The Green Line (2 page)

Sarah, Abby’s closest friend at the firm, was her only option. But Sarah had just moved in with her fiancé. Abby dialed 411 and asked for a listing for Rick Baker in Chicago. After a brief pause, the operator responded, “There are fifteen listings. What street, please?” Abby had no idea. “Fuck!” she said out loud. “Sorry,” she mumbled into the phone before hanging up. She stared at the keypad. Calling her mother in Georgia or her best friend in New York would not help things. She dialed David’s cell. After three rings, his voice mail picked up.

“David, I’m sorry. It’s Abby.” She paused, wondering what she could even say. She chose the path of calm and confident. “I’m in a jam and I didn’t know who to call. Uh, hope I didn’t disturb. Take care. Sorry again for calling so late.” She shook her head in frustration for calling him again. Her mantra, “move on,” filled her head.

She stared at the receiver for guidance and noted the Bluebird Cab sticker on the wall in front of her. Yes! But then she remembered that she didn’t know where she was. She had turned off of Lake Street onto some side street when she saw the bar sign. Her stomach turned in knots. She hung up the phone and went back to the bar. Most of the people had cleared out. She sat down to gather her thoughts.

Where is the god-damned bartender? Abby’s internal dialogue was reaching a scream. Trying to appear calm, she searched through her purse again—for nothing in particular, but the nervousness made her want to do something with her hands and it was better to look busy. It would have been a good cigarette moment. She hadn’t smoked since law school, when she smoked so many cigarettes while studying for the bar that she disgusted herself into stopping cold, but she thought it would make her look tough and confident—just what she needed right now.

Two people got up and left. An older white man came up to the bar and sat two stools down. She looked around the near-empty room. It seemed like a good time to turn on the southern charm. She turned to the man with a smile and dialed up the accent. “Excuse me, sir. Do you work here?”

“Nope.” He smiled. His teeth were as neglected as the building. He inched closer and moved his hand on the bar toward her. His long, dirty nails tapped the counter. She could smell the liquor seeping from his pores. “You need some help?” he offered.

“Oh, thank you. I’ll wait for the bartender,” she replied with unconvincing optimism.

Feeling his stare, Abby ranted in silence. What kind of plan is this? Stop staring at me, old man!

This was a mistake. She needed to get back to the train station. Those guys would be gone by now. She jumped out of her seat and headed for the door.

Abby tried to run but it was more of a jog as she held tight to her briefcase and purse and focused on keeping her two-inch heels from flying off. She passed a woman casually strolling down Lake Street with a polka dot umbrella. Abby nearly knocked her to the ground as she ran by.

“Bitch!” the woman yelled. Abby offered a small “Sorry!” over her shoulder without slowing down. It took a second for it to register, but the outfit seemed like a give-away—the plaid school-girl mini, the fish-net hose, the red patent-leather three-inch heels. And then Abby giggled, realizing what she might have just bumped. It was better than crying. This was all so absurd.

In less than ten minutes, she was back at the train station. She ran to the top of the stairs, put her CTA card in the machine, and pushed the turnstile. It was locked. She looked at the read-out on the machine. It said nothing. She tried again. It wouldn’t work.

“
What the fuck?
” she yelled.

She looked up and saw the hours of operation—6:00 a.m. to midnight. She looked at her watch—12:05 a.m.

TWO

TRIP
grabbed the door of Reggie’s and pushed it open with authority. He surveyed the room. It was just as he remembered—great potential. An old man sitting at the bar turned toward him. Their eyes met and the man grabbed his coat. Trip removed his gloves and held the door open as the man scampered out. He wasn’t surprised at his ability to clear a room. Now he could get busy.

“Hello!” he called out, just to be sure.

A voice answered from the back room. “Yeah! Coming!” Trip went to the bar and sat, prepared to handle any delay. The bartender backed into the room carrying a rack full of glasses. Trip grinned. He knew those dreadlocks.

“Sorry,” the bartender offered over his shoulder. “Just doin’ the dishes. We’re about to close.” He sat the rack on the back bar and turned toward the customer, offering his “What can I do…?” but stopped when he saw Trip.

“Hello, Leon.”

The bartender backed up and grabbed the counter behind him. His gaze darted around the room. “What can I do for you, man?”

Trip tapped his finger to his lips and let the suspense build. This was fun. “Well, Leon, how about…a Stoli martini on the rocks with blue cheese olives?”

The man faked a laugh. “This ain’t no hotel bar, man. I don’t got that shit.”

Trip erased his smile, leaned over, and commanded, “Well, maybe you better get it.”

The man looked around again, probably wondering if the others had come back too. “What?”

“Leon, my good man, there’s a liquor store just a mile away. Tell you what, I’ll wait patiently.” Trip sat back and folded his arms across his chest.

“I, uh, . . .”

“You don’t want any more trouble, I’m guessing.”

The man didn’t answer.

“Don’t worry, I’ll watch the place for you. It’s safe with me here,” he offered.

The man looked around at the empty room. “Um, okay.” He grabbed a jacket from the counter and went out the back, turning back several times to look at Trip.

Trip waved. “Take your time!” When he heard the back door slam, Trip pulled out his cell, hit the speed dial, and barked instructions. “We’re good. Yeah, hold him for about twenty minutes.” He closed the phone, opened his jacket, and pulled a quart-sized zip-lock bag from his inside pocket. He placed it on the bar, put some newspapers on top, and turned to the door.

But he stopped, turned back, and stared at the newspapers. There was time. He pushed aside the papers and opened the bag for just a pinky-nail’s worth. Or two.

He was wiping his nose when he heard the front door.

“Hey, baby. I thought that was you.”

Trip turned toward the voice and tried to block the view of the bar with his body. “Oh yeah?”

Delia smiled. “Yeah. I saw that ass from a block back. I been looking for you.” She raised one stiletto up against the door and smiled.

“Is that right?” Trip turned back to the bar, re-sealed the bag, and replaced the newspapers. Now he could talk.

She moved toward him in her most deliberate strut. “Well, it’s been a while, but the last time I saw you, you were awfully kind to me.”

He remembered well. He’d caught her doing someone in a black Mercedes near the United Center last fall. It was a great score. He loved the car and the man’s pockets had been loaded with cash and blow. And, of course, Delia had been happy to offer some service while they shared a few lines.

He leaned against the bar and welcomed the visual candy.

She caressed his chest and whispered in his ear, “I thought maybe you might be looking for some fun again.”

Her voice, that breath in his ear, was hard to resist. Most of the whores were dirty and desperate, but Delia was a piece of ass. She had an innocence. Couldn’t have been more than twenty. “What are you suggesting?” He could feel the coke ramping him up. He was ready for anything.

Her hands were all over him. She continued to whisper like there was a roomful of people. “I think there’s a bathroom right back there. Come on.”

Trip looked around and checked his watch. He had twenty minutes. This shouldn’t take more than ten, he thought with a grin. He locked the front door and followed her into the bathroom.

Delia was leaning against the stall door, unbuttoning her blouse. “So, baby, what’s your pleasure tonight?”

“Well, I don’t know. This is a good start, though.”

She tried to take off his jacket, but he moved her hands away. “Well, how about this?” She knelt down and unzipped his fly.

Trip stood there, watching her, enjoying her tricks. But she pulled away and looked up at him. “Don’t finish yet, baby. Let’s both enjoy this.”

He checked his watch again. “Okay.” He pulled a condom from his pocket and gave it to her. She moved swiftly and then they were on the floor.

Delia began to moan. Trip was ready to finish.

“Hey, let’s keep this party going,” she panted.

It slowed him down. He opened his eyes and looked at her. “What do you mean?”

She offered a knowing look. “What was in the bag?”

Trip stopped moving. “What?”

“Oh, come on, baby. You know.”

He tried to hide his irritation. “No, tell me.”

She guided his hands to her breasts. “On the bar?” she hinted, squeezing his hands so he’d grab her with force. “Maybe we could take that back to your place and go have a little more fun.”

He should have known. Addicts had a way of sniffing out drugs.

He stared at her breast and rubbed her hard as he processed the suggestion.

It only took a second. “Well, I don’t know,” he offered in a tease. “That does sound fun.” He brought her leg up to his shoulder as he pushed harder.

“So, good idea?” She suddenly sounded desperate.

He kissed her leg as he rolled down her stocking and removed her spiked heel. She giggled.

“Okay, baby, but first, I need to finish.” He let go of her foot and focused as he pushed harder and harder. Delia’s eyes were closed and her mouth gaped open in pleasure.

Trip stayed inside her, motionless, as he readied himself for what was next. “Now,” he said, wrapping the stocking around her neck, “let’s see how you like this.”

Her breathing became more labored and Delia opened her eyes in confusion. Trip continued to press the hose against her neck. She stared into his face. Her expression changed to fear. She tried to push him off but his full weight was on her. Her legs kicked around wildly. She grabbed at his hands and tried to beat his arms away. She scratched at his coat. But she was no match. She couldn’t yell. She couldn’t breathe.

When it was over he leaned toward her ear and whispered, “Mind your own business.”

THREE

TEARS
welled in Abby’s eyes. She crouched to the ground for stability, trying to gain control of her panic and her bladder, now begging for relief as well. Nothing, not those twenty minutes before the bar exam, not her first motion call, or even the break up with David had created such anxiety.

She felt like she was losing it. Fuck. “Deep breaths, deep breaths. Okay. Panic will do no good.” She tried to convince herself. No one was around.

She never should have left the office. Peter would never understand. She thought of his last comment as he left her office at six o’clock. “
You’ve got a spare suit, right?
” They both knew it meant she was to pull an all-nighter. At the time, she’d just said, “
I’ll go get some coffee,
” having learned long ago that when a partner asked you to do something, you did it. Of course, her inability to say no was the reason that she’d spent most of her weekend at the firm and had slept only ten hours since Friday. She could just picture his face—the disappointment, the disdain, if she admitted leaving without finishing the draft.

She looked over the stair railing at the street below. It was still raining. Maybe criminals don’t hang out in the streets when it rains, she thought.

She could not run home. It had to be at least six miles. It might as well have been sixty. She could not see anything along Lake Street from the top of the stairs. She looked north, but all she could make out were rooftops and street lights off to the right along Cicero.

She rose and leaned over the railing for a bird’s-eye view of the neighborhood. Small matchbox houses with uniformly pitched roofs lined several small streets to the west. She was desperate for a plan. She could ring the doorbell of one of those homes and ask for a phone. No. It was midnight. What if she rang some gangster’s door? She couldn’t get past her fear.

The bar was the only option. It wasn’t too far. It had a pay phone. There had to be an owner or employee—someone who could help. “Most people are good,” she assured herself.

Abby ran down the stairs and several blocks east toward the now-familiar side street for Reggie’s, noting the address so she could tell a taxi where to go. Finally, the rain stopped. Things were turning around. Up ahead, someone was leaving the bar. The light by the front door lit his frame and wavy blond hair. The man was at least a block away by the time she got to the entrance. Please be open, she thought. She pushed open the bar door, praying the old man would be gone. It had been about twenty minutes.

The bar was empty, though the lights were all on.

“Hello? Anyone here?”

No answer.

She felt like a child, not knowing if her concerns of being viciously attacked or killed were well-founded. Of almost equal concern was her fear of screwing up on the motion she needed to turn in tomorrow. She had no time for getting lost, for getting scared, for getting attacked, and this almost brought back the tears. Worse, her nervous bladder could not be ignored. She headed for the toilet sign.