floor. Bella’s, a small eight table coffee shop, offering sandwiches, gourmet coffee and pastries at prices that would make the normal Chicagoan choke. The food is good, and they seem to make a living from it, especially in the tourist season when the Navy Pier is at full swing. Tourists always need a spot to rest their weary feet, and Bella’s has an inviting atmosphere that draws them in.
Next door is Chang’s Dry Cleaners and Alterations, open seven days a week, six till six, no questions asked and prompt service. Oddly, no one named Chang works in, or owns, the business.
Across the lobby, two offices house the practices of a gynecologist and a dentist. Beneath all of this is a parking garage that rents stalls by the month at five hundred dollars a pop.
Pulling the glass door open to Bella’s, I’m not greeted with the usual, “Hi, Robin. Your usual today?” from Debbie Foil, the cafes owner, always at her place beside the register. She’s not there, nor are any customers. The place is as deserted as the lobby. No music plays in the background; no sizzle of something cooking from the kitchen. Worse, no smell of fresh brewed coffee is in the air.
Thinking that I might be too early, I pull out my phone and see a blank screen. I forgot to turn it on when I got up. I turned it off late Friday night when I crawled onto the couch, not wanting to be disturbed.
“Hello?” I call out. Nothing comes back in return.
I let the door close behind me and glance out the long window dominating the far wall. Two cars sit at the intersection, waiting at a red light, but no foot traffic passes by on the sidewalk.
Scratching my head, I find it strange that I had woken up before any foot traffic started. I never get up early enough to beat the crowds.
Walking to the counter, I lean forward and look toward the open doorway leading to the kitchen.
“Debbie, you here?” I ask; again no response.
Behind me I hear the sharp ring of the bell signaling that the street side door has opened. At first I don’t turn around. If customers are coming in, then I’m not too early. Whoever just entered stumbles against a table, knocking a chair over. I can hear that their steps are unbalanced as they kick the chair. That brings my attention around.
Turning, I see a woman leaning over the fallen chair, wearing a light brown leather bombers jacket, and jeans with holes in the knees. The long brown hair covering her face almost touches the floor.
“Are you alright?” I ask, taking a step towards her.
A growl rumbles across the room, making me stop in my tracks, and forget that I wanted coffee.
What happened next seems in slow motion. The woman lifts her head to reveal a pale face, covered with perspiration. Through the strands of hair, I can see deep scratches running in furrows down her cheeks, one reaching through her right eye, splitting it into two dripping gelatinous globs. Blood trails from each gouge, and drips in bloody ribbons from her nose, mouth and chin. Seeing no other wounds, I figure that this woman has just been violently mugged.
Through broken teeth, some hanging loosely, some missing completely, the woman screams at me.
“Lady, you need me to call the police?” I stammer, unsure of what exactly to do.
I move back to the counter where I had left my phone. Pressing the button on the side of the phone, it springs to life. The woman stares at me, weaving back and forth, as if she might fall.
“Sit down,” I say as I press the phone icon.
As I tap in 911, the woman screams again. In pain, she twists her head, her gaze never leaving me. Then in a lurch, she charges towards me. Frozen in place, I watch as she takes two stiff-legged steps and then bounces her hip hard off of a table. She stumbles on the accompanying chair, and falls, sprawling on the floor.
Her scream is cut short as she smacks, face down, on Debbie’s tiled floor. I hear the wet crunch as her nose shatters.
Putting the phone to my ear, I listen
Next door is Chang’s Dry Cleaners and Alterations, open seven days a week, six till six, no questions asked and prompt service. Oddly, no one named Chang works in, or owns, the business.
Across the lobby, two offices house the practices of a gynecologist and a dentist. Beneath all of this is a parking garage that rents stalls by the month at five hundred dollars a pop.
Pulling the glass door open to Bella’s, I’m not greeted with the usual, “Hi, Robin. Your usual today?” from Debbie Foil, the cafes owner, always at her place beside the register. She’s not there, nor are any customers. The place is as deserted as the lobby. No music plays in the background; no sizzle of something cooking from the kitchen. Worse, no smell of fresh brewed coffee is in the air.
Thinking that I might be too early, I pull out my phone and see a blank screen. I forgot to turn it on when I got up. I turned it off late Friday night when I crawled onto the couch, not wanting to be disturbed.
“Hello?” I call out. Nothing comes back in return.
I let the door close behind me and glance out the long window dominating the far wall. Two cars sit at the intersection, waiting at a red light, but no foot traffic passes by on the sidewalk.
Scratching my head, I find it strange that I had woken up before any foot traffic started. I never get up early enough to beat the crowds.
Walking to the counter, I lean forward and look toward the open doorway leading to the kitchen.
“Debbie, you here?” I ask; again no response.
Behind me I hear the sharp ring of the bell signaling that the street side door has opened. At first I don’t turn around. If customers are coming in, then I’m not too early. Whoever just entered stumbles against a table, knocking a chair over. I can hear that their steps are unbalanced as they kick the chair. That brings my attention around.
Turning, I see a woman leaning over the fallen chair, wearing a light brown leather bombers jacket, and jeans with holes in the knees. The long brown hair covering her face almost touches the floor.
“Are you alright?” I ask, taking a step towards her.
A growl rumbles across the room, making me stop in my tracks, and forget that I wanted coffee.
What happened next seems in slow motion. The woman lifts her head to reveal a pale face, covered with perspiration. Through the strands of hair, I can see deep scratches running in furrows down her cheeks, one reaching through her right eye, splitting it into two dripping gelatinous globs. Blood trails from each gouge, and drips in bloody ribbons from her nose, mouth and chin. Seeing no other wounds, I figure that this woman has just been violently mugged.
Through broken teeth, some hanging loosely, some missing completely, the woman screams at me.
“Lady, you need me to call the police?” I stammer, unsure of what exactly to do.
I move back to the counter where I had left my phone. Pressing the button on the side of the phone, it springs to life. The woman stares at me, weaving back and forth, as if she might fall.
“Sit down,” I say as I press the phone icon.
As I tap in 911, the woman screams again. In pain, she twists her head, her gaze never leaving me. Then in a lurch, she charges towards me. Frozen in place, I watch as she takes two stiff-legged steps and then bounces her hip hard off of a table. She stumbles on the accompanying chair, and falls, sprawling on the floor.
Her scream is cut short as she smacks, face down, on Debbie’s tiled floor. I hear the wet crunch as her nose shatters.
Putting the phone to my ear, I listen
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