The Last Night Out

by Catherine O'Connell

  ‘You’ve got to stop beating yourself up,’ I said, raising a cup of soothing tea to my lips. My hand trembled ever so slightly as I put the cup back in the saucer. ‘How about me? I was with her in the bar that night.’

  Kelly followed my nervous hand, and then looked me in the face. She studied me in a way that made me feel as transparent as her welkin-blue eyes. Were they seeing through me? Could they read my own distress?

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she demanded, shifting the thrust of the meeting. Suddenly she was the take-no-prisoners girl I knew in high school. The one who would take charge of a problem and solve it. A math equation. A sick mother.

  ‘Me? Nothing. What are you talking about? I thought we were here to talk about your problems.’ I picked up a cucumber sandwich. Though my appetite was non-existent, I took a large bite to avoid having to speak.

  ‘There is something wrong, I can tell. C’mon, Trueheart, I’ve only known you for, like, a hundred years. What is it?’ My silence only made her probe deeper. ‘Are you having second thoughts about your wedding?’

  I swallowed the bit of sandwich. I wanted to say absolutely not, that Flynn was the center of my universe, and I couldn’t wait to become his wife in exactly one week and one day. That’s what I wanted to say. Instead, I found myself back in the confessional. ‘I cheated on Flynn.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘It’s true.’ Pushing through my humiliation, I told the story of meeting the carpenter in The Overhang. Of bringing him into my house and into my bed. Of my fears of being pregnant. Kelly let out a low whistle.

  ‘Whoa. Maybe you’re the one who should be in a program.’

  ‘I don’t need to hear that right now,’ I said defensively.

  ‘OK, sorry. But you know something. When we were at Carol Anne’s the other night, aside from my suspicions about Angie, I got the feeling you weren’t really all that excited about getting married.’

  ‘Of course I’m excited about getting married. Flynn’s the greatest guy on earth. I’m sure everyone has some second thoughts.’ I wondered if my argument was to convince myself as well as Kelly. ‘It was a stupid drunken fling. That’s all.’

  ‘And if you’re pregnant?’

  ‘God forbid. I’ll know soon enough. I’m blocking it until then.’

  ‘And what if you are pregnant?’ she repeated.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go to New Hampshire and look the guy up,’ I joked half-heartedly. ‘I could get one of those really ugly red-and-black lumberjack coats and we could raise sheep.’

  The pale eyes widened. ‘Did you say New Hampshire?’

  ‘Yah. The guy was from New Hampshire.’

  Kelly put her teacup down so forcefully, she nearly broke the saucer. She leaned her narrow body close to me. ‘Please don’t tell me he was driving a truck. A white GMC pickup truck.’

  I spun through blurred images of him squeezing his enormous white truck in between two cars in front of my building. A hugely unsettling feeling swept over me. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Holy shit,’ said Kelly. ‘That same truck was parked on Carol Anne’s street last Friday night when I was leaving. I noticed it because the New Hampshire plates caught my attention, the slogan, Live Free or Die. What the hell was he doing there?’

  This newfound information wasn’t sitting well with me, but I had to nip Kelly in the bud before her enthusiasm led to my disaster. ‘Stop it. That’s crazy. There’s no way he was outside Carol Anne’s. It’s got to be a coincidence. There are probably thousands of white trucks in this world?’

  ‘With New Hampshire plates? In the state of Illinois right now? There can’t be that many. In fact, I’ll bet you there’s only one. My creep detector is telling me there’s something weird about this. Maggie, what if he was stalking Angie and had something to do with her death?’

  ‘Stop again. You know he couldn’t have killed Angie. He was with me when she was killed.’

  Kelly had the audacity to roll her eyes. ‘Are you sure about that? You admit you passed out.’ Undeterred, she continued her tormenting train of thought. ‘There’s no good reason for this guy to be in Kenilworth and then end up in The Overhang. We’ve got to tell Mutt and Jeff about this.’

  ‘You mean the cops? Kelly, don’t even go there. We don’t know that was his truck in Kenilworth. And you know what telling this to the cops could mean for me.’ I recalled my conversation with Albert Evans after the funeral, insisting he tell the police about seeing Angie in The Zone. Great. Now, I was a hypocrite as well as a liar and a cheat. But the stakes were too high for me to be anything other. ‘And if you’re my friend you won’t even think about talking to them.’

  ‘But what if this guy left while you were passed out and killed Angie?’ she whined.

  ‘And then came back to my apartment and got back into bed without waking me. I don’t think so.’

  Kelly was not to be put off. ‘What if he’s some kind of kinky serial killer? What if he comes back for you? If anything happened to you and I knew all about this weirdo, then I’d never ever friggin’ forgive myself. Think about that.’

  ‘And how about if you ruin my life? Please, Kelly, promise me you won’t say a word to the police,’ I begged.

  ‘Shit,’ said Kelly, catching the pain in my tortured face. ‘OK, I promise. But I sure don’t like it one bit. And you gotta swear to me, if you see that guy anywhere again, on the street, in a store, in church, you’ll friggin’ go to the police.’

  What do they say about no good deed going unpunished? My effort to help Kelly had turned on me, and now I had to worry about her on top of everything else. Not to mention the other worry that had just been added to my laundry list. That being, if it was Steven Kaufman on Carol Anne’s street, what in hell was he doing there? There was no logical answer to that question.

  ‘I promise,’ I said.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Flynn and I were at the Acorn on Oak listening to a fiftyish patron sing an off-key rendition of ‘Loverly’, while the accommodating piano player did his best to earn a good tip. The Acorn was right out of the fifties, a dimly lit room with upholstered chairs on heavy wheels, camp without trying to be. Flynn called it the perfect sneak joint.

  ‘So what did you think of the movie?’ he asked. We had just seen Big at Water Tower Place.

  ‘I liked it OK,’ I answered, ‘though I thought it would be funnier.’ After leaving the Mayfair, I had been so agitated I toyed with cancelling our standing Friday night date, but then decided it was unfair to Flynn. Besides it was time for me to start inhabiting my regular world again. Big had been my choice. I figured it would be safe, nothing controversial, no sex, some laughs. And it had filled the bill, a mindless respite from everything that was haunting me, work, wedding, infidelity and pregnancy, in ascending order. For a blessed couple of hours the antics of Tom Hanks as a 13-year-old boy who steps into the shoes of a grown man dominated my universe. It was the perfect escape. Clever. Funny. Brainless.

  I actually walked out of the theatre in a good mood.

  Until I saw the promotional poster in the lobby where a guilty-looking Tom Hanks ponders the words: HAVE YOU EVER HAD A REALLY BIG SECRET. It was hard not to shudder.

  ‘Yeah, I thought it would be funnier too,’ Flynn was saying. ‘Maybe we should have seen Crocodile Dundee II.’

  ‘Spare me sequels. So how was your week?’ I was working to produce innocuous conversation in an attempt to stop being the horrible company I’d been of late.

  ‘It was actually pretty productive despite …’ His voice tapered off. I knew he meant to say despite missing a day, but he let it go. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I’m chugging along. If I don’t hang myself this week, I guess I never will.’

  He took a sip of beer. ‘Anything new on Angie?’

  ‘Nada,’ I said, my thoughts circling round the white truck on Carol Anne’s street. After all, what were the odds of two white trucks with New Hampshire plates being anywhere i
n Chicago on the same night? Had to be less than one in a million, and there were what, like three million people in Chicago. Not counting the suburbs.

  I realized he was talking again. ‘I just can’t believe the police aren’t doing anything more about it. What a bunch of Keystone Cops.’

  To my immense relief, Flynn spotted a couple he knew and they stopped at the table to say hello. He asked them if they wanted to join us, and they did, thankfully, sparing me any more awkward conversation.

  In the taxi on the way home, Flynn asked me if he should come up.

  ‘Probably not, Flynn. You know Natasha’s having that stupid shower for me tomorrow, and I’ll have to get an early start. Thank God this is the last one.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘It would probably be too tempting. I don’t want to break our vow.’ With that he wrapped a possessive arm around me and pulled me close. He kissed me deeply, and I felt myself give way in his arms. It felt almost right again. Maybe things were going to be OK, I thought. Just maybe they would be OK.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Vince

  Vince was silhouetted in Suzanne’s dining room window watching the city unfold below him, hundreds of individual dramas playing out behind hundreds of yellow squares of light. A mother rocked her baby, an elderly woman warmed milk in a pan, a couple entertained at a dinner party, a young man took something from the refrigerator, probably a beer, and returned to his living room to watch an enormous television. If the beer drinker were to look up, what would he think of the man in near darkness, holding a wineglass and peering down on him? Vince’s gaze pivoted to Lake Shore Drive. The line of cars crawled in the Friday night traffic, their white headlights a stark contrast to the yellow streetlamps, the dark void of Lake Michigan stretching lonely and black to the other side of the slow-moving parade.

  He took a sip of wine and noted the finish, how the taste lingered in his mouth. Just like Suzanne. The taste of her lingered long after they were apart.

  He turned from the window and looked at her sitting at the table, her blonde hair glowing gold in the candlelight. She’d hardly spoken a word at dinner and only eaten a few bites of the filet he’d picked up at Gibson’s. Her moodiness since her friend’s death had gotten worse. Admittedly, she had suffered a loss, but he was having trouble understanding her behavior. He walked over and emptied the last of the ’61 Latour into her glass. The wine was ridiculously expensive, but when it came to satisfying Suzanne, no price was too high. He held the empty bottle out and looked at the label.

  ‘Sixty-one was a good year,’ he said.

  ‘It was. My brother was born that year.’

  Vince wanted to throw the bottle through the window, wishing he’d bought the ’82 instead. He wanted to say something, but he was fairly certain he wasn’t supposed to know she’d had a brother. Instead, he placed the empty bottle on the sideboard and walked behind her to rub her shoulders. The feel of her flesh beneath his fingertips awed him. She was feminine and soft and muscular and firm at the same time. She was contradiction and harmony. Cool and hot. Reserved and passionate.

  ‘Your brother?’

  She stood abruptly, breaking away from him, and went to the window. Her reflection in the glass was haunted and severe. ‘Yes, my brother. I never told you this, but I had a younger brother. He was killed in a car accident. It was a long time ago, right after I got my job.’

  She stopped to take a sip of wine, her eyes peering out across the lake.

  ‘He was run off Sheridan Road by a drunk and hit a tree. There was this man who saw the whole thing and pulled over to help. Johnny wasn’t wearing a seat belt and had been thrown from the car. His neck was broken. The man waited with my brother until the ambulance came. Johnny died on the way to the hospital.

  ‘And as much as I appreciate that man for stopping to help, there’s a part of me that wishes he hadn’t stopped at all, that he’d followed that driver and gotten his license plates instead. Then maybe we would have found out who killed my brother. Maybe there could have been justice. Or at least some closure for my parents and me.’

  Vince started to speak, but Suzanne held up a hand.

  ‘No,’ she said, waving him to silence. ‘There’s something else about that night. Johnny was killed because he gave me a ride back into the city. It was my mother’s birthday, and my car was in the shop, so I’d taken the train out to Winnetka. My parents wanted me to spend the night, but I insisted on going home because I wanted to be at my desk early in the morning. They didn’t want me to take the train that late so Johnny drove me home. And got killed on his way back. Can you imagine the guilt I carry for that? I’ve felt responsible for his death every day since.’

  She stopped to compose herself and this time Vince knew better than to interrupt. ‘Now, I’ve lost one of my dearest friends and it’s the same thing. The bastard who took her life is out walking around. They’ll never find him – I know it. No one will ever pay for Angie’s death. Just like no one has ever paid for Johnny’s.’ Tears started to flow, trailing dark streaks of mascara down her cheeks. ‘Except me. I’ll pay for the rest of my life. Don’t you see? Johnny died because he took me home. And Angie died because I took her home.’

  He had never seen her cry and her unhappiness tore at his heart in a way he never thought possible. He went to her and held her close, cupping her heaving shoulders as she buried her face against his chest. Her eyes were ringed in wet mascara, her cheeks smeared black. Her nose was running. And the more she cried the more he loved her. The ice maiden had melted, and it only made her all the more alluring. It unhinged him to know his feelings for her could grow any more intense.

  ‘Suzanne, honey, listen to me.’ He tipped her chin up with his fingers so that he was looking directly into her eyes. ‘I’m going to fix this. I’m going to find out who killed Angie.’

  She stopped crying and, oddly enough, started laughing through her tears. ‘Oh, Vince, please … you can’t find Angie’s murderer.’

  ‘Yes. I can,’ he said, his face tight, his black eyes filled with determination. ‘In this world, there’s very little that can’t be done if the price is right. Money can open doors the police can’t. I know someone who does this sort of thing. He will find out who killed Angie.’

  She blinked back another round of tears. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘Dead serious. Seeing you like this is torture to me.’

  ‘You really think you can find who killed Angie.’

  ‘I know I can.’

  ‘God, you’re wonderful.’ She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I must look delightful.’

  ‘You’ve never looked more beautiful.’ He meant it. Taking her face in both hands and pressing his mouth to hers, he tasted the salt of her tears on his lips. He drew her gently to the floor.

  Any voyeur would have enjoyed quite a show.

  It was nearing midnight when Vince got home. He went directly downstairs and headed to his home office, walking past the custom-made bar still under construction, careful not to step on any abandoned tools in the dark. His office was his haven, an entirely masculine room with heavy leather furniture and a large oak desk. He took a seat behind the desk and pulled his personal address book from the top drawer. Turning to the letter B, he ran his finger down the page until it found the name he was looking for. Belchek, Charley. Belchek was a Chicago cop who’d been thrown off the force for using unethical means to extract confessions. He’d turned private investigator shortly afterwards, and a highly effective one at that. He’d helped Vince win a bid on a crucial job years ago by digging up some unpleasant information about the competing developer and his young protégé, and leaking it to the newspapers. Vince hadn’t needed Belchek’s particular skills since then, but he sure needed them now. Despite the late hour, he suspected the ex-cop would still be awake. He punched out the number on his private line.

  The voice on the other end was straight out of a noir film.

 
; ‘Belchek.’

  ‘Charley. It’s Vince Columbo.’

  If Charley Belchek cared about the time, he gave no indication. ‘Vince, been too long. I see you done good by yourself since we done our business. See your signs everyplace.’

  ‘I can’t say I have any complaints,’ said Vince, ignoring Belchek’s implication he might not have done as well otherwise. He got straight to the point. ‘I’m looking for some information. There was a woman killed in Lincoln Park last week named Angela Lupino Wozniak. I need to find out who did it.’

  ‘That’s a strange request, but hey, it ain’t my business to know why you want to know what you want to know. This kind of information could be possible, but it’ll take a lot of coin and I’m making no guarantees. How much you willing to invest?’

  Vince didn’t hesitate. ‘As much as it takes.’

  ‘There’ll be a lot of palms to grease depending on the caliber of who did her. You know, gang, organized, oddball, whatever. It’ll cost ya at least forty K.’

  ‘And I need to know fast,’ Vince added.

  There was silence on the line as the ex-cop did some calculating. And then, ‘Make it sixty.’

  ‘Done,’ said Vince.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Ron

  Ron O’Reilly was riding that rail between true slumber and drunken stupor, dreaming in fitful patches. The dismissal bell was ringing, and he was waiting for his sisters and brothers outside St Mary of the Brook. He had promised his mother he would always take care of them. The bell grew louder and louder. Ringing, ringing. His eyes flicked open. It wasn’t a school bell ringing. It was his telephone. He turned on the light and squinted at the bedside clock. 5:15. A half-filled glass of whiskey rested on the nightstand beside him.

  He picked up. ‘O’Reilly.’