by E. C. Diskin
The man looked around at the empty room. “Um, okay.” He grabbed a jacket from the counter and went out the back, turning back several times to look at Trip.
Trip waved. “Take your time!” When he heard the back door slam, Trip pulled out his cell, hit the speed dial, and barked instructions. “We’re good. Yeah, hold him for about twenty minutes.” He closed the phone, opened his jacket, and pulled a quart-sized zip-lock bag from his inside pocket. He placed it on the bar, put some newspapers on top, and turned to the door.
But he stopped, turned back, and stared at the newspapers. There was time. He pushed aside the papers and opened the bag for just a pinky-nail’s worth. Or two.
He was wiping his nose when he heard the front door.
“Hey, baby. I thought that was you.”
Trip turned toward the voice and tried to block the view of the bar with his body. “Oh yeah?”
Delia smiled. “Yeah. I saw that ass from a block back. I been looking for you.” She raised one stiletto up against the door and smiled.
“Is that right?” Trip turned back to the bar, re-sealed the bag, and replaced the newspapers. Now he could talk.
She moved toward him in her most deliberate strut. “Well, it’s been a while, but the last time I saw you, you were awfully kind to me.”
He remembered well. He’d caught her doing someone in a black Mercedes near the United Center last fall. It was a great score. He loved the car and the man’s pockets had been loaded with cash and blow. And, of course, Delia had been happy to offer some service while they shared a few lines.
He leaned against the bar and welcomed the visual candy.
She caressed his chest and whispered in his ear, “I thought maybe you might be looking for some fun again.”
Her voice, that breath in his ear, was hard to resist. Most of the whores were dirty and desperate, but Delia was a piece of ass. She had an innocence. Couldn’t have been more than twenty. “What are you suggesting?” He could feel the coke ramping him up. He was ready for anything.
Her hands were all over him. She continued to whisper like there was a roomful of people. “I think there’s a bathroom right back there. Come on.”
Trip looked around and checked his watch. He had twenty minutes. This shouldn’t take more than ten, he thought with a grin. He locked the front door and followed her into the bathroom.
Delia was leaning against the stall door, unbuttoning her blouse. “So, baby, what’s your pleasure tonight?”
“Well, I don’t know. This is a good start, though.”
She tried to take off his jacket, but he moved her hands away. “Well, how about this?” She knelt down and unzipped his fly.
Trip stood there, watching her, enjoying her tricks. But she pulled away and looked up at him. “Don’t finish yet, baby. Let’s both enjoy this.”
He checked his watch again. “Okay.” He pulled a condom from his pocket and gave it to her. She moved swiftly and then they were on the floor.
Delia began to moan. Trip was ready to finish.
“Hey, let’s keep this party going,” she panted.
It slowed him down. He opened his eyes and looked at her. “What do you mean?”
She offered a knowing look. “What was in the bag?”
Trip stopped moving. “What?”
“Oh, come on, baby. You know.”
He tried to hide his irritation. “No, tell me.”
She guided his hands to her breasts. “On the bar?” she hinted, squeezing his hands so he’d grab her with force. “Maybe we could take that back to your place and go have a little more fun.”
He should have known. Addicts had a way of sniffing out drugs.
He stared at her breast and rubbed her hard as he processed the suggestion.
It only took a second. “Well, I don’t know,” he offered in a tease. “That does sound fun.” He brought her leg up to his shoulder as he pushed harder.
“So, good idea?” She suddenly sounded desperate.
He kissed her leg as he rolled down her stocking and removed her spiked heel. She giggled.
“Okay, baby, but first, I need to finish.” He let go of her foot and focused as he pushed harder and harder. Delia’s eyes were closed and her mouth gaped open in pleasure.
Trip stayed inside her, motionless, as he readied himself for what was next. “Now,” he said, wrapping the stocking around her neck, “let’s see how you like this.”
Her breathing became more labored and Delia opened her eyes in confusion. Trip continued to press the hose against her neck. She stared into his face. Her expression changed to fear. She tried to push him off but his full weight was on her. Her legs kicked around wildly. She grabbed at his hands and tried to beat his arms away. She scratched at his coat. But she was no match. She couldn’t yell. She couldn’t breathe.
When it was over he leaned toward her ear and whispered, “Mind your own business.”
THREE
TEARS welled in Abby’s eyes. She crouched to the ground for stability, trying to gain control of her panic and her bladder, now begging for relief as well. Nothing, not those twenty minutes before the bar exam, not her first motion call, or even the break up with David had created such anxiety.
She felt like she was losing it. Fuck. “Deep breaths, deep breaths. Okay. Panic will do no good.” She tried to convince herself. No one was around.
She never should have left the office. Peter would never understand. She thought of his last comment as he left her office at six o’clock. “You’ve got a spare suit, right?” They both knew it meant she was to pull an all-nighter. At the time, she’d just said, “I’ll go get some coffee,” having learned long ago that when a partner asked you to do something, you did it. Of course, her inability to say no was the reason that she’d spent most of her weekend at the firm and had slept only ten hours since Friday. She could just picture his face—the disappointment, the disdain, if she admitted leaving without finishing the draft.
She looked over the stair railing at the street below. It was still raining. Maybe criminals don’t hang out in the streets when it rains, she thought.
She could not run home. It had to be at least six miles. It might as well have been sixty. She could not see anything along Lake Street from the top of the stairs. She looked north, but all she could make out were rooftops and street lights off to the right along Cicero.
She rose and leaned over the railing for a bird’s-eye view of the neighborhood. Small matchbox houses with uniformly pitched roofs lined several small streets to the west. She was desperate for a plan. She could ring the doorbell of one of those homes and ask for a phone. No. It was midnight. What if she rang some gangster’s door? She couldn’t get past her fear.
The bar was the only option. It wasn’t too far. It had a pay phone. There had to be an owner or employee—someone who could help. “Most people are good,” she assured herself.
Abby ran down the stairs and several blocks east toward the now-familiar side street for Reggie’s, noting the address so she could tell a taxi where to go. Finally, the rain stopped. Things were turning around. Up ahead, someone was leaving the bar. The light by the front door lit his frame and wavy blond hair. The man was at least a block away by the time she got to the entrance. Please be open, she thought. She pushed open the bar door, praying the old man would be gone. It had been about twenty minutes.
The bar was empty, though the lights were all on.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
No answer.
She felt like a child, not knowing if her concerns of being viciously attacked or killed were well-founded. Of almost equal concern was her fear of screwing up on the motion she needed to turn in tomorrow. She had no time for getting lost, for getting scared, for getting attacked, and this almost brought back the tears. Worse, her nervous bladder could not be ignored. She headed for the toilet sign.
Abby pushed open the door and saw two stalls. She went into the stall directly in front of her and
quickly pulled down her pants. Finally, she could breathe one sigh of relief. But there was no toilet paper. She bent down and looked under the stall to her right. She saw part of a high heel and sat up.
“Hello?” she asked. “I’m sorry, I have no toilet paper. Would you mind?”
No one responded.
“Hello?” She bent down again and saw part of a woman’s leg. “Are you okay?”
The foot didn’t move. In fact, it looked kind of odd.
She quickly dressed, flushed, grabbed her bags, and knocked on the stall next to her. The door bounced against her hand as she touched it. It was unlocked.
“Miss?” She pulled the door toward her.
A woman was slumped on the toilet with her head down, like she was unconscious. She had on only one stocking—fishnet.
“Can you hear me?” Maybe she’d overdosed. Abby crouched to the floor and looked up into the woman’s face. Her eyes were wide open. Abby gasped. The woman did not blink. She was frozen. And there was a purplish, bruise-like mark on her neck.
“Oh my God.” Abby fell back, scrambling to get up.
“Oh God, oh God,” she repeated, backing out of the stall.
She looked around for someone to help, someone to take charge of the situation.
She ran out of the bathroom, threw her things on the bar, and went around behind it to find a phone and call the police. It was a mess. Open bottles, dirty glasses, full ashtrays, newspapers, dish towels. She didn’t see a phone anywhere. She tossed the dish towels and papers and shoved some glasses aside in her search. Finally, she saw an old rotary-style phone.
She picked up the receiver and noticed a large zip-lock bag filled with white powder sitting right there on the bar. What the hell? Something else to mention to the police, she figured.
She dialed “9” and waited for the dial to uncoil itself. The front door flew open, slamming into the wall. Abby jumped.
Several men entered the room. They looked at her and then each other. Abby was speechless. Were these the same guys from the train? She saw the same gold chains and oversized clothes, though she assumed this was the uniform of the streets, of thugs everywhere.
The short one walked toward her with a swagger and a smile. “Hey, pretty lady. You don’t look like Leon.”
Others followed. “She a lot prettier than Leon,” said one.
“Got that right,” said another.
There were seven of them. Five got comfortable on the stools in front of her. The other two hung back by the door. They were all in good spirits, smiling, looking ready for fun. Or something.
The receiver was still in her hand, but she could not look down at the numbers. She dropped it and moved out from behind the bar.
“Oh, hi guys. Help yourself, I have to get going.” She grabbed her purse and briefcase. The leader put his hands on her bag.
Abby stared at the man and faked confident irritation. “I have to leave.” She pulled her bags away and went toward the door.
The two men by the door stepped into her path, blocking the entrance. She tried to push her way through. One grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms and lifting her off the ground while the other one ripped her bags from her grip. Abby screamed but the man immediately covered her mouth. He was only about five foot nine, but solid, and he laughed at her struggle. The other one went to the bar and began going through her purse.
The door opened. A huge man, as black as night, maybe six foot four, built like a bouncer, entered and surveyed the situation with authority. He wore a black leather coat and a giant gold chain with a cross medallion. A thick, pink scar made a jagged line from his right temple to his cheekbone. He looked past Abby, like her being held captive was nothing, and addressed the short man at the bar. “D, what’s this?”
“Hey, bro’! Just having a little fun.” Like a kid busted for bullying on the playground, the short man then motioned to Abby’s captor, who suddenly released her. Abby grabbed the briefcase by her feet, pushed past the giant man, flung herself through the front door, and practically fell onto the concrete sidewalk. She regained her balance and ran.
Once on Lake Street, Abby turned back to the bar. The giant man was leaving and heading her way. She turned east toward the Loop and kept running.
Sirens wailed in the distance. There were huge warehouses ahead and still no signs of life. She was heading straight into darkness. She did not know what else to do. If she turned away from the train tracks she would lose her sense of direction and at least now, running under the tracks, she had her bearings. She passed a few solitary people, mostly men and a few women who looked like hookers or crackheads, or both.
After several blocks, she slowed to a walk to catch her breath, wiped down her fogged glasses, and looked back again. A figure about a block back was coming toward her. Within another second, she could see that he was running. She started to run again.
A convenience store appeared up ahead on the corner. She wasn’t sure what street she was coming up to now, but it looked like a pretty big intersection. The store was open. She sprinted—as well as she could in her heels—and ignored a red light to run across the street. A passing car screeched its breaks and honked. Abby grabbed the door handle and looked back again. The man was about one block behind, waiting for a car to go by in order to cross the street. The door bells chimed wildly as she yanked the door open with force and ran into the store.
Abby turned to the attendant at the counter, breathless. “Please help me. There’s a man chasing me.”
The man dropped his book. “Come with me.”
He came around the counter and guided Abby to the back storage room. His reaction was immediate, as if he dealt with this kind of situation often. Once in the back, he took her by the shoulders and pushed her up against the wall, where she stood sandwiched between a storage shelf and some boxes. It was dark. He looked her in the eyes and put his finger to his lips, suggesting silence. He left and shut the door behind him. Abby sank immediately to a crouched position and hugged her briefcase. Like a video, images raced through her mind—that woman’s dead face, the drugs, the men, her purse. It felt like ten minutes before anyone came back. It was probably three.
The door opened and Abby held her breath as light poured into the dark storage room.
“Hey.” It was the clerk. He looked calm. “He’s gone.”
Abby exhaled. “What did he look like?”
The clerk offered his hand to help her up. “Black guy, black leather coat, giant gold cross, big scar on his face. He looked around, bought some cigarettes and left. He’s having a smoke on the corner.”
Abby tried to explain. The tears were coming, though she wiped them quickly, trying to maintain composure. It was hard to make sense. “I can’t believe this is happening to me. I got on the wrong train. There was this guy, and these thugs, and then my cell phone died, and they grabbed me and stole my purse.” She couldn’t even say “dead body.” She could barely speak. “I need to get home,” she whispered. She couldn’t look at the clerk, embarrassed by tears that kept escaping.
“Hey, hey, calm down.” His English was good, with a hint of British influence, but his accent told Abby that he was from somewhere far away. “It’s okay. I’ll help you. I know this neighborhood can be scary. I spent the first two years here looking over my shoulder every five minutes. And you, well, I can see why a woman like you would be nervous around here. You’re quite the spectacle.”
Abby did not know whether he was trying to be funny, but she looked up at his face and they both smiled. He put her at ease.
“It’s okay. I’ll get you home. Where do you live?”
“Wrigleyville.”
“By Wrigley Field? You are far from home. We can’t call you a cab—they won’t come to this neighborhood at this hour. I live upstairs with my friend. I’ll have him come watch the store while I give you a ride.”
Abby hesitated. It was a generous offer, but she had never considered getting in a car with a com
plete stranger.
She looked at him and tried to read his face. She had spent all last summer working on these skills during her first jury trial. She sensed earnestness, maybe a hint of insecurity, a reserved quality. But he was a stranger.
He obviously sensed her concern. “Listen, it’s not every day I meet a beautiful damsel in distress—besides, I’d be happy to get out of here for a while.”
She took the “beautiful” comment as a way to be kind, since there was no way she looked beautiful right now. She could just imagine the mascara smeared all over her face.
She looked into his eyes. Dark, long lashes. Something about his expression was calming. “I need to call the police.”
“Can you describe who stole your purse?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.” She began thinking about what she needed to tell police—the dead body, the drugs, those guys. It could take a while. It could cause a scene. She just wanted to get home. For months, being at home had done nothing but depress her, but right now, she wanted to be there more than anything, to be safely behind her front gate, her locked door, her security system. She would talk to police in her own neighborhood. It was now twelve forty-five. She looked at him again, at his genuine concern.
“I guess I’ll take that ride. I can figure this all out at home.” He had just saved her life, after all. Abby wiped her face.
“What’s your name, anyway?” the clerk asked, putting on his coat.
“Abigail.”
“I’m Ali,” he said, leading her out a back door that went to the alley. “Come on.” He locked the store and pulled a brick from the side of the building. The mortar had fallen away and the brick was chipped away at the back. He slipped the key into the crevasse and replaced the brick.
“Quite a security system, right?” he offered with a smile. “My friend will be right down.”
She tried to make conversation as he opened the door to his car, parked by the exit. “So, ‘Ali,’ as in ‘Muhammad Ali’?” What a stupid comment, she immediately thought.
“Well, I’m no boxer,” he laughed. “It’s Ali Rashid.”
