he being set up? The life he’d lead of shadows was a long time ago a past memory that he’d buried. That life no longer existed, safely hidden away in corners of his soul and locked away. Had he stumbled into something and were the men baiting a hook and drawing him in? Searching his mind for explanations that were rational not emotional he found nothing. He could handle this situation and determined immediately that he couldn’t ignore these men. If he was in danger, he wanted the upper hand. He was not trained to counter punch in his unit? they always hit first. “Be back shortly,” he yelled to Fred and Jill his assistants. “Jellybean lock up if I don’t return before closing.” They were walking fast. He estimated them to be in their mid-thirties. Their clothes had to have been bought in the States by an American who’d instructed them how not to stand out in a crowd. Iranians favored traditional black or charcoal suits with a white shirt buttoned and no tie, most had mustaches or three-day beards. Looking at them casually, they could have been Americans. They were obviously meant to blend in, not look like foreigners. Following them down Oak Street keeping well back, he constantly watched plate glass windows of shops as he walked by, using them as a mirror to see if he was being followed. Twice he crossed over to the other side of the street, looking backward to see if he could recognize anyone on a bike or car. Crossing Michigan Avenue, they entered the Drake Hotel, one of Chicago’s landmarks on its famed Gold Coast, overlooking Lake Michigan. Quickening his steps, he got closer to them as they walked to the front desk. The taller one asked for a key. Turning, the clerk ran her fingers up and along the key compartments to number 412. Withdrawing it, she smiled brightly and gave it to the man. Moving quickly away from them Michael walked around a dozen or so uniformed workmen busily exchanging large plants that decorated the lobby. Plants were hoisted onto small trolleys and rolled away. He sauntered to the bookstore opposite the elevators looking for a place to watch them without being seen, also to see if anyone from the street had followed him into the hotel. Both men walked through open double doors into a carpeted foyer, which housed a bank of elevators. They entered an elevator and punched a floor button. The doors closed slowly, lights blinking—first, second, third, fourth floor. The fourth light stayed on. Soon the elevator returned. Its doors opened; it was empty. They’d exited at the fourth floor and 412 was probably their room. What to do next? He needed to come up with some plan to get into their room. Idly he continued watching the uniformed workmen watering their plants. Each had a large green leaf stitched onto their uniform. Suddenly an idea came to him. His gut told him the men in room 412 were dangerous. If the men were returning to die in Iran, he couldn’t have cared less; but if they were planning on dying in Chicago, then it would be his business. He wondered if they were in any way connected to the bizarre bus killings. Iranian martyrs never killed only themselves. Their belief as fighters was that the best part of paradise was reserved for those who killed many infidels. He felt sure the two men aspired to the highest levels of paradise. The higher they aspired, the more Chicagoans would be killed. At the front desk he picked up a hotel brochure then hailed a cab to take him back to his store. Sitting in the cab he read through the brochure and found that all rooms except the top fifteen floors were efficiencies, including kitchens.* “Hello, Drake Hotel.” “Hi, my name is Lawrence, Michael Lawrence. Stayed in your hotel last month. Could I reserve the same room? room 412? Fine, fine, I’ll wait. What, it’s taken? Too bad, do you have room 410 or 414 available? You do! Great book me in for one night. I’ll be there in an hour. Lawrence, that’s right. See you soon.”
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