”

  I glance at her neck, at a slim strand of gold running down to the top of her cleavage and then back up over her shoulder. I follow my eyes farther up to her cheek, which bears the golden glow of ripe nectarines in late summer. She wears no makeup, and yet her complexion is flawless. I long to reach out, to stroke her skin just to see if it's real, if it feels warm or cool or what. But I don't dare. I tremble at the very thought, struggling to control my fears, my anxieties, my curiosity, my lust.

  "What makes you say that?" I ask at last.

  "I saw you looking around the room and then writing something down. You know, watching the people around you. Just like a writer would do. Besides, you just seem the type. Strong, silent, masculine."

  "Really." Damn! All this, and she’s brilliant, too.

  "Sure," she says. "In fact, you remind me of someone. Someone I used to know. Someone ... kinda special."

  "Oh?" I respond cavalierly. "Another writer?"

  "Actually, he was a plumber."

  I crane my head and squint. Did she say, It was in summer?

  “I’m sorry. What was that, again?"

  "I said he was a plumber." She giggles coquettishly. "Oh, don't get me wrong. He was a wonderful person. Strong, silent, very macho ... kind of like you. A real man of the world, you know? Sort of an ... intellectual."

  She reaches out suddenly and touches me on the arm, her hand delicately poised just above my elbow. I can hear my heart beating, feel the warm tenderness of her lips against mine. My God, could this be it? Is she actually touching me? Is this the moment? Is it all up to me now? Am I supposed to make the next move? Reach out suddenly and sweep her body tightly up against mine, feel the warm, full firmness of her breasts against my chest, her thighs against my thighs, her soul against my soul?

  "In fact," she continues, "I was in love with him."

  "Oh, really?" I reply, gulping hard. My arm where she clutches me begins to tingle.

  "Really," she says. "We went together last summer for more than three months. It was fantastic."

  "Fantastic," I reply. Great. I remind her of someone she finds fantastic. Any more good news in store for me today? "But,” I continue, “you're not...I mean, you and he ... Are you ...”

  "Still seeing each other? No." She removes her hand and giggles once more. "We broke up last fall."

  I wonder briefly about a woman who finds such things amusing.

  "How come?" I ask, not realizing the words are mine.

  She shrugs. "I don't know. I guess he just wasn't ... concerned enough about me, you know? He didn't really care about satisfying my needs."

  I gulp hard as she smiles at me again, her eyes searching mine for the road to eternal happiness. Here I am, my heart screams out. Right here. Right in front of you. I have the key to the lock. And I'm willing to give it to you. Free. No strings attached.

  "I once wanted to be a plumber," I lie.

  "No," she says.

  "Sure. I really considered it for a long time once. In my younger days. You know, when I was a kid.”

  Christ, that does it. See the beautiful young maiden pack up her bags and move to another continent. Watch the gorgeous princess vanish in a puff of smoke, leaving an old warty frog in her place. Witness the transformation of 112 pounds of sultry sex-goddess into a pillar of icy salt. Why the hell do I do it? How do I do it? How do I manage to keep saying such stupid things? How could I make it through twenty-five years of life, twenty six, practically, without ever having learned to talk intelligently?

  "That's super," she says.

  Super? The woman is a student in college and still says super? And I’m worried about how I talk? I suddenly realize there may be hope for me yet.

  Her eyes glaze over slightly, and her head tips to one side as she stares deeply into me. This, I realize, just may be the real thing. I imagine myself being a rich and famous writer one day, attending parties like Truman Capote, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda, or even someone still alive, maybe someone like J. K. Rowling for God’s sake, I don’t know. And I waltz into the room with this vision of loveliness on my arm as all voices stop, all eyes turn to us. Every woman there instinctively hates her, and every man there wants to fuck her. But she only has eyes for me. Me! That, I realize, is the answer to a lifetime of prayers.

  "It's amazing how you remind me of Fritz."

  "The cat? I remind you of a cat?"

  "No, silly. You know. My old boyfriend."

  "Oh, the plumber."

  She nods. "I'll bet you're every bit as virile as he was. A real man's man."

  I think she already said that, but what the hell. "Well," I say, feeling the blood rush into my cheeks again, "I don't like to brag, but I have been told that, you know, well ... that I’m pretty much on the overtly virile side."

  "Like Hemingway.”

  I shrug. “Sure. Okay.”

  “I'll just bet you have lots of women friends, too."

  "Me? Oh, sure," I lie. "Plenty of them. Too many, actually. Sometimes I wonder just why the hell I can't be satisfied with, oh, say, forty or fifty.” I wait for her to laugh. And wait. And wait some more. And the meaning of the word, awkward, pops glaringly into mind.

  "Really!" Her eyes nearly burst as she contemplates the complexity of the concept.

  Yes! Jesus Christ, I scream to myself, the kid comes through at last. High fives all around the table! Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. Wittiness doth finally prevail.

  I shrug coyly.

  “I knew it,” she says. “I had you pegged for a ladies' man the moment I saw you."

  Keep it up, Lord, and I'll do anything you ask. I'll go to church on Sunday. I'll go to church on Tuesday. Hell, I’ll build a church on Tuesday, if that’s what it takes. Just say the word.

  "Well," I say, "I don't like to brag ...” Which, of course, is only
marginally stretching the truth.

  She laughs suddenly, bending low and sending her hair cascading down in front of her. Slowly, she straightens her back, pulling her mane up again, giving me a spectacular view of the canyon in slow motion. Suddenly I understand what it was that kept our forefathers plodding steadily west. The spirit of the Great Rocky Mountains. Adventure and discovery around every bend. I feel my mouth getting dry, my tongue sticking to the back of my teeth.

  "Just like Fritz," she says finally, and then she stops laughing as she draws herself very, very close to me. My palms drip with anticipation. I can smell her perfume. Not the cheap, bottled, dime-store stuff. This is the real thing, the delicate bouquet of a beautiful woman. That singular, indescribable sweetness that comes from deep within. And I am ready. All my dreams, all my hopes, my anticipations, my desires, my goals in life are about to be fulfilled. With her at my side, walking hand-in-hand through life, how could I miss?

  "You want to know something?" she asks, her voice so soft, the words slipping from her mouth so gently that I can barely see the movement of her thick, inviting lips. "Something I've never told a single solitary soul before? The real reason Fritz and I broke up?"

  I gulp loudly, realizing for the first time that I have never seen lips that full and inviting before in my life. I gulp again at the thought, hoping she can't hear. I attempt to reply, but only a soft, sickly, rasping sound comes out.

  "Well," she continues, the words barely audible against the bubbling of the nearby fountain. "The real reason was ... a social disease."

  My addled mind balks. What was that? What was it she said? Did she say, I mostly eat peas? I frown, look into her eyes long and hard, before finally realizing what words she had actually uttered. But what did she mean, a social disease? Did she mean she had trouble relating to others? Did she have difficulty getting along in large groups? Appearing in public? Is that it? Is that what she means?

  I feel instinctively that I should not under any circumstances ask my next question, but nonetheless I hear the words squeak out of trembling lips: “What kind of social disease?”