Set the Night on Fire (7 page)

She spun around. No one was there. No pedestrians on this side of the street. No one entering or exiting the stores, no one getting in or out of a car. No one across the street, either.

She’d passed an alley a few yards back. If someone was tailing her, they might be lurking there. She trotted back to the alley and peered in. A few blue dumpsters. The musty smell of rotting garbage. Cracked concrete. Garage doors, all of them closed. The sound of the receding motorcycle. Otherwise nothing. Except the snow. It had started in earnest, big flakes whispering down, coating everything with white.

T
he Cherokee Lounge was a place that catered to people who lived below the radar—people who didn’t want others to know who they were or where they were going. Maybe they didn’t know themselves. Tucked away in the suburb of Schiller Park, it was a brooding, dark bar with blue and red neon signs on the windows, one of them buzzing as if it might take off from O’Hare, only a few miles away.

Dar nursed a beer. This was the second night he’d come in, but nothing was different from the first. The same people at the bar, the same haze of cigarette smoke, the same roar of airplanes shuddering the walls and quivering the glasses. He could feel the apathy in the air.

He’d rented a room in a nearby boarding house. Told the owner he’d been laid off from the O’Hare baggage detail, and his wife kicked him out. The woman eyed him, clearly not believing a word, but rented him the room anyway. Everyone needed cash. He found another job washing dishes, this time in a cafeteria. He hoped it would buy him enough time to figure out what to do next.

He’d spent the afternoon on the computer in the library and discovered that Casey Hilliard had perished in a house fire a few weeks ago. One of the twins, the boy they called Daniel, died in the fire with him. The girl, who wasn’t at home, had survived. The news had sent a shockwave through him, and he hurried to a pay phone to call Rain.

He didn’t reach her. A distraught man who said he was her husband told him that she’d been killed in a freak car accident on I-94 in December. She was driving back from Illinois when her car unexpectedly swerved off the highway into a ditch, rolled over, and caught fire. The police speculated she’d fallen asleep at the wheel.

“Were you a friend?” her husband asked.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Dar replied and hung up. He’d started to shiver as if he’d stepped naked into a bathtub full of snow.

Now, hunched over the bar in the Cherokee Lounge, he tried to make sense of the events. An analytical, scholarly mind was one of his strengths. Not like his father, an auto worker with over thirty years on the line, much of it as UAW shop steward. They’d fired his father during a particularly brutal strike, and his subsequent unemployment destroyed him. Men like Will Gantner didn’t lose their jobs. Dar, fourteen at the time, was furious. How dare Ford steal his father’s self-worth? He tried to tell his dad he could do better someplace else, but six months later his father hanged himself in their basement. Dar vowed never to depend on a corporation for anything.

Now he slid his glass of beer around on the bar, avoiding the whitish stains embedded in the wood. He’d come back to Chicago, called Teddy, met with Rain. He wanted to visit Casey, but went to Michigan to see Philip Kerr. He came back to find someone had rolled his room. Then, a few days or weeks later, Rain died in a car crash, Casey in a fire. Logic told him the string of events was not a coincidence. The link between them was his return to Chicago. He closed his eyes, feeling a weight settle on his shoulders.

When he opened his eyes, he noticed a woman a few feet away. She was wearing a heavy black sweater, jeans, and work boots. Working her way through a double scotch, she was trying too hard to be casual. She had to be on the other side of forty, maybe even fifty. Her hair was unnaturally auburn and pulled back low at her neck, but aside from a little thickness around her middle, she’d kept herself trim.

He studied her face. It was a sweet face, with a widow’s peak at her hairline, a small nose, round cheeks, and eyes that looked tired but honest. He kept gazing at her until, as if he’d sent out a magnetic beam, she looked over.

Usually when someone noticed him, he’d avert his face, hoping to fade into obscurity.

For some reason tonight, though, he didn’t. They locked eyes. Her cheeks colored, and he saw the beginnings of a smile. He felt suddenly awkward. How long had it been? Almost forty years? He felt a stirring in a part of his body that he’d thought was permanently numb. Christ. What was he supposed to do?

A deafening roar reverberated through the bar, and a series of vibrations splashed beer and liquor on the counter. Dar glanced around worriedly, wondering why no one else seemed to be bothered. The woman who’d been eyeing him pointed a finger upwards. Dar looked at the ceiling, saw the light fixture sway, and realized it was a plane coming in low for a landing. He settled back on his stool, feeling heat on his cheeks.

The woman waited a decent amount of time, then said, “With all the taxes we pay, the least they could do is change the flight path, don’t you think?”

Dar gave her a brief nod.

“Sorry, I can’t hear you,” she said.

Puzzled, he stroked his chin. He’d started to grow a beard when he got back from Michigan.

She shook her head. “It’s a joke.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure he got it, which made him feel more awkward.

But she vacated her stool and plopped down on the empty one next to him. “I’m Cece.”

“Dar.” He extended his hand.

She took it with an amused expression that made Dar think the people she knew didn’t shake hands. Her skin was warm and soft. “What kind of name is Dar?”

“It’s short for Darwin. As in Charles.” She shot him a blank look. “The scientist who discovered evolution?”

“Oh.” This time, she nodded as if she got it. Dar wasn’t convinced. Then again, if she didn’t, they’d be even.

He stood there, wondering what to say next, when a man who looked like he was twenty years and thirty pounds past his fighting weight bellied up to the bar. “Hey, doll.” He insinuated himself between Dar and Cece.

“Evening, Judd,” Cece said.

“This guy hassling you?” He yanked a thumb towards Dar. “’Cause if he is . . . ” He let his voice trail off. Cece shook her head. “You sure, babe? ’Cause you know I’m here to look out for you.”

“I can look out for myself, Judd.”

“I’m not so sure.” He eyed Dar suspiciously. “We don’t need no strangers around, do we?”

“Judd.” Cece’s voice went hard. “It’s all right.”

The guy was shorter than Dar, but twice as wide. He faced Dar. “I dunno. Maybe you’d best be on your way, mister.”

“Judd,” Cece threw out her hand. “Stop!”

But Judd stood there, his chin jutting out, glaring at Dar.

Dar slid off his stool, hoping his six feet would compensate for Judd’s brawn. “The lady thinks it’s all right,” he said softly. “I’d do what she says.”

Judd stared, looked Dar up and down. Then he backed off. He raised his index finger at Cece as he retreated. “You need somethin’ honey, you just call.”

“I will.” Cece watched him go with a straight face. Then she turned and flashed Dar a grateful smile. He smiled back.

Ten minutes later Cece made a show of checking her watch. Dar looked at the wall clock. Almost eleven. She swiveled towards him and looked him over again.

“Okay,” she began. “Here’s the deal. It’s gonna keep snowing, and it’s gonna be a long, cold night. We could sit here and bullshit each other for the next half hour, or we could go back to my place now.”  She tilted her head. “I have a bungalow in Franklin Park.”

Dar thought about how long it had been since he’d touched soft skin, pressed his lips against a willing mouth. And now, it seemed so easy—so available, just for the asking. He didn’t know where Franklin Park was, but he chugged the rest of his beer and followed her out.

S
he’d been a perfect lover, especially when he climaxed right away. She could tell, in that indefinable way women have, that he’d been starved. The second time she took her time, moving her lips slowly over his cheeks, his lips, his chest, his cock. He lasted longer that time, and by the third time the pupil became the teacher. His mouth found her breasts, the soft folds of her stomach, the damp, dark cleft between her legs. When she locked her legs around him, he drank her in, and when he felt her arch up, forcing him deeper, her fire engulfed him. When she finally came, moaning, calling out his name, he thought his head—and the rest of him—would explode.

Now, as he woke up, drowsy and warm beneath a heavy quilt, a long-forgotten peace lulled him. He looked around the bedroom. It was tidy, with hardwood floors and flowery wallpaper he could do without. He recalled her saying, with pride, that she had three bedrooms and a full basement, which meant there was plenty of space. He saw no evidence of kids or pets.

Cece was still asleep, her back to him. He lay quietly, savoring her warmth, her scent, her femaleness. Then he turned and glanced out the window. Three inches of snow coated the window sill, sparks firing in the morning sun. A good sign. He slipped his hands behind his neck and stretched. Cece stirred. When he dragged his gaze from the window, she was looking at him. Her eyes, somewhere between hazel and green, held a serious expression. He smiled uncertainly, but when she didn’t return it, he tensed. He wondered whether to say something.

She pre-empted him. “You’re in some kind of trouble, aren’t you?”

“What makes you say that?” He flicked his eyes to her neck. Her carotid pulsed at her throat. Ba-boom. He touched his fingers to it. She lifted her head to give him more. A simple act, but it spoke volumes. She trusted him. He wondered why.

“You look . . . hunted,” she said.

He wanted to ask what a hunted man looked like, then decided he didn’t want to know. She stretched again, revealing more of her neck. He ran his fingers up to her chin, the side of her cheek, past her hairline to the tip of her forehead. So soft: her skin, her hair. He felt himself harden again. He rolled on top of her.

When they finally got out of bed, the floor was colder than he expected, and he hopped across it, triggering a giggle from Cece. She had a nice laugh. Musical. He dove back in.

“We should think about getting up,” she said. “I have to go to work.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a claims supervisor for an insurance company. Used to be a nurse, but I didn’t like the hours.” She shrugged. “It’s a paycheck.”

“Where is your office?”

“Not far. River Grove.”

Dar nodded, although she could have been talking about California. He had no idea where River Grove was.

She got out of bed, pulled on her socks, and padded downstairs. He heard a spray of water in the kitchen followed by the clang of dishes and silverware. A few minutes later, the smell of fresh brewed coffee wafted up. Dar got out of bed, threw on his pants, and made his way down to the kitchen. Cece smiled. Opening a drawer, she took out paper and pen and scrawled something. She handed him the paper.

“What’s this?”

“My name and phone number. My last name is Wainwright.”

“Cece Wainwright.”

“That’s right.”

“Dar Gantner.”

She stuck out her hand and giggled again. “Nice to meet you.”

He raised her hand to his face and guided it down his cheek.

“You keep doing that and I’ll never make it to work.”

“Would that be so bad?”

She gently pulled her hand away. The coffee was ready. She poured it into mugs, then, without asking, dumped a truckload of sugar in both. She held out the mug to him. “What about you? Where do you work?”

He sipped the coffee. It was so sweet his teeth itched. He set down the mug. “I wash dishes at the cafeteria. And I don’t like sugar in my coffee.”

She pretended to pout. “Is this our first fight?”

“Just a request.”

She hesitated, then dumped out his mug, poured more coffee, and handed it to him. “You’re a dishwasher?”

He kept his mouth shut.

Then, “How long were you inside?”

He took a sip of his unsweetened coffee. “I need a favor, Cece.”

“I’m listening.”

“I need to borrow your car.”

Her eyebrows rose sky high.

“I’m not going to steal it.”

“And I know that because . . . ”

He looked at her, his mind full of unspoken pleas, rationales. He broke eye contact. “You’re right. I did have some trouble. And it looks like it’s finding me again. But I’ve never been a thief.”

“You did time.” He nodded. “A lot, by the looks of you.”

“How do you know?”

“I told you. You have the look.” She cupped both hands around her mug. “I can find out who you are and what you did. We have claims investigators, remember? They find out all sorts of things about people. All I have to do is ask.”

“I’ll make it even easier for you. I’ll give you the name and number of my parole officer. If I don’t come back with your car, you can have me thrown in jail.”

“I just might.”

“But just remember . . . if I’m in jail, I won’t be able to tell you how beautiful you are and how you saved my soul last night.”

She looked as if she wanted to smile but was holding it back. “Are you always such a smooth talker?”

He smiled.

“How long since you’ve driven a car?” 

“About forty years.”

Her mouth opened. “Are you crazy? Where do you need to go?”

“Winnetka.”

“You have a driver’s license?”

He kept his mouth shut.

“Christ! If I do let you borrow it, and assuming you don’t total it, when were you planning to bring it back?”

“How about if I pick you up at the end of the day?”

“What makes you think I want to see you again?”

He wasn’t fooled. “Because . . . ” He stroked her hand, waited for her to put down the mug. Then he raised her hand to his lips. He wondered if she felt the same thrill. “ . . . we’re not finished.”

As his mouth moved over her fingers, she smiled. A real smile, this time. “No.” Her voice was husky. “We’re not.”

* *

It took Dar a few minutes to get the feel of driving again. The car, a black, four-door Honda, was easy enough to maneuver, but the volume of traffic on the road and the speed with which it sped past was unnerving. Where had all these cars come from? Gas cost six times as much as it used to, yet many of the cars were bigger than a VW van. More powerful, too. He’d read about the ocean of debt American consumers were drowning in. These had to be one of the reasons why.

He’d Googled Casey’s address at the library but didn’t know how to get there. The librarian helped him print out a map, which instructed him to drive north on 294 to Willow, then head east. Thirty minutes later, he entered Winnetka. As he wound through village streets, he gazed at the huge houses, the wide snow-covered lawns, the genteel affluence. This was where the establishment lived. He drove past a street with so many trees that the bare branches made a lacy brocade against the sky. Casey had lived here, in the maw of the enemy. Clearly his old friend had changed.

He headed toward Casey’s street. Turning down the lane, he was surprised at how narrow it was. An inverse proposition, he guessed. The bigger your home, the smaller your street.

It wasn’t hard to identify the house. The roof had collapsed, and the second story was open to the elements. The exterior walls still stood, but they were stained with soot. The windows were boarded up. He stopped the car. It was winter quiet, as if the fire had obliterated the life force of the entire block. Bits of yellow tape fluttered from the porch. The only thing that seemed untouched was the front door, blood red. It looked like it was supporting the rest of the structure. A lonely sentinel keeping out unwanted intruders.

Dar got out and tramped over ridges of frozen mud to the back. He imagined the place without the snow cover. A broad sloping lawn, big enough for swings, picnics, even touch football. Casey’s children had grown up in protected surroundings. That was good. Maybe the only good thing to come out of it all.

He thought he knew who was responsible for the fire. He even thought he knew why. But that didn’t make it easier to accept. In the space of a few days, the bridges to his past had been destroyed. Just when he was ready to reconnect with the people on the other side. Teddy. Rain. Casey and his son.

The only one left was the daughter. Lila, they called her. She was out when the house caught fire. If coincidence was the reason she was still alive, would they try again? Then again, why was she in their sights at all? He supposed there was the chance Casey had told the children something unintentionally. Dar imagined how, late at night, Casey might have started to relive the past. He certainly had. Maybe, during one of those reveries, Casey’s son or daughter had seen him gazing at an article . . . a photo . . . a letter. He could imagine the child asking, “What’s that, Dad?” See Casey dismiss it, with something like, “Oh, that’s something you don’t have to concern yourself with. It happened a long time ago.” But what if one of the children persisted? When a child wants something, it’s hard to say no. Or so he’d been told.

He stared at the shell of what had once been a fine home. A bitter wind stung his face. If he was thinking this way, the people who killed Casey and Rain were, too. At the very least they’d be following the girl, checking her movements. Which meant she was vulnerable. Unless he got to her first.