The Fifth Floor (15 page)

“I don’t know. Sick? Scared?”

“Taylor’s a kid. She’s upset and angry.”

“That it?”

“She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“You sure about that?”

“Kill Johnny? You can’t think she’d ever seriously consider…” Janet dismissed the notion with a shake of her head. “No one’s going to hurt Johnny, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried. Just thought you might want to talk to your girl. Explain some things to her.”

“My kid’s not a murderer.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Fine. I’ll talk to her.”

Janet sank her eyes into her drink. I scratched at the label on my bottle of beer. The old man in the corner leafed through a Sun-Times. He read it from back to front, two fingers played up the side of his face, a lit cigarette dangling there. He moved his mouth to the smoke without ever taking his hand from under his chin and turned the pages slowly.

“You think I’m making a mistake, don’t you?” Janet said.

“I told you what I think.”

“The face isn’t as bad as it looks.”

My client’s reflection played like some sort of cruel joke above the row of bottles behind the bar.

“It isn’t?”

Janet slipped the glasses back over her eyes and folded the rest of herself back into the scarf.

“No, it isn’t. Besides, I get my pound of flesh.” She said the last part with a measured cadence, a rhythm, soaked in some sort of very private satisfaction.

“And how does that work?”

I didn’t expect a window into how or where my client took her marital pound. I wasn’t disappointed.

“Not now, Michael. When I have it together, I promise, you’ll be the first to know.”

She turned as she spoke, and I could see a splinter of myself reflected in the dark lenses. I wanted more from my client, but I wasn’t going to get it. I could walk, but that didn’t play for me either. Never did.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said. “Take a ride.”

Janet tilted her head toward the street. “My car’s here. How about I make us some dinner? Taylor’s at a friend’s for the night and Mr. Charming is staying downtown.”

I finished my beer and threw down some money. The bartender kept his eyes glued to the set. Maybe Lou’s team was really that interesting this year. Being a Cubs fan myself, I knew better.

D inner was roasted chicken and some salad. Afterward, we sat at the kitchen table with a bottle of wine and cigarettes. That’s when my client decided to tell me how it started.

“He took a dozen eggs out of the fridge.” Janet nodded her head as if I didn’t believe her. I hadn’t said a word.

“We were married less than a month. It was a Saturday morning and I had to take Taylor to a soccer game. Told him I didn’t have time to pick up his dry cleaning.”

She topped off her glass and offered the bottle to me. I shook my head.

“He comes downstairs. Hungover like a dog. Asks me what I said. So I told him again that I couldn’t pick up the dry cleaning. He goes to the fridge and gets the eggs. Grabs me by the back of the neck and sits me down at the table.”

“You try and stop him?”

“Honestly, I didn’t know what was going on. Besides, he was stronger than I knew. At least he was then. So I sat right here. And he cracked an egg. Over my head. Right down my face.”

Janet turned at an angle and took a hit off her cigarette, a single eye fixed on me as she blew a stack of smoke into the space between us.

“He didn’t say anything. Just held my shoulders and head and cracked the egg. First one, then another. Probably about a half dozen in all. Then he left. Went back upstairs to bed. His way of telling me who was boss.”

“What did you do?”

She laughed and I caught a flash of her eyeteeth. “Hard-ass Janet, right? Should have left, run for the door? Well, I didn’t. Mostly because of this.”

Janet waved her glass around the house in Sauganash.

“I didn’t want to lose all this. For Taylor, I told myself. So I cleaned up and I stayed. Course it got worse. The eggs were just the message. After that came the pushing. Yelling. Slaps turned into fists. Rough sex, whenever and however he wanted. You know how it goes. You’ve seen it.”

I took a sip of wine and the two of us sat with things. However they were.

“I knew someday he’d be done with me,” she said. “Then he’d go after Taylor.”

“So it is like that.”

My client nodded to herself and something moved behind her eyes. “Not yet, but it could be. Anyway, I couldn’t take the chance. Couldn’t just wait around.”

“So you came to see me. Almost a year ago.”

“You were a friend. Okay, once we were more than friends.” She took a cautious look up from under her bruises. “You thought any more about that?”

“About what?”

“About us. About what I told you.”

“I try not to.”

“It never would have worked, Michael. You know that.”

“There might have been other options.”

She began to speak, then settled for a hard grimace.

“Let’s not get into this again,” I said. “What’s done is done. In your next life, just tell the guy.”

She shook her head. “It was my body. My decision.”

“Then why do I have to live with it?”

It was a selfish question. One without an answer. One that, once asked, couldn’t be undone.

“We’re talking more than fifteen years ago, Michael. I was a kid. And I was scared.”

I nodded. “Yeah, you were a kid. We both were.”

“You think there’s something more to it?”

“I think you had plans.”

Janet toasted her plans. “You mean I was about the money. That’s why I hooked up with Taylor’s dad right after you. Mr. Board of Trade. Then, Mr. City Hall. Thought a guy with a little bit of green would take care of all my problems. Get a house, nice car. All that security.”

“Not so secure, huh?”

“Take a look around. From now on, I take care of my own.”

“Is that why you looked me up after all these years?”

“You were always strong, Michael. Even when I finally told you about it.”

“And once you told me, I might be more likely to take you on as a client?”

“Is that what you think?”

“You tell me.”

Her eyes had hardened into bits of emerald, polished and shining. “I thought you needed to know what happened. Even if it happened a long time ago. As for the rest of it, if you could help me find some answers to the thing with Johnny, yes, I wanted that.”

“And now?” I said.

“Now, the answers are all there. It’s the questions I need to face up to.”

“In the meantime, we all wait.”

She reached over. Her hand was like leather and cold to the touch. Or maybe it was just me.

“It’s not perfect, Michael. But I can promise you this. When we’re ready, I’ll walk away with my kid and never look back.”

I moved my hand off hers. “Just don’t wait too long.”

“I won’t.” She stood up and stepped close. “We okay?”

I nodded and thought I meant it. She leaned over and ran her lips across my cheek. Then she started to clear the table, as if that would somehow change her life. I watched for a while before wandering into the living room. Mitchell Kincaid’s run for mayor was the second story on the ten o’clock news. Janet came in with the rest of the wine and sat down.

“I saw him speak,” she said. Fox News rolled tape of Kincaid, smiling and shaking hands at a rally.

“What did you think?”

“Honestly?”

“Sure.”

“I thought it must have been what Bobby Kennedy was like.”

I looked at the screen. The crowd around Kincaid was mostly white, mostly young, and mostly female. A little like being at a Beatles concert back when Paul and John shaved once a week.

“That good, huh?”

A college-age woman, hair dyed red and braided tight to her head, jumped in front of the candidate. She wore cargo pants, a white shirt, and a black bomber jacket. The girl lifted up her shirt to reveal a ripped set of abs. Kincaid smiled and signed her stomach as all the other women screamed.

“I didn’t say I’d vote for him,” Janet said. “Remember who my asshole husband works for.”

I picked up the remote and froze the image on the screen. Kincaid was caught in profile, his hand reaching out to tousle the head of a young boy in the crowd.

“You think he could win?”

Janet snickered. “Going up against Wilson? Please. Barack Obama is one thing. He was only running for president. Kincaid wants to be mayor.”

“In Chicago.”

“Exactly. Wilson’s got all the big money and unions in his back pocket. And if, by some miracle, Kincaid doesn’t run out of cash, then they’ll get nasty.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know for sure, but Johnny hinted that they were working on some stuff. He had that little glitter in his eye.”

I took another look at Chicago’s would-be savior. To Mitchell Kincaid’s left was his security aide. Large and young, muscled and black. It was a face that bothered me, one I thought I recognized. Or maybe it was just the simmering anger that seemed so familiar.

“Let’s see what else is on,” Janet said, and plucked the remote from my hand. She ran through some channels and settled on Letterman. “You like Dave?”

“He’s okay.” I looked at a small clock on the wall. It was coming up on eleven o’clock. “But I gotta go.”

“I told you, Johnny won’t be back tonight.”

“That’s not really the point.”

Janet held up a hand. “He gets a room downtown. Takes a change of clothes and goes right to work in the morning.” She turned the hand over, palm facing up, and looked back at the tube. “So what else is new?”

“You think he’s got a girl down there?”

Janet kept her eyes on Letterman and shrugged. I thought about the brunette at City Hall. The perfume and the curves.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter.” Janet smiled brightly at the flat screen. “Really doesn’t. Just don’t worry about running out of here. At least because of him.”

She turned up the volume on the TV. Enough to drive our conversation into early retirement. I leaned back into the couch. It was soft. Dave was funny. He had Billy Crystal on. I liked Billy Crystal. Reminded me of a throwback sort of comedian. Didn’t need to get into the bathroom to get a laugh. Class.

I took another sip of my wine. Janet laughed at a joke and I relaxed some more. Pretty soon my feet were up on the couch. Then I stretched out.

I WOKE UP in a hurry, four hours later. The house was dark. The house was quiet. It was three-thirty in the morning. There was a pillow under my head and a blanket over the rest of me. I was alone and apparently tucked in for the night.

I knew Woods was going straight to work in the morning. Still, it was better to leave. Just in case a Papa Bear named Johnny decided to come trundling home. I told myself I’d just rest my eyes for another thirty seconds. Then I leaned back into the pillow. Very white. Very soft.

S unlight cut across the living room, found my eyelids, and pried them open. For a moment, I wondered where I was. Then I sat up and remembered. I swore at myself in as many ways as I could think of. That took a while. After that, I crept quietly to the front windows. It was just starting to lighten. The block was still and empty. I walked into the kitchen, turned on the tap, and ran some cold water over my face. I thought about scribbling a note for Janet. Then I thought about Taylor stumbling on it. Even better, Janet’s husband. Maybe a note wasn’t such a good idea.

I went out the back door, found my car at the end of the block, and slid behind the wheel. So far, so good. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the face of Johnny Woods, smiling back.

“Have fun, Kelly?”

I ducked and heard the crack of safety glass. A black tire iron had gashed my windshield. Woods was halfway into the front seat, trying to pry it free. Fortunately, he wasn’t having much luck. I scooted a bit lower to the floor as Woods swung a paw south, hoping to catch some part of my anatomy. After that, he abandoned the tire iron completely and came after me, face first.

A proper head butt is akin to a work of art. The head should be held forward and low. You want to aim anywhere below the brow: eyes, cheeks, teeth. Nose is best. Lovely pop and hurts like hell. Johnny Woods was no exception. Blood all over the front seat and a moment’s peace for yours truly.

I got my hand on the driver’s latch and opened the door. Woods had one hand on my leg, the other still pressed to his proboscis. That was pretty much how we got out of the car, sprawled on the corner of Kirkwood and Hiawatha.

I scrambled to my feet as Woods swung again. Missed by a lot. He was still bleeding pretty hard, breathing even more so. Johnny might have been a fighter in his day, but that was a long time and a lot of doughnuts ago. I held my fists on either side of my head, elbows in and tight to the ribs. I didn’t try to turn or move. Just stood there and let Woods come. At first, he was tentative. A couple of swings I caught up high off my shoulders. When he saw he wasn’t getting hit, Woods got a lot bolder. Began stepping into his shots. Rights, then lefts. He was windmilling, losing most of his power on the way in, each swing punctuated with “fucker” or “motherfucker.” I ducked and weaved a bit. Woods telegraphed his punches, and they were easy to pick off. I caught some with my forearms. The body shots I let in. Allowed them to bury in my side and ribs. He could hear me grunt as they landed. I think Johnny enjoyed that. I didn’t blame him. From his point of view, I had just spent the night with his wife.

After twenty seconds or so, Woods realized something. Fighting is hard work, even when you aren’t getting hit. Sixty seconds in, he was pawing more than punching. Thirty seconds after that, he was done. Woods hadn’t really hurt me. Maybe a tweaked rib or two, but nothing more than a light spar. Johnny, on the other hand, was spent.