by E. C. Diskin
Dedication
For Jimmy and Caroline
Chicago, January 2004
ONE
A woman’s voice, deep and coarse from thousands of cigarettes and too much liquor, roused Abby into consciousness. The woman, seated a few rows ahead on the opposite side of the aisle, was arguing with the empty seat across from her. Her gray hair, matted and kinky, sprang from her head in every direction.
“Git away from me,” the woman yelled, desperately clutching her plastic bags full of shoes and cups. “I know what you’re up to. I kill you all.” She scanned the car and locked eyes with Abby before continuing her rant at the empty seat. “If I had me a gun, I’d just shoot all them white people. That’s what I’d do.”
Abby looked around for comfort in the eyes of other passengers. Only three others were on board. They were not comforting. An older man, presumably homeless and drunk, was asleep. Two young guys, maybe twenty, covered in tattoos, gold chains, and baggy clothes, sat across the aisle behind her. Thugs.
Something was not right.
Abby fumbled for her glasses to read the train map. The green-colored chart of stops plastered above the doors confirmed her mistake. Her heart began beating faster and her body tensed. Shit. She was on the Green Line.
She had been waiting for the Brown Line, watching as two Green Line trains came and went, silently cursing as her time for sleep slipped away. She had stood under the heat lamps, reading her cases and highlighting good quotes and relevant facts for her brief, when another train had finally pulled into the station. She had barely looked up—she just stepped into the empty car, took a seat, and kept reading. And, obviously, fell asleep.
Abby looked at her watch and realized she had been sleeping for about fifteen minutes. Given the time, 11:25 p.m.—she was now several miles west of the Loop. She looked up at the train grid again, checking the stops to see if she could figure out how far she had gone and if there was a safe stop where she could turn around and wait for an eastbound train. She had no idea.
She wasn’t from Chicago. Everyone she knew lived north of the Loop, along the lake where the city was vibrant, full of restaurants, boutiques, and chain stores, and where she’d always felt relatively safe. All Abby had ever been told of the area west of the Loop was, “You don’t want to go there.” Last week’s front-page story in the Tribune had highlighted this fact. The article, which had described how Chicago re-gained its dubious distinction as the nation’s murder capital, having reached six hundred murders in 2003, illustrated where these deaths occurred using red dots and a grid of the city. At the time, Abby had felt great relief. Her neighborhood had just two red dots. She had never been to any of the heavy red-dot areas and she saw no reason why she ever would.
This train was headed into the heaviest red-dot zone. Her mother’s warnings about the dangers of a big city began filling her head. She thought of the pepper spray her mother sent her years ago, which she had laughed at, thrown in the kitchen junk drawer, and never touched again.
The rain-soaked windows framed blackness. There was no way to judge her surroundings. Staring at the window, Abby saw the thugs’ reflections in the glass. One stared at her. She instinctively looked back at him. He smiled. The fleur-de-lis design on his shaved head was the symbol of her old Kappa Kappa Gamma. Many of her lily-white southern-belle sorority sisters had rebelliously tattooed the same flower design on their ankles. He was clearly in a different club.
Abby remained blank-faced and looked away again, trying to avoid encouragement without pissing him off. It didn’t seem to matter. Through the window’s reflection, she watched him nudge his buddy, stand up, and head her way. He took the seat behind her, leaned forward, and whispered in her ear, “Hey, pretty lady.” She could feel his breath on her neck and smelled the odor of too much cologne.
Afraid of appearing rude, but without turning around, she offered a weak “Hello.”
“What ’cha up to?”
She glanced toward the window for its mirrored effect and watched as he touched her hair.
“Just going home,” she said as casually as possible. She leaned forward and gathered her things.
“How ’bout I go witch you?”
His friend chimed in, “Yeah, how ’bout we both go?”
The man behind her laughed, “You know what they say ’bout redheads?” He didn’t wait for a response. “They wild.”
Abby’s stomach was tightening in fear.
The friend laughed. “That’s right. She look like she could handle us both, don’t you think?”
Abby didn’t turn around. “Thanks, but I’m married.” She put her briefcase strap over her head and across her chest, grabbed her purse, and walked to the door.
“Hey, where you goin’?”
She stared at the door, avoiding any more eye contact.
“I don’t see no ring! You ’fraid of me?”
Abby didn’t respond.
The friend chimed in again. “I think she’s rude.”
The thug continued, getting louder. “I’m talking to you. You think you’re too good for me, bitch?”
Abby shook her head.
The men laughed.
She continued to watch their movement through the window’s reflection. They were together again. Both sitting with their hands on the grab bars in front of their seats, ready to pounce.
The train pulled up to the next stop, Cicero, and the doors opened. Abby remained still, feeling the weight of their intention. But as the automated-ringing sound indicated doors closing, she jumped off. The doors shut behind her. She turned back. The thugs, now just a foot away, stood on the other side of the doors, waving her off, laughing. The train pulled away.
Abby finally exhaled, pushing out the air that had been trapped in her chest. She took several slow, deep breaths to calm her racing heartbeat, and walked toward the heat lamps to wait for an eastbound train, while the passengers who had exited from other cars headed down the stairs off to her right. She hit the giant red button inside the enclosure and watched as the coils in the lamps above began to turn red. Calmed by the hint of warmth, she closed her eyes for a moment and let the faint sound of raindrops pounding the street below fill her ears. She pushed her hands deep into her trench pockets and cursed her rejection of the gloves, hat, and umbrella that had been perched by the front door this morning. A forty-degree day in January had seemed balmy, but now it felt more like thirty.
She stared at her watch and began weighing her options. At this point, it would take another ten or fifteen minutes to get back to the Loop and then she’d have to wait for the Brown Line. It would be another twenty-minute ride and five-minute walk home. It was no use. She would just go back to the office and hope for an available cot in the library. Like this train ride was just a break—a little joy ride. Maybe it would all seem funny tomorrow.
The sound of laughter came out of the distance to her left. At first, she could not see anyone. Much of the platform was unlit. But as the voices got louder, a group of about ten men came out of the darkness. She saw their silhouettes—the baggy clothes and the occasional reflection of light on gold chains. She held her purse tightly and looked away, panicking with all sorts of pre-conceived notions. She quickly countered herself not to assume the worst. “Not everyone is a criminal,” she quietly repeated. But as she stood under the lamps, encased by three panes of glass, she felt like a department store display, waiting for observation.
She could feel them coming closer. The animated laughter, whispers, and high-fives told her that she was the subject of discussion. Stepping out of the enclosure, she peered west down the tracks for any sign of an approaching train. Nothing.
This was bad. “Don’t just stand here and wait for an attack,” she instruct
ed. She walked with false confidence toward the stairs.
“Oh baby, don’t go!” one yelled out. Others laughed.
Abby flew down the stairs, through the turnstile, and onto the street. Once outside, she could practically hear her thumping heartbeat. This was beginning to seem surreal. A quick scan of the neighborhood created more panic. The rain continued, but it was quiet—and not a cab in sight. Abby looked at her watch—11:40 p.m.
Standing under the stairwell for shelter, she flipped open her cell. Low battery. She hit the speed dial for David’s cell. He was still number one on the phone and she didn’t know who else to call. But after several rings and no answer, she closed the phone. The stairs above her began to shake from the pounding of feet on metal. It was time to move.
Abby crossed the street and began walking east toward the city. The tracks ran above Lake Street and, at least downtown, Lake was a major road, riddled with businesses. There had to be a bar or liquor store or something that was open this time of night. She hurried past a few industrial one-story buildings and a closed auto shop before stopping for the traffic light at the end of the block. She wiped her now-fogged glasses and surveyed the street. It was like a ghost town. Street lamps created only small halos of light. The train tracks above cast a shadow, adding to the darkness. She knew she had gotten off at the Cicero stop, but that meant nothing. The stoplight changed and she kept moving. Doorways, blocked by heavy iron gates, were chained and locked, and windows were covered with lease and rent signs and plywood boards.
Two blocks later, Abby was soaked and shaking. She had given up trying to cover her head with her purse. She stood in what felt like an abyss. There was nothing. No people, no open businesses, no signs of life. The rain continued—thin now, but relentless. She stopped at a side street and looked north. A big piece of plywood with hand-painted red letters—Reggie’s Bar & Grill—hung from chains off a balcony on the east side of the street about a block up. She ran toward the sign.
The building looked like it may have once been something special, a nice old brownstone with great architectural details. Buildings just like it, million-dollar properties, were peppered throughout Lincoln Park, the neighborhood she rode through every day while on the Brown Line, but this one, sandwiched between two boarded-up buildings, looked worn down by decades of neglect. A neon OPEN sign was lit in the front window. She quickly crossed the street.
A handful of people, mostly older, immediately turned to Abby as she entered. But after catching the glance of one woman, Abby realized she should not assume any kind of sorority. The woman scanned Abby from head to toe and turned back to her friends. Within seconds, everyone had resumed their conversations. Abby looked around at the folding chairs, the cracked plaster walls, the stained floor, the plywood bar, the lack of television or pool table. The place was homemade. A couple of old sports posters adorned the walls—the Bears in some Blues Brothers-inspired look and a Michael Jordan poster from the nineties. Abby hadn’t even heard of the Bears or the Bulls back then, she realized. In 1991, she was finishing high school in Atlanta and just starting her focused quest for this life. Look where that got me, she thought.
Abby walked to the bar, noting the Obama for Senate placard propped up behind the vodka bottles, and wondered if her black friends became this anxious when they were the sole reps of their race in a room. She was sure it happened all the time and it never seemed like a big deal. Now she felt it was. She was under the spotlight again.
There was no bartender in sight. Abby flipped open her cell. It wasn’t on. She hit the power button. Charge battery. Good-bye. The phone died.
“Damn it,” she whispered.
The faces of Martin Luther King and Malcolm X, both framed and covered in cracked glass, looked at her from their perch behind the bar.
An old pay phone hung on the wall back by the bathroom sign. Abby dug through her purse for change and headed to the phone. But after picking up the receiver, she went blank. She didn’t know who to call. David was either asleep or at the new girlfriend’s or maybe playing a gig. Besides, she couldn’t call him. It had been five months. And now there was someone else. Abby strained to think of who else she could call. This felt like an emergency—the kind of situation where you can call a friend for a rescue. But then again, maybe she had just been stupid and paranoid and racist. And it was all her fault. She never should have left the office.
Sarah, Abby’s closest friend at the firm, was her only option. But Sarah had just moved in with her fiancé. Abby dialed 411 and asked for a listing for Rick Baker in Chicago. After a brief pause, the operator responded, “There are fifteen listings. What street, please?” Abby had no idea. “Fuck!” she said out loud. “Sorry,” she mumbled into the phone before hanging up. She stared at the keypad. Calling her mother in Georgia or her best friend in New York would not help things. She dialed David’s cell. After three rings, his voice mail picked up.
“David, I’m sorry. It’s Abby.” She paused, wondering what she could even say. She chose the path of calm and confident. “I’m in a jam and I didn’t know who to call. Uh, hope I didn’t disturb. Take care. Sorry again for calling so late.” She shook her head in frustration for calling him again. Her mantra, “move on,” filled her head.
She stared at the receiver for guidance and noted the Bluebird Cab sticker on the wall in front of her. Yes! But then she remembered that she didn’t know where she was. She had turned off of Lake Street onto some side street when she saw the bar sign. Her stomach turned in knots. She hung up the phone and went back to the bar. Most of the people had cleared out. She sat down to gather her thoughts.
Where is the god-damned bartender? Abby’s internal dialogue was reaching a scream. Trying to appear calm, she searched through her purse again—for nothing in particular, but the nervousness made her want to do something with her hands and it was better to look busy. It would have been a good cigarette moment. She hadn’t smoked since law school, when she smoked so many cigarettes while studying for the bar that she disgusted herself into stopping cold, but she thought it would make her look tough and confident—just what she needed right now.
Two people got up and left. An older white man came up to the bar and sat two stools down. She looked around the near-empty room. It seemed like a good time to turn on the southern charm. She turned to the man with a smile and dialed up the accent. “Excuse me, sir. Do you work here?”
“Nope.” He smiled. His teeth were as neglected as the building. He inched closer and moved his hand on the bar toward her. His long, dirty nails tapped the counter. She could smell the liquor seeping from his pores. “You need some help?” he offered.
“Oh, thank you. I’ll wait for the bartender,” she replied with unconvincing optimism.
Feeling his stare, Abby ranted in silence. What kind of plan is this? Stop staring at me, old man!
This was a mistake. She needed to get back to the train station. Those guys would be gone by now. She jumped out of her seat and headed for the door.
Abby tried to run but it was more of a jog as she held tight to her briefcase and purse and focused on keeping her two-inch heels from flying off. She passed a woman casually strolling down Lake Street with a polka dot umbrella. Abby nearly knocked her to the ground as she ran by.
“Bitch!” the woman yelled. Abby offered a small “Sorry!” over her shoulder without slowing down. It took a second for it to register, but the outfit seemed like a give-away—the plaid school-girl mini, the fish-net hose, the red patent-leather three-inch heels. And then Abby giggled, realizing what she might have just bumped. It was better than crying. This was all so absurd.
In less than ten minutes, she was back at the train station. She ran to the top of the stairs, put her CTA card in the machine, and pushed the turnstile. It was locked. She looked at the read-out on the machine. It said nothing. She tried again. It wouldn’t work.
“What the fuck?” she yelled.
She looked up and saw the hours of operation
—6:00 a.m. to midnight. She looked at her watch—12:05 a.m.
TWO
TRIP grabbed the door of Reggie’s and pushed it open with authority. He surveyed the room. It was just as he remembered—great potential. An old man sitting at the bar turned toward him. Their eyes met and the man grabbed his coat. Trip removed his gloves and held the door open as the man scampered out. He wasn’t surprised at his ability to clear a room. Now he could get busy.
“Hello!” he called out, just to be sure.
A voice answered from the back room. “Yeah! Coming!” Trip went to the bar and sat, prepared to handle any delay. The bartender backed into the room carrying a rack full of glasses. Trip grinned. He knew those dreadlocks.
“Sorry,” the bartender offered over his shoulder. “Just doin’ the dishes. We’re about to close.” He sat the rack on the back bar and turned toward the customer, offering his “What can I do…?” but stopped when he saw Trip.
“Hello, Leon.”
The bartender backed up and grabbed the counter behind him. His gaze darted around the room. “What can I do for you, man?”
Trip tapped his finger to his lips and let the suspense build. This was fun. “Well, Leon, how about…a Stoli martini on the rocks with blue cheese olives?”
The man faked a laugh. “This ain’t no hotel bar, man. I don’t got that shit.”
Trip erased his smile, leaned over, and commanded, “Well, maybe you better get it.”
The man looked around again, probably wondering if the others had come back too. “What?”
“Leon, my good man, there’s a liquor store just a mile away. Tell you what, I’ll wait patiently.” Trip sat back and folded his arms across his chest.
“I, uh, . . .”
“You don’t want any more trouble, I’m guessing.”
The man didn’t answer.
“Don’t worry, I’ll watch the place for you. It’s safe with me here,” he offered.