Omens (8 page)

I turned and almost crashed into an elderly woman whose eyes widened when she saw my face. My stomach clenched again, and I stepped aside, ready to flee, but she caught my sleeve.

“Was it a shiny penny?” she asked.

“W-what?”

She smiled. “The penny you picked up. I didn’t think young people did that anymore. Was it shiny?”

I opened my hand. The newly minted coin gleamed.

“Then it’s extra lucky. That’s what my gran always said.” She patted my arm. “I’m glad you found it, dear. You look like you could use some luck.”

Another smile. Another pat. And she was on her way.

I took a deep breath and glanced over to see the two women again, now pointing out an albino squirrel walking along a fence top.

So they hadn’t been talking about me after all. I squeezed the penny, smiled, and headed to the next apartment on my list.

T
he old woman watched the girl pick up her pace, a faint smile on her lips as she clutched her lucky penny. At least she was smiling now, poor thing.

The woman had recognized the girl from the paper. Anyone who’d seen the photos would, despite her clumsy attempts to disguise her identity.

The woman remembered the Larsen case. Her niece had worked at the prison where they’d held Pamela Larsen. Such a nice lady, she’d said. Pretty and quiet and polite. People said he was just as nice, always asking about his wife and his little girl, not caring what happened to him as long as they were safe.

It was a setup, that’s what her niece always said. Those murders had the city gripped with fear, so the police needed a scapegoat, and they found a young couple without the money to pay for a proper defense. A travesty of justice. Now their poor daughter was caught up in the mess. Such a shame. Such a tragedy. One that sadly no penny, however bright, could fix.

W
hen I reached the next apartment, I decided that if the penny held any luck, it was clearly running on a delay. The building was fine—a narrow four-story, yellow-brick structure with huge windows facing the tree-lined street. But the neighborhood … let’s just say that it proved I didn’t know Chicago as well as I thought.

Thirty years ago, this was probably a great place to live. The ancient oaks arching over the street attested to that, as did the wrought-iron fences around each building. But the sidewalks were crumbling, the iron hadn’t been painted in a decade, and there was an air of eerily quiet desolation, as if everyone retreated after work and bolted their doors.

The only people on the street were two girls on a bench. They couldn’t have been more than sixteen. No homework bags for them, though. They likely hadn’t set foot inside a school in years. It wasn’t even nine and they were out there in their microskirts and teased hair and layer cake of makeup, not speaking to one another, just staring at the road. Waiting for some middle-aged man, who’d take them to a cheap motel if they were lucky, but more likely the walkway beside the building, where ten minutes later, they’d emerge, twenty bucks in hand, return to their bench, and start all over again.

A few days ago, I’d have been tempted to give them a hundred each and tell them to go home. Now, I couldn’t afford it. Besides, even when I’d had the money, I’d have known it wouldn’t help. They’d pocket the cash and stay on the bench. Giving them the address of a shelter wouldn’t do any good, either. They knew such things existed. If they were interested, they’d go. They weren’t.

The best I could do was acknowledge them as I passed, calling out a cheerful, “Good evening.” They turned, met my gaze with blank, soul-stifled stares, then returned to their silent watch.

I climbed the steps. As I did, I caught a glimpse of something on the cement landing. Not another penny, but a design of some sort, glittering just as brightly. When I got to the top, though, I saw only gray concrete.

“Drop something, miss?”

The voice was strong, youthful, but the man stepping through the front door couldn’t have been under eighty. He was nearly a half foot shorter than me, with a pointed chin and wisps of white hair salting a freckled bald head. In one bony hand, he clutched an empty cloth grocery bag.

“I thought I saw…” I shook my head. “Long day.”

He gave me a look then. I stepped back, thinking he recognized me, but he only squinted nearsightedly, as if making sure I wasn’t a neighbor, then bid me a good evening and continued down the steps.

I pretended to fuss with my purse, as if looking for keys. Once he’d disappeared along the walkway beside the building, I backed down the steps, trying to catch the design I’d seen in the light. Nothing.

As I reached for the front door, a whisper drifted over, and I turned to see the two girls. They were on their feet now, fixing me with stares so blank the hair on my neck rose. One said something to the other, her lip curling as she spoke, teeth bared, almost feral. The other shrugged and hitched up her worn, snakeskin belt. I waited for them to snarl a “Whatchya looking at?” but they just stood there and stared back.

Waiting for me to leave.

I stepped inside, closed the door, then counted to fifteen, and peeked out just in time to catch a glimpse of the girls disappearing down the walkway.

They were following the old man. I shook my head. Unless they had a pocketful of Viagra, they weren’t getting any business from that old guy.

I might have felt sorry for those two young prostitutes, but remembering that look in their eyes, I wouldn’t be eager to meet them wandering around my apartment building.

And I wouldn’t be eager to meet them down a dark walkway. Especially if I was a frail old man.

I glanced toward the landlord’s door. Just a day ago, if I’d seen two street girls go into the alley behind an old man, I’d have investigated. Made sure he was safe.

So why wasn’t I already out that door?

I went out onto the stoop and listened.

Was I hoping not to hear anything, so I had an excuse to go back inside. Focus on my own problems?

I shook my head and jogged down the front steps.

The walkway stretched between two apartments and was little more than an alley, but it had been fancied up with an ivy-covered iron arch, a cobblestone path, and a few flowering bushes.

Pleasant enough. Safe enough. And empty enough, with no sign of—

“You aren’t supposed to be here.” The old man’s words drifted from behind a thick lilac. “You know the rules.”

“There are no rules,” a girl hissed. “You old-timers need to understand that. We go where we want. We take what we want. And what we want is the money you were gonna use to fill that grocery bag.”

“I don’t have any money. I was heading to the library—”

“Oh, good,” I called as I walked down the path. “You’re still here. This is your apartment building, right, sir? I’m looking for the landlord and—”

I feigned surprise, stopping short as I saw him backed against the wall, the two girls standing like gunslingers, thumbs hooked in their belts. Matching snakeskin. The height of fashion.

“Oh,” I said. “Am I interrupting something?”

The girl nearest me wheeled, snarling, “Mind your own—”

The other one caught her arm. Squeezed. They eyed me, the first still curling her lip, like she wanted to throw down then and there. I’ll admit to a prickle of disappointment when the other girl whispered in her ear and talked her out of it. I’ve never been in a fight in my life, but that roiling ball of pent-up frustration in my gut felt this would have been a fine time to start.

“We were just talking,” the second girl said. “Being neighborly.”

“That’s good to hear,” I said. “We don’t see enough of that these days.” I turned to the old man. He was leaning against the wall looking … amused? “About the landlord…”

“Here, let me take you.” He nodded to the duo. “Happy hunting, girls.”

The first bared her teeth, but her friend nudged her and they headed off down the walkway, in the opposite direction.

“You handled that very well,” the old man said once the girls were out of earshot.

“I’ve dealt with their kind before.”

“Oh?” He looked surprised.

“Volunteer work with street youth.”

“Ah.”

“You may want to avoid that walkway this time of evening.”

He sighed. “We never used to have to worry about such things.” He let me hold open the door as we went inside. “You said you wanted to speak to the super. You aren’t looking at that vacant apartment, are you? This isn’t the place for you.”

“I don’t have a lot of choice,” I said as I fell in step beside him.

“You always have choices.”

I shrugged. “This doesn’t seem so bad.”

“Well, I’d disagree, but I see you’ve made up your mind.” He waved down the hall. “Last door.”

“Thanks.”

As I headed down the hall, my footsteps echoed on the old wood floor. The place smelled of pine cleaner, which should have been a good sign, but it somehow added to the air of sterile desolation. Somewhere upstairs, a baby cried, faintly, almost resigned, as if it didn’t really expect a response.

As I approached the super’s door, strains of salsa music and the smell of chilies warmed the air. The music had been kept at a respectful volume, so I didn’t need to knock hard. Or so I thought. After three increasingly louder rounds of rapping, with no reply, I leaned against the door and listened.

Off-key singing to the music told me someone was home. One last round of knocks, nearly a pounding now, then I called on my cell phone. I heard a phone inside ring. And ring. And ring. I hung up. The music and the singing continued. Then it ended.

Footsteps sounded. They didn’t seem to be coming my way, so I rapped again. More footsteps. The TV turned on.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered.

A throat-clearing behind me. I wheeled, saw the old man, and flushed.

“Sorry,” I said.

“I don’t blame you. You made an appointment and she’s not there to keep it.”

“She
is
there. I heard her.”

He shook his head. “That’s just the TV. She leaves it on all the time.” I was about to say I’d heard footsteps, too, but he continued, “This isn’t the place for you. The building’s all right. But the neighborhood?” He shook his head. “Not safe these days. Not safe at all.”

“You might want to take your own advice.”

He smiled and when he did, his teeth were perfect. Not unnaturally perfect, like dentures, but straight and white, like those of a man half his age. “I can take care of myself,” he said. “Now, you’ve helped me, miss, so I owe you one. Have you ever heard of Cainsville?”

I shook my head.

“Little town outside the city. That’s where you want to be.” He handed me a folded slip of paper.

“I need to stay in Chicago,” I said. “The jobs are here.”

“Jobs are everywhere, if you’re not too picky. Cainsville has its share. And apartments at half the price of this.”

He pressed the paper into my hand. “My second cousin Grace owns a walk-up there. She’ll set you up. Give her that note, though, or she might try to tell you she doesn’t have a room. She’s a fickle old bat.”

I unfolded the paper. On it was an address and a note. “Give this girl a room.” Signed “Jack in Chicago.”

“Thank—” I looked up, but he was already back at his apartment door.

“Thank you,” I called.

He nodded and went inside.

——

I had no intention of moving to a small town, particularly one I’d never heard of. I appreciated the kind gesture, but I saw no life for me outside Chicago.

I tried a couple more apartments, in even worse neighborhoods, then surrendered to exhaustion and found a hotel. A motel, actually. The kind I’d only ever seen on TV, usually where the bad guys holed up until the cops came busting through the door. Two stories of dirty brick, rusty metal railing along the second floor, neon sign out front promising clean rooms, as if that was a selling point you wouldn’t find elsewhere. At thirty-nine dollars a night, it probably was.

I was so tired that when the desk clerk did a double-take, I told myself he didn’t actually recognize me. Even when he surreptitiously checked a newspaper under the desk, I stood my ground. This was going to happen, so I’d better just get used to it.

He didn’t deny me a room. Just fumbled through the check-in process, not even asking for a credit card deposit when I said I’d be paying cash. He messed up on the room rate, too, charging me twenty-nine. Or maybe, considering who my biological parents were, he thought it best to give me a discount. I didn’t care. It was money saved, and I was quickly realizing I’d need every penny, even the lucky one nestled in my pocket.

My room was just big enough to hold a double bed, a tiny table, and a dresser of scuffed particle board. The pink and brown polyester bedspread had a bizarrely intricate design, probably to disguise stains. Matching curtains. As advertised, the room was clean. Or clean enough if you didn’t look too carefully.

I made it as far as the bed, dropped onto it, and sat there for at least an hour. I wanted to cry. Sob into the pillow and vent all the day’s frustration and loneliness. But I was too tired to manage it. Too empty.

I finally fell back onto a bedspread that stank of spilled beer and sex, and I didn’t care. I just lay there and tried not to think about how much I missed home and how upset I was with my mother and how badly I wanted to hear Dad tell me everything would be okay.

I thought of calling James. Just to let him know I was all right.

Instead I called my mother. I blocked my number as I did, telling myself that I had to because otherwise she’d use it to call me later. In truth, I blocked it because it gave me an excuse if she
didn’t
use it later.

No one answered the new cell number she’d given me. It didn’t even ring to voice mail, suggesting the number had been disconnected. So I phoned Howard. When I announced myself, there was a pause, as if he was wondering whether he could
accidentally
hang up. First thing I was doing when I got things under control again? Firing his ass.

“I’m trying to get in touch with Mum,” I said. “I want to let her know I’m okay.”