Megan’s attention and asked about my former partner.
“Indeed, John was in,” she said. “Last Thursday night, it was. Sat just a bit down from where you’re at now.”
Megan sipped at a cup of Barry’s tea. She drank it strong with milk and two sugars.
“Was there a blonde with him?” I said.
“There was. She’s been coming in most nights. Nothing but fucking trouble.”
I pulled a phone number from my pocket, the one Elaine Remington had scrawled on my bedroom mirror.
“This still the bar’s number?”
“It is.”
“The pay phone?”
A shake of the head. Megan pointed to a phone behind the bar.
“We don’t have pay phones anymore what with the cell phones and that load of crap. Like a fucking switchboard in here on a Friday night.”
“I bet,” I said. “How well did you know John?”
“As well as I know any customer. No more. He in trouble?”
“He was found dead Sunday morning. Down by Navy Pier.”
Megan stared at the dregs in her mug for a moment. Then I followed her gaze up and across the bar. Elaine Remington stood in the doorway.
“That would be her, Michael.”
“Yes, it would.”
I got up from my stool. Elaine met me halfway across the bar. She didn’t have a gun this time. At least not one pointed my way.
“About time you got here,” she said.
“Expecting me?”
“I’m in here most nights. Figured sooner or later you’d show up. How about buying me a drink?”
Megan was waiting at the bar, bottle of Jameson in hand.
“The usual?” she said.
Elaine nodded. Megan set up two whiskeys, neat. My client took the first in one go. Then she leaned up against me. I guess in case I was cold.
“I drink seven of these every night,” she said.
“Whether you need it or not.”
She called for number three, knocked back two, and giggled.
“You’re cute,” she said.
“You talk too much.”
“You’re still cute.”
I had heard this conversation, between a blonde and a detective, somewhere before. Elaine lit up a cigarette, blew smoke in my direction, and continued.
“Gibbons was more like a father figure. You know, that whole thing. Want one?”
I moved back a bit and watched her work. Just the slightest tremor in her hand as the shot glass went up and back down. It didn’t look easy.
“Why do you do that?”
She wiped her mouth, then at a trace of moisture at the corner of one eye.
“Keeps me straight. You know some peeps have their latte. Me, I have seven lattes. After that I look for some company.”
The bar was quiet now. Not really, but it seemed that way. She filled my eye, and I shaped my mind around it. I didn’t want to but still felt the heat. Some women were just that way with men. The crazy talk continued.
“Let me ask you something, Mr. Detective. How much do you know about rape?”
I shrugged.
“You ever know a girl who’d been raped?”
“Plenty,” I said.
“I mean really know, as in romantic.”
I shrugged again. She whetted the knife.
“Think you could, you know, be with her after something like that? No, let me rephrase, after someone had her like that?”
I took a look down the bar. Mostly because I didn’t know where else to look.
“Thought so,” she said and drained number four.
I jumped in and tried to make it better.
“You were brutalized and almost murdered, Elaine. That’s an act of violence, plain and simple.”
“Textbook answer, Mr. Kelly. They teach you that at the police academy?”
Her voice was a bit louder but still controlled. She was drunk. Just not as much as I expected.
“I know you were a cop. Gibbons told me.”
She nodded with the smallest of smiles. Looking sly for no apparent reason. Then she picked up her cigarette, almost guttered in the ashtray and drew down. I blinked and saw her at fifty-three. Alone, in a hotel bar. Still able to catch the occasional eye. Still on the hustle. She exhaled and the smoke filtered through a shaft of light coming in from the street. Now the face
“Indeed, John was in,” she said. “Last Thursday night, it was. Sat just a bit down from where you’re at now.”
Megan sipped at a cup of Barry’s tea. She drank it strong with milk and two sugars.
“Was there a blonde with him?” I said.
“There was. She’s been coming in most nights. Nothing but fucking trouble.”
I pulled a phone number from my pocket, the one Elaine Remington had scrawled on my bedroom mirror.
“This still the bar’s number?”
“It is.”
“The pay phone?”
A shake of the head. Megan pointed to a phone behind the bar.
“We don’t have pay phones anymore what with the cell phones and that load of crap. Like a fucking switchboard in here on a Friday night.”
“I bet,” I said. “How well did you know John?”
“As well as I know any customer. No more. He in trouble?”
“He was found dead Sunday morning. Down by Navy Pier.”
Megan stared at the dregs in her mug for a moment. Then I followed her gaze up and across the bar. Elaine Remington stood in the doorway.
“That would be her, Michael.”
“Yes, it would.”
I got up from my stool. Elaine met me halfway across the bar. She didn’t have a gun this time. At least not one pointed my way.
“About time you got here,” she said.
“Expecting me?”
“I’m in here most nights. Figured sooner or later you’d show up. How about buying me a drink?”
Megan was waiting at the bar, bottle of Jameson in hand.
“The usual?” she said.
Elaine nodded. Megan set up two whiskeys, neat. My client took the first in one go. Then she leaned up against me. I guess in case I was cold.
“I drink seven of these every night,” she said.
“Whether you need it or not.”
She called for number three, knocked back two, and giggled.
“You’re cute,” she said.
“You talk too much.”
“You’re still cute.”
I had heard this conversation, between a blonde and a detective, somewhere before. Elaine lit up a cigarette, blew smoke in my direction, and continued.
“Gibbons was more like a father figure. You know, that whole thing. Want one?”
I moved back a bit and watched her work. Just the slightest tremor in her hand as the shot glass went up and back down. It didn’t look easy.
“Why do you do that?”
She wiped her mouth, then at a trace of moisture at the corner of one eye.
“Keeps me straight. You know some peeps have their latte. Me, I have seven lattes. After that I look for some company.”
The bar was quiet now. Not really, but it seemed that way. She filled my eye, and I shaped my mind around it. I didn’t want to but still felt the heat. Some women were just that way with men. The crazy talk continued.
“Let me ask you something, Mr. Detective. How much do you know about rape?”
I shrugged.
“You ever know a girl who’d been raped?”
“Plenty,” I said.
“I mean really know, as in romantic.”
I shrugged again. She whetted the knife.
“Think you could, you know, be with her after something like that? No, let me rephrase, after someone had her like that?”
I took a look down the bar. Mostly because I didn’t know where else to look.
“Thought so,” she said and drained number four.
I jumped in and tried to make it better.
“You were brutalized and almost murdered, Elaine. That’s an act of violence, plain and simple.”
“Textbook answer, Mr. Kelly. They teach you that at the police academy?”
Her voice was a bit louder but still controlled. She was drunk. Just not as much as I expected.
“I know you were a cop. Gibbons told me.”
She nodded with the smallest of smiles. Looking sly for no apparent reason. Then she picked up her cigarette, almost guttered in the ashtray and drew down. I blinked and saw her at fifty-three. Alone, in a hotel bar. Still able to catch the occasional eye. Still on the hustle. She exhaled and the smoke filtered through a shaft of light coming in from the street. Now the face
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