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Chicago Nights Ch. 01

By: SirThopas



Somewhere, within the storm, there was a sign. 

It wasn't much. It could be, and frequently was, easily missed. Unadorned, made of faded bronze...just another plaque stuck to the side of a deteriorating brick building, tilting a little bit to the left in its old age. 

The curious and careful reader would find Olde English lettering, scratchy and unpainted, informing that the bar at the bottom of the stairs was called 'The Rage.' Not many people can claim to be curious and careful reader, however, so it was a name very few were aware of. 

If the dilapidated condition of the sign alone wasn't enough to encourage dismissal, a dusting of January snow had managed to accumulate in its curvy nooks. Tiny mounds of snow were packed into each curve and kink like ivory-colored barn swallow nests. 

Hunter hunched his shoulders against the wind and moved past the sign without brushing it off. He rarely paid any attention whatsoever to the existence of the plaque that named his bar, in fact he often forgot about its very existence. If he had noticed it, he would in fact have been quite pleased by its illegibility. 

The staircase down to the Rage was slick with that certain type of smooth and secret ice that loves a city, most of it hidden further by that same light coating of powdered snow. This was a common problem in winter, so Hunter instinctively pressed one swollen, calloused hand against the brick for support before starting down. Stepping carefully, using the gritty texture as a grip, he gingerly and experimentally approached the door. 

There was a handrail, of course, just inches below where his hand met the wall, but Hunter ignored it. It was a bent and ugly thing, sharp with jutting elbows that could cut through skin and glove. It clung to the wall by rusted, poorly-fitting brackets, and their loose hold left it free to groan and twist in a person's grip. Someday, probably soon, someone would reach for it in a moment of panic and simply tear it right off the wall. 

Hunter himself managed to slip a little on the third step down, one foot shooting defiantly out in front of him, and he took a moment to balance himself before continuing on. "Jesus," he muttered, moving at a slower pace now. "This is fucking ridiculous."

Reaching the bottom at last, he swung the door open and stepped into the entryway. Dim light made shadows of his thick eyebrows and bulbous nose, which he pinched between thick nicotine-stained fingers as he sniffled. Hunter knew he had a rough face, the kind that brought grey rock, glass, and abstract illnesses to mind. But he wasn't upset by it. People in his business respected a rough face. They flocked to them; they understood them. So to his mind it was just another asset. 

Brushing the snow off his shoulders, he blew into his cupped hands for warmth a few times and then pulled off his coat. Draping it over his forearm, he stomped heavily on the mat and waved to the only other person occupying the wide yawn of a bar.

"Hey, Adrian," he called, voice pockmarked by phlegm. "How's business been this fine evening?"

The other man glanced over at him expressionlessly, and Hunter fought the urge to laugh. 

Adrian Burke had a rough face, too, and Hunter admired it. It was even rougher than his own. Oh, Adrian must have looked normal once upon a time. Shit, maybe he'd even been a little handsome. But these days he was a goddamn Christmas tree of thick and angry scars. His jaw didn't seem to sit right, either, and his right eye was always glassy and infected looking. On top of it all, he really sold the whole thing by always being so fucking sullen. Hunter was almost envious of him for that.

"It's been just like this," Adrian grumbled, looking around the empty room. "Just like always."

"Good," Hunter nodded approval at his barman. "That's real good. It means you've got some time on your hands. I need you to go out and get the ice off of the steps. Nearly broke my goddamn neck trying to come down here." He stomped his feet one more time on the ratty mat for good measure. "I want this place to be the worst bar in town, not a goddamn deathtrap." He pinched his nose and dislodged a measure of mucus from somewhere inside himself.

Adrian nodded wordlessly, heading for the door with a passive indifference. He went about the assignment with the same expressionless malaise that he carried everywhere. 

Hunter sighed his disappointment. Adrian Burke was a terrible bartender, and that was just what Hunter needed him to be. He was also a moody fucker when he didn't take his meds, and one ugly son of a bitch to boot. Hunter liked those qualities, as well. But he wasn't much for conversation, and Hunter liked conversation. He liked it a lot. 

With a shake of his head, he turned and kept walking.

At the back of the large main room was a narrow hallway that led to 'his' and 'hers' bathrooms. Just past those, right before the pile of cardboard boxes that covered up the rear exit, was a third, narrower door, unlabeled. Hunter took that one, slipping into his office and smiling when he saw that it was already occupied. 

Two figures, a large man and a young woman, were sitting on the chewed up yard sale of a couch that set opposite his desk. 

"How long you been waiting?" he asked the man as he closed the door behind him. 

"Not long," the wide, ruddy-cheeked man replied. He reclined on the couch, head back and eyes toward the ceiling, looking completely bored. Next to him, though, the short, thin Hispanic woman with long hair showed the curled, fetal posture of the truly afraid. Her clothing defied the season: small, clinging shorts that rested low on the hips and high on the thighs, with a tight tank top that mashed her breasts together and upwards. The bald man was rubbing her left thigh lazily with one hand, a casual and intimate gesture that she made no effort to avoid or respond to. "But I do have other business to see to tonight," he continued, "so have a look and let's get this over with."

Hunter tossed his coat on his desk, pinched his nose, and gave one last valiant effort to clear his tracts. Then he waved the girl over. "Very well. Come over here, sweetie. Let's see what you're worth."

The girl glanced at the bald man, just a tiny turn of the head and a flickering of the eyes. He nodded tersely, and she tensed. Still, she hesitated, not making any effort to move until he let out a sigh and took his hand off of her thigh. These were the tiny, telling actions of someone who is deathly afraid of doing the wrong thing, because they know exactly what the wrong thing will mean for them. Biting her lip and keeping her eyes to the floor, she stood shakily up and walked over to where Hunter stood.

"She has a nice figure," he admitted, grabbing her hips like property and running his thumbs over her pockets. He tilted his head this way and that, as he turned her from side to side. Then he leaned toward her and in a loud, careful voice, repeated, "You have a very nice figure."

"She does speak English," the fat man said dully.

Hunter grunted. "Good. That will make things easier. I like this horse's mane, too. Thick. Good for pulling." He gave it a tug, jerking her head backwards, and smiled at the quiet feminine yelp that his action produced. "How old is she?"

"Tells me she's nineteen," the fat man tugged at his ear. "Might be lying, but I don't have reason to doubt her." A small smile curled his lips. "She yelps like that when you take her, too. Right when you slip in. Happens every time, without fail. It really is a hell of a sound."



"Oh? She doesn't look like one of those." Hunter was almost disappointed.

"I don't think it's pleasure," the fat man corrected with a sniff. "Sounds almost like...I don't know. Something tragic. But I never really bothered to ask." He stretched and yawned.

Hunter grunted. "Why would you?" He turned back to the girl. "Look at me, honey. Hey. Let me see your face."

She raised sad eyes up to him. He gathered her hair up away from her face and studied. "Very pretty. Wow." He looked closer. "This is unreal. One of the best I've ever seen. She's got nice cheekbones, pretty brown eyes. A small mouth." He gripped her firmly by the jaw and turned her face. "Full lips, though. Small mouth and full lips. That's got to be worth a lot all by itself." He leaned in, locking eyes with her. "You like kissing games, sweetie?" She winced, tensing but not retreating.

The bald man grunted a laugh. "'Course she does, John. They all do."

"Don't call me that," Hunter snapped, good mood instantly evaporating. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Jesus. Don't ever fucking call me that." He tightened his grip on the girl's jaw, squeezing and looking very intently at her. "Hunter. My name is Hunter," he raised his eyebrows. "You'll remember?" She nodded, looking terrified.

The bald man shrugged lazily. "Hunter, then," he said. "Makes no difference to me."

"It makes a difference." He frowned at nothing. "It makes a difference." Turning back to the girl, he let go of her face. "I like your mouth. Open it for me, honey. Wider. I said wider." He put his thumb on her lower jaw and pushed down. When she had finally complied to his satisfaction, he slid two fingers in and examined the cavity clinically, as a dentist might. "Good teeth. That's a pleasant surprise. Almost too pleasant." He removed his fingers suddenly, folding his arms and studying the man. "This isn't Mexico City pussy, Ben, and don't try to tell me that it is. Where'd you pick her up?"

"Not far from Zihuatenejo. Some small town I've never heard of. I don't think she was from there, though."

Hunter shook his head disapprovingly. "The Triangle of the Sun? Jesus Christ. What on earth were you even doing down there? That's way dangerous territory for plucking flowers, my friend. There are a lot of powerful people down there, and they like to keep their pretties all for themselves."

"I know. I wasn't even looking, to tell the truth. Just passing through, saw her by chance." He waved his hand dismissively. "I'm telling you, they don't know she exists. In fact, I'm not sure anybody does. She was all alone out there. No family, no husband or boyfriend to come searching. No friends." He grunted. "It was easy. Those fat old Mexican women don't much like pretty young trim hanging around their villages, talking to their sons and smiling at their husbands. I just picked her right up, told a few miserable-looking women that she'd died, and they were happy as all hell to spread the word just as far and wide as their large and sagging asses would carry them. Right now, Hunter, you and I are the only two people in the world who know that this bitch is alive."

Hunter thought about that. It was possible, but it seemed strange nonetheless. The last thing he needed right now was some tough-as-nails Mexicano asshole showing up accusing him of lifting. "You, me, and your people," he corrected. "They know about her, too."

"Oh, well, they know the cargo we carry. And sometimes they take a little fun for their troubles. But not with this one. I kept her with me. I'm the only one who got a taste of it. I thought you might like that. You know, the whole innocence thing." he shrugged. "Anyway, I pay them well and pick them carefully. I always hire the ones who want to taste it but can't get it on their own. That way I know they won't turn on me. They get loyal."

Hunter grunted. "Dogs are loyal, but they'll still eat you when you die." He squeezed the girl's ass. "How noble of you to keep them away from this one."

"Look, I'm a businessman. Used to run a deli, even. The best sandwich in the world will have very few takers if it looks like it's already been nibbled on, you know?"

"People rarely have the same qualm about pussy," Hunter noted drily. "And thank God for it." He felt up a breast through the girl's shirt, hefting it and feeling for the nipple. "Firm, not droopy. You know, I'm getting more and more impressed all the time. Take off your clothes, honey." The girl glanced fearfully at the bald man, and Hunter rolled his eyes. "You're a good scout, Ben, I'll give you that. But it's always the same. You coddle these girls and then you leave it to me to break them in."

The fat man looked unapologetic and bored. "I do enough," he yawned.

Hunter's expression betrayed his opinion of that statement. "Honey," he said to the girl, "you've got ten seconds to strip down to nothing before I take it upon myself to hurt you. And I don't like to hurt women. I really don't." He sneered. "So, on those occasions when it becomes...necessary...I always make it count." He stepped in close, breathing heavy, and she backed up, the backs of her legs bumping against the desk. "I figure, if I have to teach a lesson to one of my girls, then I owe it to them to make it the lesson of a lifetime." He leaned in even closer, licking his lips, voice becoming a whisper. "And I know you understand me." 

Quickly, with shaking hands, she began pulling the clothes from her body. Soon she was standing naked, visibly fighting the urge to shield herself. 

Hunter examined her carefully, taking his time. He touched her all over, giving short commands. "This will have to go," he said at one point, yanking on her pubic hair and making her yelp again. When he ordered her to lean forward against the desk and hold her butt cheeks apart, she broke down and began to sob. But she obeyed, and he squatted down to examine her.

"Remarkable," he admitted at last. "I hope her work is as impeccable as her appearance."

The bald man frowned. "She's not particularly...experienced, I'm afraid. It's the down side of innocence, yes? The poor thing doesn't hardly know what to do with it besides to get it out of your pants and stick it up her cleft. That's her one weakness." He grunted. "Shit, if it weren't for the fact that she didn't bleed the first time I saddled her, I'd half wonder if she'd been a virgin."

Hunter sighed. "Well, I guess even that is survivable. I'll take looks over wisdom any day of the year. After all," he ran his fingers up her slit and then tasted them, "anyone can teach a virgin to be a whore. But not even I could train an ugly bitch pretty." He glanced over at the bald man. "The usual?"

"Plus nine." The man's bored look was suddenly betrayed by a twinkling light in his eyes. "This one's special. You can see that. And," he faked a yawn, "I had to transport a lot further than usual."

"Yeah, and I'll have to feed and house the stupid cunt for a month while I teach her the fucking trade."

"The fucking trade. I like that. It's funny. But you are a poor, inconvenienced man...so I suppose I can live with a plus seven."

Hunter started to haggle, but as he watched glistening tears form in the alluring eyes of the shivering Hispanic girl he felt his blood grow warm. He found he was prepared to lose the extra seven just to get the haggling done with and the training begun.

And if he was that eager to have her, others would be, too. "Fine," he said. "What's her name?"

"Ella," the bald man stood up, pulling his jacket on. "Or so she says. Dunno her last name. You know how to pay me?"

"I do," Hunter rain his hands through the girl's thick mane, like an owner brushing a favored horse. "Look for it by the end of the week."

The man stopped at the door. "Hunter," he said, "I've been meaning to tell you...this is the last one for me. I'm not coming back to Chicago. At least, not until things have settled down."

Hunter winced, sorry to lose a scout he could trust. But he nodded. He understood, even if he didn't like it. Ever since Piero, the mob boss who had reigned over the city's underworld, had been gunned down violent turf wars had blossomed throughout the Windy City. Every friend you made earned you a half dozen enemies. Fistfuls of hungry lieutenants popped up from every street corner, hoping to take the dead boss's place...or at least get a decent slice of his pie. Each carried their own collection of businesses, lackeys, and influences...and each wanted more. They fought each other, as well as the various gangs that inhabited the city and the police. In just one year's time, Chicago had gone from a careful businessman's dream to a nightly news report of a war zone. People were moving out, creating a bit of an exodus. Businesses were either relocating or murmuring about relocating. Talking heads were comparing it (in their ridiculously exaggerated way) to battle zones in the Middle East. There was even talk of the National Guard being mobilized.

What these idiot lieutenants, with their splintered resources and big ambitions, failed to realize was that they were killing themselves. They were running down the goddamn streets, painting great big targets all over everything. The American public will allow a lot to go on under their noses, especially if they benefit from it in some way. They only have one stipulation in return: don't ever, ever let them see that it's fucking happening. They don't mind knowing...just like they don't mind knowing how their shoes and IPods got made, or how people die every day fighting over the drugs they get from South America. Just like they don't mind knowing how babies all over the world starve to death, twitching in final agonizing throes, while America eats supper. They just don't want to have to see it. 

And that's exactly what was happening right now. By bringing its problems out into the bloody open, the mob was reminding everyone in the world that they were still alive, that they were in Chicago, and that they were very, very violent. The government had no choice but to grind them down and destroy them. Otherwise the people might rise up and do something drastic, like vote for the other candidate. 

They wouldn't stop it completely, of course. Not really. The mob was good for business. But some sense of retribution was going to have to occur, and only the very wise and the very lucky would still be alive by the time this war was over.

Hunter was hoping to make sure he was among the lucky. In fact, he had a meeting on the matter scheduled for later this very night. "When things do settle down," he said to the fat man, "you will know where to find me."

"I hope you're still here." It sounded earnest enough. Even a little concerned.

Hunter nodded. "I do, too."

The fat man stared at his contemporary a moment longer, almost pityingly, and then broke into a grin. "You know," he said, "your bar still stinks like shit. I almost think you do that on purpose."

Hunter smiled back. "Maybe I do."

Although the naked girl's eyes pleaded with him over Hunter's shoulder, perhaps preferring the known evil to the new, the trafficker left without another backward glance. 

Hunter turned back towards her. Leaning in close, sniffling loudly, he kissed her on the lips. Nervously, her fear of punishment only slightly more powerful than her revulsion, she responded. Her lips were dry, however, and she betrayed her lack of affection and her distaste with every movement. Hunter could see that he had his work cut out for him. He kissed her again, harder, and held her against him. Then, with his face so close to hers that she was breathing in his humid exhalations, he said, "You know what you are now, right?" She nodded almost imperceptibly, fresh tears watering her eyes. "Good," he smiled. "That's good. I didn't want to have to teach you that. But you do still have a lot to learn, and I'm going to have to be the one to teach it to you." He cupped her face. "We're going to get to know each other very well, you and I. You do a good job, and I'll always treat you kind. My good girls live very well, I promise. Try me, though..." his smile darkened. "Well. Just don't try me."

At that, Ella uttered her first words of the night. "Yes," she said, "sir."


Chicago Nights Ch. 01



Hunter liked that. Reaching up, he rubbed her shoulders approvingly with big, calloused hands. "You are a good girl," he said. "I can tell already." Then his grip hardened, and pressed insistently downward. He took in a deep, satisfied breath as little Ella sunk to her knees in front of him. Reaching down, he stroked her head like a favored pet. "Such a beautiful sight," he said, and then his grip on her hair tightened as, with his free hand, he began to undo his belt and pants.

Ella shivered, fighting back fresh tears as she reached up to help.



-=-=-



Adrian chipped mechanically at the ice, glad to have a menial task to help fog up his mind. The Rage offered precious little in the way of actual work, most nights, and he craved distraction. Work...any work...took his mind off of Laura. 

The door to the bar swung open, and the bald man who'd arrived earlier walked past with a nod. Adrian stepped aside, waiting to go back to chipping his shovel against the ice until the man had gone. He didn't have to wonder why the beautiful Latina girl the man had brought in hadn't left with him. He knew what this place was. It was a whorehouse, a torture chamber for lost souls. A supermarket for the depraved.

It was The Rage.

With a deep breath that came out like smoke in the chilled winter air, he went back to work. 



He measured the time that had passed since he came to Chicago. Seven months. Long, ugly months, each as hideous to him as the scars upon his face. 

It had been hard going. One of the lingering truths of the car accident that had damaged his brain and carved its name upon his visage was that he was never, ever going to be the best applicant for the job. Any job. By the time he'd met Hunter Kaufman, he'd been applying for work more out of desperation than any sense of hope. He'd applied at grocery stores, Walmarts, gas stations...everywhere that might have enough turnover to get desperate. He'd heard nothing.

He hadn't, however, applied at The Rage. He'd simply been a costumer there, and an unwelcome one at that. 

From the first time he stumbled into it, Adrian had liked going to The Rage. Nobody was ever there. He could drink in peace and quiet, pretend to be social without ever having to be social. He no longer drank alcohol, so he'd been hunched on his stool in the shittiest bar in town, staring down at his Pepsi, when he was offered the one job in this world that he was still the best applicant for: customer deterrent.

Hunter very clearly ran his bar as a cover. He hadn't said so directly, at least not in the early days, but he'd hinted about things. He'd also made several veiled statements about the importance of having people he could trust around...statements that were never quite threats. And he'd never fired Adrian, even though it quickly became obvious that Adrian was a terrible bartender. In fact, Hunter seemed delighted by his new barman's lack of ability. The worse it got, the more mistakes that were made, the happier he became.

It drove Adrian mad. He wanted to succeed, to prove to himself that there was still something out there that he was capable of. It was important to him, regardless of what Hunter Kaufman preferred. Every little pleased look Hunter threw his way only pushed him harder. But it didn't matter. He could never make himself remember what drinks were ordered, what mixes the various names referred to, or how they were made. He kept fucking up the tabs, misreading or miscounting even when things were simple. And, he often tried to bill people twice for the same drink. 

But if Adrian Burke seemed dark, it was because he was always standing in the shadows of the past. Ever since the car accident, when his little Taurus was t-boned by an oncoming semi, he had learned to live with loss. Loss of memory. Loss of ability. The loss of his career, and his dreams for the future. 

The loss of his wife. 

In many ways, Adrian believed that his accident had been fatal. Someone had been pulled from that wreckage and put back together. Someone had woken up and answered to his name. But it wasn't him...not really. Whoever he was now, Adrian Burke was just his Halloween costume.

There were other things, too. New things, to replace the lost the way water rushes in to fill a shark bite. And the most noticeable of these was anger. 

Whenever he got upset, Adrian lost control. More than a dozen times now, he'd thrown expensive bottles to the ground in heated fits of frustration. He'd cursed at costumers, at himself, at Hunter and the world and at the glass that he'd shattered. But Hunter would always smile, wave the words away like a pestering fly, and tell Adrian not to worry about it. 

He never got upset, he never took it out of his pay, and he never, ever, pushed Adrian to do any better. And that's what bothered him the most.

It had finally boiled over two weeks prior. Adrian had dropped a bottle of tequila, shattering it on the floor. When he jumped back to avoid the spill, he'd bumped into the shelf and busted it, sending an unending row of glass onto the floor as well. In frustration, he'd screamed at the costumer and kicked a hole in the wall.

"I'm not worried about it," Hunter said when Adrian confessed later. "These things happen."

Adrian had felt cold bitterness twisting in his guts. "That's because you're a fucking pimp, Hunter. You don't give two shits about this bar, or about me."

Hunter had blinked indifferently, studied him for a long quiet moment, and then said, "You're wrong, Adrian. I do care about this bar. I care a great deal, in fact." He'd run his hand lovingly over the wall, looking at it affectionately. "I care that it's a piece of shit. I care that nobody ever wants to come here...except for the people who are my real costumers, of course. I care that other people make faces and tell horror stories when they remember the time they made the mistake of coming through that door. And you, my friend, are perfect for that, so I care about you very, very much, as well." He'd slapped Adrian on the arm, then, and smiled. "I mean that."

Adrian had almost quit, right there and then. But he needed the money, and he doubted that Hunter would make it that easy for him to walk away, now that they'd both come out and acknowledged the truth. So instead, every morning since that night, he gotten up in his tiny studio apartment, looked himself in the cracked bathroom mirror, and said, "He only hired you because you were a joke, and he only keeps you around because you still are."

It was a mantra, one that kept him from ever making peace with his situation. Adrian didn't want to make peace with his situation. Maybe he couldn't just walk away from Hunter Kaufman or the Rage, but he promised himself that he would never, ever forget the truth of his position.

You couldn't fight your enemy if you didn't understand what it was.

Seven months since he came to Chicago. He shook his head again. Back in Iowa, Laura would have had her baby by now. How long ago? He tried to remember what her due date had been, but he couldn't. Like with most things, the information was floating somewhere in his brain, but he either couldn't find it or couldn't decode.

Laura's baby. Not his. It was nothing to do with him. 

He spat on the ground and wondered what she'd named it. Maybe after the father.

The wind picked up, blowing more snow down the stairway of the Rage. Adrian shook his head, pushing the question away as he moved up to the top step. 

It didn't matter. His ex-wife's child might grow up someday and decide to look for its father, but it wouldn't be looking for him. Adrian Burke had no children. In fact, he had very little at all aside from a much-valued independence that was starting to look like a con and his stubborn refusal to give up on himself.

And, he supposed as he gently cleared the snow off the sign, he had the Rage. Or at least the Rage had him.

Coming back inside a few minutes later, he brushed off his arms and shoulders and put the shovel back in the supply closet. He froze for a moment when a high pitched feminine yelp came from the back room, but he understood and went back to his place behind the bar to wait. 

It had been two weeks since he had admitted to Kaufman that he knew about the prostitution ring. Since that time the broad-shouldered, thick-necked man had become more open about his work, but he still kept his methods and systems to himself. All Adrian really knew was that sometimes men would come in and order a few drinks. Then they would pay for their drinks and leave. That was it. The only reason he knew something was afoot was that the same two or three dozen men would show up repeatedly, and they all seemed about as shady as Kaufman himself. Some of them would sit at different tables on different days. Others would always sit at the same spot. Adrian looked for a pattern, and checked the tables and chairs repeatedly for some way that they might be communicating, but he couldn't find a thing. 

Somehow, the pimp was able to connect the mafia types to their preferred or desired girls. Just how it happened, he couldn't say. Hunter never actually spoke to anybody who came in, except on very rare occasions like tonight. But it wasn't uncommon at all for the broad man to bring one of his whores in and make use of her in the office. 

Adrian wasn't sure if he should feel bad for the girls or not. For all he knew, they preferred it this way. At least with Kaufman's operation they weren't walking the streets, right? From what he could tell, Kaufman set them up with a place to stay, kept them healthy, and made sure they weren't beaten or anything (unless he took it upon himself to do so). It just seemed like a call-girl service for organized crime, and organized crime has resources all its own. The girls probably made good money.

Another yelp, and a slapping sound, made him clench his jaw. Adrian hadn't been with a woman in over a year...since well before he managed to get escape his ex-wife...and nothing drives a lonely man crazier than having to deal with the fact that somebody shittier and meaner than him is getting laid. 

Another slap. Another yelp. This time, perhaps, a little more desperate sounding. Adrian clenched his jaw again. Turning around, he looked into the mirror behind the bar. He'd halfway expected to see the Stranger looking back at him, but it was just his reflection. 

"This is not my problem," he said under his breath. Hunter Kaufman's groaning pleasure sounded out in the back room. Then, silence. Adrian repeated a variation of his mantra into the mirror. "He only wants you for the job because you're not any good. He only brings you back because you're a joke." He couldn't do anything to Hunter Kaufman. Christ, he needed the man.

"What was that?" Hunter called out from the hallway. He was swaggering out into the main area, tucking his button-up into his pants and looking relaxed and happy. "I thought I heard to talking to someone."

"You heard wrong," Adrian said flatly. "I need to take a piss."

"Yeah, sure. I'll watch the bar," Kaufman leaned against it. "Listen, though. We have to talk about something important. I have some people coming in late tonight, after we close. Businessmen. I'll need you to stick around but not say a fucking thing. Even if you fuck up the order, say not a word. Let me deal with it. Okay?"

Adrian shrugged. "Will I be getting paid for this?"

"Triple pay," Hunter smiled. "Scout's honor."

He snorted. "Then I'll be here."

Movement down the hall caught Adrian's eye, and he glanced over. The girl he'd seen come in earlier...the one the bald man had brought in...had wandered out into the hallway. She was dressed, but her clothes looked wrinkled and hastily put on. Her hair was a mess and her arms were wrapped across her stomach. She reached up with one hand and wiped her mouth while she looked around nervously.

"Get the fuck back in that office!" Hunter snapped. "Did I tell you to come out here? Did I even tell you to get dressed?!"

She jumped like an abused child, and scurried back. 

Kaufman grunted a laugh. Then he turned to look at Adrian. His eyes studied the other man. "You wanna try that one?" he smirked. "You don't ever ask, but I'd bet you could use a good wet hole a lot more than you could use an extra eighty bucks. Whaddya say, Adrian? She's not real talented, but she does make just the cutest little face when you-"

"No," Adrian turned and walked away, headed towards the bathroom. He didn't trust himself to say anything more. Not without trouble. 

In the restroom, he slammed the door and looked in the mirror. This time, the Stranger was there...the same Stranger that he had seen so many times since the accident. The one that looked just like him.

"You should fuck her," the Stranger whispered.

"No," Adrian hissed. 

"Why not?" the Stranger bared his teeth like a nervous wolf. "You wanted to."

Adrian touched the scars on his face again. "I'm just lonely," he said. "That's all it was. I'm not...I just...it's been a long time. That's all."

"You don't have to tell me," The Stranger spat. "You don't think I've noticed? You don't think I care?" 

"Leave me alone."

A sneer. "You need me."

"I don't."

"Then why don't you take your meds?" He chuckled low. "Why did you ever stop taking them? Were you really that lonely? Jesus Christ."

But then, before Adrian could respond, he was gone.

With a sigh, he used the restroom and washed his hands, keeping his head low so as not to see who would be looking out at him from the mirror now.



-=-=-



Time passed. 

Hunter paced nervously back and forth in the office, growing more and more nervous as the hour grew later. At first, Ella sat on the couch and watched him fretfully, but as the clock struck midnight she sank low, drifting off to sleep. At one he woke her up, thinking that another fuck might help soothe his nerves, but after ten minutes she was still unable to get him hard, so he pushed her away and told her to go back to sleep.

Sitting back in his chair, sipping from a cup of coffee, he watched the slow movements of the clock on the wall. At two the bar would close, but the door would remain unlocked. At two-thirty, they would arrive.

By three, his continued survival would be ensured.

The broken girl's heavy breathing, and the total relaxation of her soft figure, had an effect. He began to get drowsy himself. He made a point of not looking at her, but it didn't help. The office was warm, full of captured heat. One o'clock found him slouched down in his chair, staring almost mindlessly at the floor in front of him. Another hour found him slumped over his desk, half asleep.

Finally, though, he heard the pained creaking of the door out front. Low, masculine voices, one of them Adrian's, carried down the hallway. Hunter leapt up, jumping into his personal bathroom to use the mirror. He smoothed his haggard appearance, as though making himself look more alert would cause him to actually be more alert. Then he practiced a few smiles, found one he liked, and headed out to do business.

They were already seated, but they stood to shake his hand as he approached. Ron Mellor, called The Messenger by some, was the front-runner in this violent grab for power. He was something of a mystery, having in fact actually been a non-consequential messenger who had ran off some years back, leaving his partner to die in an ugly moment. In a business where trust and honor were still highly valued, even necessary, this made him a talked-about man...and a marked one. For years, nobody had been able to find him. Then one day Piero had suddenly vanished out to Arizona, taking with him two of the more eccentric figures in his organization. One was Andro, known widely as the Mad Dog for his uncontrollable and unpredictable form of violence. The other was known only as the Doctor, and he was best not spoken of at all. Piero never returned from that journey. The Mad Dog and the Doctor returned a week or so later with the errant messenger boy, inexplicably, as their new would-be king.

Nobody could say for sure how that happened. How on earth does a low an insignificant figure like Ron Mellor...a marked and hunted man...suddenly gain the loyalty of such dangerous and influential people? It seemed impossible. But one thing was clear regardless: no one was prepared to follow a former nobody who only wasn't a nobody because he'd cut and run. Not even fear of the Mad Dog or the Doctor was going to make a fucking coward messenger boy intimidating to anyone. 

The mob had splintered immediately, and violently. The resulting power vacuum destroyed any trace of unity and marked the beginning of this stupid war. Ron Mellor and his Mad Dog should have been among the first to die, of course. By offing Piero and instigating this conflict, they had made enemies of everybody who stood to lose from it...and everybody stood to lose from it.

Besides which, they had nothing. Not one man would stand with them in the beginning. Not one piece of property was left for them to hold, not one corner of one alley was safe for them to inhabit. They didn't have a goddamn thing.

And yet, piece by piece and person by person, they either turned or burned down everything and everyone they came across. At first, people credited the Mad Dog. He had been known, and feared, long before the war had started. But he was playful, in his way, and erratic. His sanity had been a frequent topic of conversation among the thugs who visited the bar even before Piero died.

Mellor, on the other hand, had shown an unexpected and rapidly growing tendency toward violence. The lowly messenger who'd fled had been hardened somehow, and made ugly. He was calm, direct, polite, quiet, and very, very sick. 

And he had the Doctor.

Hunter felt the chill that accompanied the name, and forced himself to concentrate. He had to be perfect, tonight. His life depended on it.

There was a knock at the door, and he put the rehearsed smile back on as he reached to open it.



-=-=-



The minutes passed slowly for Adrian. After an indeterminable period of time, curiosity got the better of him and he finally glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was twelve past two. He stifled a yawn poorly and tapped his fingers on the bar as he waited for the meeting to wrap up.

It had started out mildly interesting, but had quickly lost most of its more admirable qualities. When Hunter had first come out and sat down with the two visitors, he'd been nervous. His face had been a deep crimson, and his gestures and conversation forceful and animated. 

This didn't faze the Mad Dog or the Messenger, though, and when Hunter realized that his bullying antics could find no footing he'd decided to play the part of the cheerful, boisterous barkeep instead. It was a tactic Adrian had seen him use before, and it seemed to work well most of the time. Not here, though.

It seemed that Ron Mellor did most of the talking. He never cracked a smile, or responded to Hunter's tired jokes. He just pushed forward until he got his way.

Andro, on the other hand, seemed every bit as bored as Adrian. He spent long minutes staring at the floor, either studying tiles or inspecting his shoes. He wandered over to the jukebox at one point, then sighed and returned to his seat without even checking the songs. He wandered over again, and again returned without doing anything of note. 

As Adrian turned back from checking the clock, though, he saw the Mad Dog staring directly at him. His eyes were hard, but his mouth twitched upward in a way that looked strangely pleased. He tilted his head slightly to the side, and he almost seemed to sniff at the air. His face cracked, suddenly, a smile snapping across his lean features almost like a nervous twitch.




Chicago Nights Ch. 01



The tall man wordlessly excused himself from the conversation and, ever so casually, approached the bar. Over his shoulder, Adrian saw Hunter glance at him with a nervous expression. He knew his boss was terrified of these people, of what they might do, and for a moment Adrian wondered why he was not.

"Howdy, stranger," Andro greeted the barman casually.

Adrian flinched. "What did you call me?"

"Called you Stranger." The Mad Dog slid onto a barstool and grinned easily. "Was I mistaken?" He tilted his head, examining Adrian's face. "No? If we've met, I honestly don't remember it."

Adrian quietly chastised himself, making an actor's effort to relax. He knew he was buying too thoroughly into the ghost stories people liked to tell. The Mad Dog couldn't possibly know about the Stranger. Nobody knew about the Stranger. "We haven't met," he said dully. "I misheard you is all."

"Sound is a weapon." Andro acknowledged, laying one arm on the bar and looking around the room, "Still, it's a guess. And a stranger can be a lot of things...not just someone new. Sometimes it's a person who you thought you understood but didn't. Sometimes it's someone you love." He locked eyes with the barman. "You know what I mean?"

Adrian thought of Laura and flinched. "What do you want?"

A grin slipped across the mouth, but not the eyes. "Well, that's a loaded question. Wow. What do I want?" The tall man leaned forward, running his thumb across his upper lip. "More importantly," he whispered, eyes darting conspiratorially, "how do I get it?"

Adrian showed his lack of amusement with his face. "It's a bar," he said. "The way it works is, you name the fucking drink, and then I pour the fucking drink. It's a hell of a system." He leaned forward impatiently. "That's how you get what you want."

Andro looked almost wistful. "If only..." Then he flicked his wrist impatiently. "Alright. Maybe things really are that simple, stranger. Maybe all we ever have to do is ask. But then, what's the saying? 'The savior cries with Joseph's eyes?' I'm not convinced that simple is even a word we should be allowed to use."

"I've never heard that saying."

"You will." Andro sniffed. "Do you ever get used to the stink of this place?"

"If it didn't stink like this, it would just stink like alcohol."

"Would it, though?" This seemed to amuse the Mad Dog. He leaned forward again, further this time and with some purpose. "I think I know what I want," he said playfully. "I think want to tell you a riddle."

Adrian kept his face blank, indifferent. He'd overheard enough stories to know that the Mad Dog's double speak was usually a bad sign for all involved, but he couldn't help feeling an antagonistic curiosity. Maybe the Stranger was waking up. "I'm not really all that interested in your fucking games, asshole. Thanks anyway."

Andro raised his eyebrows. "But that's why I want to tell it to you. That's why you're the one."

"Find someone else to play with. I'm busy."

Andro looked up and down the bar, amused. He was, of course, the only person there. Then he looked back at Adrian, and suddenly clapped. "Car crash," he said. "That's what it was!"

"What?"

"Your face. Am I right? It's been puzzling me, I'll admit. But the way your scarring is paced looks like glass, probably coming from multiple angles...and one side heavier than all the others. Am I right?" When Adrian didn't answer, he snapped his fingers and pointed upward, nodding to himself. "The driver's side window really got you, I think. So it wasn't a head-on. Your jaw speaks of extreme blunt trauma, and yet you show no sign of injury below...maybe the collarbone. It's hard to tell from here. T-boned, I'd bet...probably by something big. It must have been a hell of a crash, Stranger. Wish I'd been there to see it."

Adrian bit back cold anger. "Why don't you just fuck off back to your master, dog. I just work here. I'm not worth your time."

Andro laughed loudly. Across the room, the other men turned around to glance at him before going back to their conversation. Hunter looked nervous, and he gave Adrian a warning look before returning to his negotiations.

"You just work here. Yeah," Andro snickered. "Me, too, man. Me, too." He sighed deeply and sniffed the air. "No, I'm not investigated you. And I wouldn't bother to, either. Even your shithole boss isn't worth all that much to us. A little operation like this? Brothel in a bar? It's just the spoils. See," he locked eyes with Adrian, "we're only here because the war is over."

"It doesn't feel like it's over to me."

"It doesn't have to. Things don't move on feel. This town is owned, Stranger. Think about it ...would a chicken shit nobody like Hunter Kaufman really be picking sides unless he wasn't damn sure of the outcome? Does he strike you as that particular brand of brave?"

Adrian glanced over at his boss. "No," he admitted.

"Case closed, then. I declare," he raised an imagined glass, "the war is over. Framed in fantasies and dragged in dream. The good guys won, like they always do. So about that riddle..."

"I said no."

"And I heard you. I just don't believe it."

"Well, believe it, because I would rather fucking not."

The Mad Dog looked suddenly, sickeningly, excited. "Yes, you would." He studied Adrian. "I can see it written all over your face. You very much rather would."

"What makes you so sure?"

"You were very quick to acknowledge that our dear Mr. Kaufman is a coward. And you made a face when you said it, like something in here stank. Other than the bar itself, of course. You know my reputation, you know the things people say about me, but you're not intimidated. You're no coward, Mister the Stranger, and that's why you definitely want to hear my riddle." 

Adrian stared at him for a long time, not responding. 

"Fine," he said at last. "Tell me your fucking riddle. And then get the fuck away from me."

Andro kicked at the floor, spinning his barstool slowly around like a playful child. "Fair deal. But pay attention. You're memory isn't what it used to be, and you're going to need to remember this."

Adrian took a deep breath. "Why's that?"

"Because it's time for the riddle, but not the answer. Not yet."

Adrian sighed, irritated by the Mad Dog's banter. "Go ahead."

"Okay. It goes like this," Andro stopped his barstool and leaned forward again, voice becoming hushed and reverent. "Two children are lost in the woods. You understand me? They're lost. And they have nothing with them...nothing to save and nothing to carry. Neither one knows the way home. However, the girl knows something that the boy does not, and that one simple little thing makes her very, very wise." He leaned back again. "What does the girl know?"

Adrian frowned. "She knows that they're lost. She knows that they're in trouble."

"That isn't remotely the answer, friend. Even a child can recognize danger."

He thought about it. "She knows the way home."

"Told you your memory was bad. I just said that neither one does."

Adrian grimaced, repeating the riddle back in his head. "She knows people. She knows where to get help."

Andro's eyes grew sympathetic. "You and I know all too well that there's never any help to be found, Stranger. Not really. Not ever."

"Then I give. What is it?"

Andro laughed again. This time, the negotiating men ignored him. "I told you, barman. This is the time for the question. Later is the time for the answer."

Adrian grunted. "You are fucking annoying," he observed. But he said it with a touch of amusement, and when he did, for the first time that night he saw the Mad Dog look surprised. 

"Thank you, Stranger" he said, and it sounded earnest. "That was a kindness." Then he slid off his barstool and began to walk away.

"Stay," Adrian blurted out, surprising himself. "Annoy me some more."

"Would that I could, Stranger. But I promised the boss that I'd look in on that creature your Mr. Kaufman is keeping in his office. I hear she's quite a sight."

"You won't hurt her." It wasn't a question; it was a warning. But when the Mad Dog turned around, light in his eyes, he seemed impressed more than angry.

"You have my word," he said with an easy smile, putting one hand in the air. "And I think you'll find that my word is always true." Then he turned around and ambled down the hallway.

Adrian watched him go, feeling inexplicably happy about the exchange. It was true that the Mad Dog's words felt almost nonsensical, and he could see why some people thought he was just plain crazy. But Adrian could also see that every phrase was carefully chosen. It was like running a large maze...every turn Andro took had purpose, intention, and brought the conversation closer to some pre-designated ending. 

It seemed strange that he of all people would see the meaning where most people saw nonsense. Maybe the rest of the world would understand the Mad Dog better if they could just get themselves hit by a truck.

For some reason, that struck him as funny, and he had to restrain what yearned to be gales of thick laughter. Then he looked in the mirror, saw himself there, and was relieved. The Stranger slept. 

Carefully, he recited Andro's riddle in his mind.

Two children are lost in the woods. They have nothing with them...nothing to save or carry. Neither one of them knows the way home. However, one of them does know something that the other does not, and that one thing makes her very, very wise.

He repeated it, again and again, as close to word for word as he could manage. 

He didn't know why, but he trusted the Mad Dog's words. He would try not forget them.

Less than ten minutes later, the Mad Dog left, trailing faithfully behind his Messenger. Hunter watched them go, looking tired and frustrated but not unhappy. "What a bunch of fucking wackos," he grunted. Then he shuffled back towards his office, giving Adrian a brisk nod as he left. "Go home, Adrian. Things will start to change tomorrow." Adrian nodded.

Home, he thought. What is home? Two children are lost in the woods...



-=-=-



Author's note: This story is meant to be capable of standing on its own. If it completely fails at that goal, I apologize profusely. It won't be my first effort to have missed the mark. I should note that it is also meant to serve as a sequel to my story "Stranger is the Sail," available on this site. 

It's been a long time in-between works for me, but it's not for lack of effort...I've started maybe two dozen stories aimed at this venue during the many months. Four or five of those are even worth finishing, I think. I just struggle to find the time. In the last year I've published several research papers in my field of employment, a handful of short stories in very minor venues, and have even managed to drop a really shitty poem onto some poor journal's printed page. I've also developed a very unpleasant and somewhat unsettling pain in my right hand from all the scribbling, scrawling, typing, and deleting...and thus a genuine need to knock it the fuck off from time to time. 

I blame Literotica for all of it. Seeing as how I used this site as a "safe proving ground" when I decided to try my hand at writing, and coupled with the fact that nothing is ever my fault, there is no getting around the fact that my future nerve damage will be entirely on your head. If you hadn't been here, and every bit as entertaining and talented as you were idiosyncratically bizarre, I might never have taken the plunge. You're a real asshole, Literotica, and I've missed you.

A few other notes: "Framed in fantasies and dragged in dream" is a line from a Phil Ochs song called I Declare the War is Over. I don't want to get caught taking credit for it...I simply couldn't resist adding that reference once I realized that I'd just had Andro blurt out the title. And yes, I do realize that my little pet Mad Dog, born of a combined love of Faust-like scenarios and mythological trickster characters, can be a real pain in the ass to try and read sometimes. He's just so much fun to write for...



Chicago Nights Ch. 02



The time between shifts passed the way it always did: without merit. Adrian had a series of mental exercise packets he had found in a used book store. They were similar to the ones the hospital had given him after his accident, perhaps a little harder and varied. The one he was on now had the words "FIFTH GRADE" in big blue bubbled letters across the front. Happy cartoon children graced the upper outside corner of every page.

Adrian worked through a few dozen problems each morning before showering and going out for a walk. He tried to leave for work at least two hours before his shift started, so that he could meander and roam through the area. Just walking by people, seeing one or two faces often enough to warrant a nod, felt like a connection of some sort. At least it didn't feel quite so lonely.

He kept to short sleeves year round, leaving his arms currently exposed to the winter. Other people huddled into themselves, trying to hide from the frigid bite. They would bundle into coats and scarfs and hats, and when that wasn't enough they would make a physical effort to simply shrink, to somehow become less.

Adrian, by comparison, embraced the cold. And he would not become less.

He always kept a little notepad in his coat pocket, full of crudely drawn blue pen maps. On the occasions when he became lost, he would consult it. Inevitably, he would be able to find his position on one of them. This, of course, meant that he had been by that area at least once before, and ought to remember something of it, but he tried not to dwell on that. He didn't need to be reminded of the swiss cheese condition of his memory. It was the one thing he never, ever forgot about.

The morning after Hunter Kaufman made his deal with the devil, his only male employee wandered the streets of Chicago gleefully reciting a riddle to himself. He said it over and over again, and found that he couldn't stop smiling. He rubbed his fingers together, walked like someone in a hurry, and talked to himself.

The riddle excited him. It tickled his brain in a way no exercise packet ever had. It occupied him endlessly. It meant something.

Adrian Burke felt focused, freshly awake, when he recited the words. On this particular morning, he wandered the streets for hours and did not become lost.

His good mood was not long for this world, however. It vanished as soon he entered the bar.

-=-=-

Hunter was on top of the new girl, pushing into her silken center and studying the twisting motions of her sobbing face. But his mind was elsewhere.

He had spent half the morning trying to teach her the most entry level tricks. Try as he might, push her though he did, nothing seemed to sink in. The little Latina just didn't seem to get any better.

Oh, she was trying. He could see that much. But even when he had Rhonda break down the different techniques used to enhance a blowjob it didn't help. The girl watched, asked careful questions, moved in to try it herself, and failed.

Rhonda. Shit. Now there was a cocksucker. He glanced over at her as he pumped. She sat on the couch, watching impassively. She noticed his expression and shrugged apologetically. She knew it, too. Ella was turning out to be a piss poor whore, and if she didn't start getting better soon he was going to have to hurt her.

In fact...

He stopped pumping, sighing and moving off of her.

"Alright," he said. "Let's talk." He beckoned to Ella to stand up, and she shakily climbed to her feet. Her hands instinctively went to her lady parts, covering them shamefully, and she bit her lip nervously. Hunter slapped the hands away. "You're not much of a fuck," he grumbled, "and it's not getting any better. The least you could do is let me look."

"I'm...sorry...I just..."

He waved the stumbling apology away. "Don't apologize to me. Apologize to Rhonda. She's here, doing her best to give you the help you need, and you're just wasting her fucking time."

Rhonda bit her lip. She'd been with Hunter long enough to read the signs. She sat up straight, talking fast. "Hunter, it's okay. Really. I don't m-"

"Shut the fuck up," he snapped. Then he turned back to Ella. "You let me down today. So I'm going to hurt you. And when I'm done hurting you, you're going to get me hard again so we can finish what we started. Understood?"

Ella didn't move or speak. She just stared at him in wide-eyed terror.

Rhonda was hugging herself. "Hunter, please. She-"

"Are you gonna be my warm-up?" he growled over his shoulder.

She closed her eyes. "No," she whispered, her shoulders quaking.

"Good," Hunter reached out and grabbed a fistful of Ella's hair. "That's real good." He yanked viciously, jerking the girl's head close to him.

And that's when the screaming started.

-=-=-

The glasses were clean. The tabletops, too. The floor was swept and mopped, the windows all wiped, and every other available surface checked for dust.

Adrian glanced at the clock. Almost noon. He went around and inspected the lights, the pool tables, and even the bathrooms, hoping to find something else that needed doing. For a moment, he even considered rooting around to try and find the source of that ever-present stink.

Finally, though, he had to accept the truth: there wasn't anything left to preoccupy him. Nothing here was distracting enough to help him close off the outside world.

And that girl was going to go right on screaming. There was nothing left to take his mind off of it.

Or, almost nothing. He closed his eyes, his mouth moving silently.

"Two children are lost in the woods..."

Adrian concentrated on the story, trying to picture it in his mind. He saw the children as small and round, brightly colored in the way of cartoons. Like the children in his exercise book. Yes. That was it. They were featureless, mindless; their bodies cast no shadows. Their clothes were geometrically designed and crayon colored, red triangles and blue squares.

By contrast, the thick forest that surrounded them was heavy paint and complicated textures, rolling with dark tones and elaborate patterns. The trees were impossibly tall, looming over the foolishly interloping minors in the way that angry adults or nearby mountains might do. Adrian tried to focus his attention back on the children, to see them and to understand them, but found himself getting drawn into that forest...into the lined acrylic bark and towering black maze.

He opened his eyes, suddenly aware of something.

The screaming had stopped. The bar was absolutely silent. He looked at the clock. 12:43. Jesus. Had he been lost in that forest for almost an hour?

He wondered what was in there.

The door to the office creaked open, and after a moment Hunter came ambling out. He was sweating, his sleeves rolled up. One of his regular girls followed him...one that had been around since well before Adrian. He tried to remember her name and could not. She looked ill, or maybe just tired, and she refused to meet his eyes.

"Adrian, my boy," Hunter affected that friendly barkeep tone that failed to blend with his God-given voice, "I've got a little favor to ask you."

Adrian didn't answer, but he didn't show his boss any animosity either. Instead, he let the witches' soup of dark emotions filling up his veins flow out through the slight dances of the muscles in his jaw.

Hunter was typically unaffected the lack of response. "That new girl...uh, Ella...well, she's had a bit of a hard day, it seems. You know how tough new jobs can be. There's just so much to learn. Right, Rhonda?" He turned around and raised his eyebrows. Rhonda shrank away, but nodded. "Anyway, she's going to spend the afternoon recovering in my office. Mostly she just needs to rest, but she might need the occasional glass of water or..." he shrugged. "Just check in on her from time to time. I'll be back to pick her up around seven." He turned to go, then stopped. "And no touching. Alright? Maybe later, but not today."

Adrian nodded, glancing at the woman standing there waiting for Hunter's command and feeling nothing. He thought that maybe he should be experiencing sympathy for this lost creature. She was down in it, if anybody ever had been. Little more than a slave, really, not even capable of looking away as Hunter destroyed something pretty.

But sympathy didn't come. He just saw the woods again, tall and shadowed, filled with some pretense he did not understand.

Anyway, who was he to look down on the unfortunate? What was so fucking great about Adrian Burke?

Andro's voice came to him uninvited, as if whispered in a dream. "Even a child can recognize danger," it insisted. But Adrian didn't know why his malfunctioned memory had decided to review that particular line, so he brushed it off and went about looking for something to do.

It was four o'clock before he bothered to check on the girl in the office.

Actually, it wasn't that he couldn't be bothered. It was that he'd forgotten about her completely. Like everything else in his life, she was made of fog. Once his eyes adjusted to her interference, he stopped noticing that she was there at all.

The sobbing brought her back to life, though, and there was no ignoring that. He was mopping the hallway when he heard the quiet, muffled sound of crying from inside Hunter's office.

Opening the door, he peaked his head in. Ella was lying on the couch in her underwear, curled up like a fetus in a too-small womb. Her body shook as she wept. There were several clustered patches of bruises on her exposed skin, but other than that no real sign of exactly what Hunter had forced her to endure. Adrian knew that the man had a number of methods for hurting the girls without damaging them. He waited to feel something in response to that thought, but nothing came.

Still, he'd been told to look after her. "Can I get you anything?" he asked.

She jumped, something like a squeak coming out of her mouth as she backed away from the sight of him. "I'm sorry," she said, but it came out like breath. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he shrugged. "I'm just the barman."

"I...oh..." But she didn't relax.

He waited a moment to see if she'd say more, then repeated the question.

She shivered, reaching up with a quaky finger to touch chapped lips. "I'm...thirsty."

"I'll get a water."

She drank it fast when he returned, so he didn't bother leaving.

"Want more?" he inquired, as she handed him the emptied cup.

"No. I don't...think I do." She kept her eyes lowered and, for the first time since he'd peaked his head into the room, showed signs of concern regarding her state of undress. Adrian glanced around, but didn't see any clothing anywhere.

"Okay, well...if you need anything else..."

"I'm sorry I bothered you," she said. "You must be busy."

He couldn't help laughing. "Not here. Not ever."

"Oh. Okay." She looked up suddenly. "I hope he forgets about me." Her eyes were pleading. She wanted reassurance. "He could, couldn't he? I mean, just until tomorrow?"

"No chance of that," Adrian admitted. "The only person around here who is any good at forgetting is me."

Ella studied his face. "That's not true. I am good at forgotten things, as well. Maybe we are alike."

"I don't think so. I forget so many things..."

She blinked. "I forgot my whole life."

He thought about that, and frowned. "I don't understand."

Scooting up next to him, she hugged her knees and rocked gently. "I was in a place. In...Mexico, I think. And a man found me there. He took me with him, brought me here."

"And before that?"

"Before that..." she shrugged again. "I forget."

"You're telling me you have no memory? Of anything?" She shook her head, and Adrian frowned. "How do you know your name, then?"

"How do you know yours?" She brushed a stray hair from her face. "Some things are deeper than just memory. Some things are yours."

Adrian sat down on the couch, on the opposite end of where she sat, and put his hands on his knees. He thought about the scars on his face, the woman he'd called his wife, and the stranger now at home in his head. "Some things are deeper than just memory," he admitted.

"What have you forgotten?" Ella asked.

Adrian frowned, not sure how to answer such an absurd question. "I forget everything, really. Words, as soon as I finish reading them. Ideas or goals...numbers. Drink orders, bar tabs, rent money. But mostly I forget...people. I always forget people." He gave her a sad smile. "I forgot you. I really did. If you hadn't started crying..."

She nodded. "It's okay. I forgot me, too." A small, quaking sigh escaped her lips. "I wonder who I was."

"Do you know why it happened? Why you forgot?"

She shook her head. "I only have the name. What about you?"

"It's a long story."

"But you remember it," she said, "so it must be very important."

Adrian squinted at the far wall. "It is. But that doesn't mean I like to talk about it."

"You have talked about it, though?"

He frowned, trying to remember. "No. No, I guess that I probably haven't."

"Then maybe that's why you don't forget it. You haven't shared it. You've made it yours."

He didn't answer.

"Please," she said. "Just so someone is talking to me. If you cannot finish, then you stop and I will not complain. I will understand. Just talk to me for a little while, so that I am here."

For some reason, beyond what he could understand, Adrian began to talk.

"You know, I really, really loved my wife," he said slowly. "That seems like such a simple thing...like it's too obvious to even bother mentioning. But it's the most important thing I could ever tell you about myself. I loved Laura so much that I don't think I'll never find the words to say it. And I want to believe that she loved me, too. Perhaps, for a time...she must not have at the end, anyway, or she wouldn't have done what she did. It's just nice to imagine, sometimes."

"She...left you?"

He grunted. "Oh, yes. She left me. She just never bothered telling me about it." He shook his head bitterly. "I don't remember many things, but I remember how it felt to discover that my wife was seeing another man. Like being..." he waved his hands at his chest, "...crushed, you know? Actually physically crushed, until your breastbone met your spine and there was room for nothing in between. She...left...to be with him. Not forever, more like a romantic getaway. Like something lovers do, you know? I found out what was happening, then, but I didn't know what to do. I couldn't stop her. So I got in my car and rushed off to the only people I believed could help me: her parents."

"Did they help?"

"I never got there. I got very, very close, but I was...speeding. Desperate. Panicked. Stupid." He rubbed his eyes and coughed a laugh. "You know, the most innocent person in this story is a man named J.B. Matthews. He's the real tragedy, here. I remember him...he is a part of me."

"Who is he?"

"A truck driver, running behind schedule, wanting to get home and see his kids. A nice guy, lost on a country road out in the plains, who couldn't possibly have reacted in time when a little car from the city shot out from behind a treeline in front of him." Adrian frowned. "He had the right of way. He wasn't asleep at the wheel. Shit, he wasn't even speeding, like I was." He shook his head. "Killed himself, in the end...had some family troubles going on, couldn't live with what he'd done. It's almost funny...the woman who destroyed me went on with her life, and the man who did nothing wrong died of guilt."

Ella didn't respond right away. "Did she marry her lover?"

"I don't know. But she did have his baby."

"I don't understand. They had a baby, but didn't marry?"

Adrian shrugged. "She...tried to tell me it was mine," he said. "Fooled me, for a time. I couldn't remember anything, at first, when I woke up. So she told me it was our child. Then, after I learned the truth, I had to watch her swell up and get big with it."

"You stayed? You didn't leave?"

Adrian pointed to the scars on his face. "Injuries take time to heal. It's worse when the wounds are in your head. My brain is a mess. It was so much worse before. I couldn't even take care of myself." He shook his head. "I couldn't get away."

"What about family?"

"Don't really have any."

She nodded. "I'm sorry."

Adrian laughed. "Don't be. Jesus." He stood up, feeling restless and angry. "This morning, I sat outside and listened to you scream for over an hour, and I did nothing to help you." He shook his head bitterly, not ashamed so much as disgusted. "And you know something? I won't help you the next time it happens, either. Don't feel any sympathy for me."

She flinched, fear flickering in her eyes, but then she lifted her chin. "Maybe not, but it's not who you are." She examined him. "You are not a bad man," she insisted.

"No," he turned away, "I'm just half of one."

And then he left.

-=-=-

It was three weeks later that the late hours of the night found Adrian checking some scribbles he'd left in his notebook.

He sighed. Still no patterns. He jotted down the night's information anyway, in the off chance that something would emerge later.

In the time since Mellor and his Mad Dog had visited, business had become constant and tiring. It would have been a welcome change, having all these customers filing through the door, except that Adrian disliked being a part of some sleazy prostitution ring. It also required him to move a great deal faster in order to keep up, which meant making more mistakes. He dropped bottles, forgot orders, and miscalculated more bills than ever before. The thugs he served took it all in stride...in fact they didn't seem concerned in the least with actually getting their orders. Only one man ever corrected him or complained when something went wrong, and that man was a rarer visitor than most.

Still, he'd found opportunity in the change. There were two regulars he'd taken to studying carefully. They stood out physically, which was needed in order to jar Adrian's memory, and he was using their actions to try and crack the code that Hunter used to connect them to the right girls at the right time. He was tracking their movements, keeping notes in his spiral book, trying to determine how the pimp sent and received communications.

Case number one was recorded in Adrian's notebook as 'M.T.' Adrian was making a point of using acronyms, in case Hunter happened to see the scribbled notes, and 'M.T.' stood for My Twin. The man had earned the name via a deep, ugly scar that ran across his forehead and down his right temple. Tonight M.T. had come in at a quarter past nine, which was consistent with his previous visit. He'd ordered two Kentucky bourbons neat, just like last time. And he'd only had the two, just like last time. So those were consistent actions.

What M.T. did not do was sit at the same table, or sit alone. This was problematic, because the other man Adrian was watching rarely ordered the same drink, or the same volume of drinks, but always kept to the same stool and never interacted with others. In fact, if his stool was occupied when he came in he'd turn and leave immediately.

Of course, Adrian had no idea if either man was consistently seeing the same girl, either. In truth, he doubted if he'd ever quite manage to figure out the system Hunter used. There were too many unknowns. It was really just a game to challenge himself with, now that the bar actually had clientele.

Looking around the closed bar, now, seeing the mess to be cleaned up, Adrian heard a small sound from the back room and was reminded of one other reason this job was becoming harder and harder to bear: Ella.

Hunter was keeping her here, at the bar, until she proved suitable to work. And he was doing his best to make her exactly that. Adrian was frequently required to look after her...to make sure she was fed and watered, as it were. He also had the occasionally wincing task of caring for her wounds. Hunter disliked disappointment, and Ella seemed capable of causing him little else.




Chicago Nights Ch. 02



Adrian scowled, hearing a painful cry emanate from the pimp's office. He forced himself to fill the sink with soapy water and begin his afterhours cleaning. Soaking a rag, he patiently and meticulously wiped down the bar surfaces, trying to tune out the sounds of Hunter's 'training.' As he did so, he glanced up at the mirror behind the bar and froze.

"Oh," he said. "You."

The Stranger stared back at him, looking disgusted. "You already cleaned the bar top forty minutes ago, you fucking idiot."

"No I didn't," he insisted.

This drew a snicker. "Like hell, you didn't. You fucking joke." There was a yelp from the backroom, and the Stranger sneered. "Oh, I get it. That's what the problem is, isn't it? You're distracted."

"Go away," Adrian hissed.

"You want to fuck her," The Stranger sneered back at him, "don't you?"

"Shut up."

"Oh, that's funny, coming from you. Do you think she-"

"Shut up!"

The Stranger only laughed harder. "You can't fool me. I know what you really want, Adrian."

"You don't know anything!" Adrian barked back.

"Who doesn't?" a third voice called suddenly, causing him to swing around.

The Mad Dog was there, locking the front door behind him.

"We're, ah...closed," he stammered, without knowing why.

"And a good thing, too. Otherwise you'd be breaking the law." The Dog checked the door. "Is he back there?"

"He is. But he's...busy."

Andro just grinned. "Then I really ought to go and ruin the mood. Don't you think?" He walked brusquely toward the back.

"Hey!" Adrian called out instinctively. It was stupid, he knew. Even Hunter would tell him this wasn't any of his business.

But the Mad Dog stopped and turned. "Hey, yourself, Stranger," he came up and leaned on the bar. "How are you holding up?"

Adrian tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind. So he just continued cleaning the glasses. "Still alive," he offered.

"Aren't you just," Andro turned, leaning his back against the bar. "I have to admit, I was hoping you would have something for me. I was hoping that you'd have solved that riddle."

Adrian raised an eyebrow. "What makes you so sure I haven't?"

"If you knew the answer to the riddle, then you'd know the answer to that question, too."

Adrian dried his hands and turned to look out at the bar. "Alright," he admitted. "I haven't. I've got another one in my head, and it's been getting in the way. It's...distracting me."

Andro nodded. "That happens, doesn't it? Something always interferes...usually something a little more," he turned around, scratching his chin, "in your face." He looked around the room. "Something like this bar. Am I right?"

Adrian clicked his tongue, hesitating for a moment. Then he decided to share what he'd been up to. "I've been tracking costumers, looking for patterns. I can't figure how he does it...connects the men to the girls. You know?"

"You mean Hunter? Oh, Stranger...you underestimate that man's laziness." Andro sniffed. "Hunter doesn't like to work. He doesn't like to do anything, really, except beat up little girls and fuck whores. So he doesn't schedule shit. The girls do that."

"What?"

"Oh, yeah. They schedule with the johns, in person. And they keep Hunter informed of what's owed. No money ever trades hands between prostitute and pole. What Hunter does is whatever he can to keep people thinking that all the business is done at the bar, you see, so that everybody's looking in the wrong damn place."

"Then how-"

Andro swung around, suddenly animated. "Detective," he said with a flourish, "I can assure you of one thing...the collecting agent is right here, in this room." He tapped one finger on the bar. "And he's one ugly son of a bitch."

Adrian blinked. "Me?"

"Not a drinker, are you, Stranger?" Andro leaned forward, eyes dancing with amusement.

"No."

"Never tried the wares, as it were? Never tempted?"

"Nope."

"Too bad. If you had, you'd have wondered why all these dark mother fuckers were paying so much for colored water."

Adrian turned and looked at the bottles behind the counter. "Water?"

"Colored water. Mixed with whatever distilled juice, or uncarbonated beverage, or safe agent it takes to get them looking right. But water all the same...or apple juice, I suppose. It looks a hell of a lot like whisky in a crystal glass, doesn't it?" He shrugged. "These guys come in here and they pay liquor prices...stupidly steep liquor prices, I might add...for water and juice. Ever have some non-mafia types come in, order their drinks, spit them out and leave without paying?"

"Figured I'd done something wrong. So I practiced more."

Andro scoffed. "Waste of time. There's not another bar in town where a scotch and coke is gonna cost you as much as it does at the Rage. But ordering ten of those will just about pay for the ass you split the night before. Dig?" Andro waved his hand across the empty bar. "The guys you see come in here night after night, they aren't alcoholics. They just happen to owe a lot of money for pussy. Gee," Andro turned around and locked eyes with the bartender. "I guess that makes YOU part pimp, doesn't it, Stranger?" His face split into a smile. "How's it feel to be a genuine criminal?"

Adrian just stared back at him.

"Ahh," Andro shook his head. "Hunter told you it wasn't any of your business, didn't he? That's just like his type: tell you the exact opposite of what's true. Guys like Hunter Kaufman get by on lies and sleight of hand. Not me. I always tell the truth...shit, I even like it."

Adrian shook his head, realizing how deeply he'd let himself be taken in. Then, a thought struck him. "What about beer?"

"What about it?"

"They order that sometimes, too. It just seems like...beer, I guess."

"Because it is. Even people who've fallen this low like to have a beer now and then, friend."

"There's one guy, that's all he orders."

Andro's eyebrows rose, suddenly, and Adrian knew he'd caught his interest. "Ahh...now we have come to the weakness in Hunter Kaufman's strategy. By keeping poor little Adrian in the dark, he is able to invite him in to the list of guilty parties without his knowing. But then, as a consequence, Adrian isn't aware enough to recognize or report any danger signs. He doesn't, for example, realize that the only people who would drink nothing but beer in a place like this would be either cops looking to bust him or rivals looking to kill someone." Andro shook his head. "You don't know that they're avoiding the booze because they're paying for their secrecy on their own goddamn dime. You, my friend, don't know enough to see that a little beer can get you killed. But wait," he leaned to the side and whispered conspiratorially, "now you do know. And maybe..." he smiled wide, "...that will help you solve my riddle."

Adrian stared, shook his head.

The Mad Dog shrugged. "Don't blame Hunter," he advised, stepping away from the bar. "Sometimes you have to use people. Sometimes, the gun gets pointed in your direction, and you find someone else to stand in the way." With that, he sauntered away.

-=-=-

Adrian didn't sleep much that night. He tossed and turned, furious with the world and with himself.

It ate at him, the way time chews up a body, to know what he'd been duped into doing. It wasn't even the possibility that the beer drinking man was a cop, or that he might be in legal danger. It was that he hadn't ever thought to wonder if he might be in trouble. Hunter had taken advantage of him, yes, but it had been incredibly easy to do so. It angered Adrian to know that he was such an easy mark.

"Even a child can recognize danger."

"I was drinking Pepsi," he thought. "Every damn day I went in there, I ignored the stench and the lack of people, sat down and had myself a Pepsi. Not tequila, or scotch or a mixed drink, just...soda pop. It must have made his day."

As the sun started to threaten the night, his thoughts turned to Ella, and some of the other girls Hunter had brought through during his time as barman. "They pay me," he thought in their direction, "so that they can have you." He glanced out the window at the billowing snow. "What does that make me?" Then, at last, he slept.

Some hours later, Adrian was awoken by the ringing of his phone.

He groaned, looked at the clock, and almost didn't answer. Who could be calling him at nine in the morning, other than Hunter? He didn't want to hear from that greasy fuck, and he...

Ella. Maybe it was about Ella.

Uncertain of why that even mattered, he picked up the receiver.

"Hello?" he said, his voice cracked from sleep.

There was a hesitant pause. "Adrian?" a little voice rasped. Even as quiet and broken as it was, it struck him as familiar. He couldn't quite say why, but it was definitely someone he knew.

"Ella?" he frowned.

Another pause. "Adrian, it's me."

The breath went out of him. "Laura?" he cringed. Even the act of speaking his ex-wife's name was painful.

"It's me, Adrian," she said again. "I just wanted to call you and...and tell you how sorry I am. I really want you to know ...I need you to know it."

He sat up, suddenly angry. What was this? Just another con artist, out for an easy mark? Well, he'd played that part enough lately. "Is that really why you're calling?" he snapped. "You looked me up so you can say sorry? After all this time? Why bother, Laura? So you can sleep a little easier at night?" He coughed. "Well, sleep easy. Because sorry fixes everything."

"No! It's not like that." Laura's voice was high pitched, almost manic. "Adrian, I wanted-"

"How's the baby?" he asked, taunting her. "How's your precious little family?"

Her breath became heavy, and her words became static. "I..know...I...deserve-"

"Just stop it. Okay? Just stop." He coughed again. "You think I need to hear this from you?"

She was crying, he suddenly realized. "I just...I need to say it, Adrian. I need to know that you're okay, and-"

"Yeah, well I'm not. Alright? I'm not fucking okay." He hung up, and slammed his fist on the bed. This didn't prove to be enough, however, so he grabbed the phone back up and threw it at the wall, shattering the base and leaving a splintered hole in the cheap paneling.

He looked at it, cursed, and shook his head.

"Got enough riddles in my life," he sighed. "Got more than enough." Then he stood up and grabbed one of his fifth grade exercise books off the table.

-=-=-

No sooner had he entered the Rage, that day, than Hunter came out of his office with a smug look on his face. "Little bird fell out of her nest again," he winked. "See to her, will you?"

"Yeah," Adrian muttered. Then, he curled his lip and said, "You know, if things are gonna stay this busy, I could really use someone else to help out. It's getting to be too many people for one guy."

"Nobody's complained yet," Hunter was throwing his coat over his shoulders.

"I just did."

Hunter turned, studying his bartender carefully. He was used to a lot of things from Adrian Burke, but backtalk was new. The tone in the scarred man's face was aggressive, almost begging for a fight. It was a scenario Hunter understood. "Okay, Adrian," he said slowly, locking eyes with him, "I'll think about it." The smirk that spread across his face betrayed the truth of the message. "In the meantime, why don't you just go ahead and have yourself a nice little time on our Ella. You seem like you could use a little more...fun...in your life."

Adrian didn't answer. Instead, he turned and headed down the hall to see to the injured woman. Pausing briefly at the door, he breathed deep and then turned the knob. "It's Adrian," he said, knowing by now how much she feared the sound of the door, and how much it calmed her to hear his voice.

He pushed into the room and stopped. Ella lay nude upon the couch, curled into a ball, breathing but otherwise motionless. Thick bruises pockmarked her legs and back. Adrian held his breath and moved forward.

Sitting down near her feet, he examined the visible bruises. "Would you like some water?" he asked. She didn't respond.

He reached out, and touched her leg. It wasn't an intimate move, or a caring one...just an attempt to get a response out of her.

Inside his head, the Stranger chuckled. "Well that feels nice."

Adrian shook his head, withdrawing the hand.

"You know what I think?" the voice continued. "I think you have feelings for this woman."

"No," Adrian whispered.

"Does it bother you, to have to care about someone again?" the voice taunted. "Or are you just upset that it had to be another whore?"

"Stop!" Adrian closed his eyes, standing up.

"Oh, I think that's it, isn't it?" The Stranger laughed a bitter laugh. "You can't stand it that you care about her. Her, of all people. A fucking whore!"

Ella jerked, moving lightning quick and heaving away from him. Shaking, whispering, she curled up at the far end of the couch. "No," she pleaded, with a child's defenselessness. Then she blinked, looked around the room, recognized Adrian, and relaxed a little. "It's you," she said, tilting her head. "It didn't sound like..."

Adrian shook his head. "You were dreaming."

"No." She rubbed her hands over her face. "Not anymore." she put her hand to her stomach, and closed her eyes. "What is there left to dream about, anyway?"

Adrian opened his mouth, but had no answer. Instead, he went about seeing to her wounds.

"It's getting worse," he noted, as he wiped the blood from her face. "He's getting more violent, I mean. Less careful."

She didn't answer.

"I could talk to him." It sounded stupid, useless even to his own ears. But he felt her muscles release a little under his hands when he said it.

"He's upset. He thought he was buying a whore," she said.

"He was buying a person," Adrian corrected. "And he knew that."

"He is beginning to believe that he made a mistake." She was quiet a long time. So long that Adrian began to believe the conversation over. Then she continued. "Some mistakes, I think okay, you just fix them. But others...cannot be fixed." Her hand rubbed up her arm, squeezing the shoulder gently. "They cannot be molded into anything other than what they are. They cannot be fixed. So a different solution is there."

He swallowed. "He's just frustrated."

She shook her head. "For now. But soon he will begin to ask himself what to do with a mistake." she allowed a deep breath in, and held it. "When it is an unfixable thing, what do you do with it? This thing that is wrong?"

Adrian thought about Laura. "It's not that bad, yet," He insisted, not believing it.

"Not yet." She forced a smile. "And, I still have you."

He met her gaze. "You have me," he admitted.

The smile vanished. "Would you...sit with me?"

"Why?"

"Please."

He climbed up on the couch, and she leaned against him. Awkwardly, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and felt her breathing. After a while, he came to realize that she was asleep. The slow, even swell and release of her lungs suggested a freshly found calm. Adrian had other chores to do...quite a few, actually...but he made no effort to move. He sat holding her, thinking no thoughts and dreaming no dreams, until she woke two hours later.

-=-=-

That night, the beer drinker was back.

Adrian made no bones about the fact that he was watching the man. The beer drinker returned the favor, until they were doing little more than staring at each other. This seemed to amuse the beer drinker, who made a point of looking at his watch in between sips. Adrian took it as an empty gesture...an attempt to add some indifference to the thick man's piercing gaze, but ultimately meaningless.

Two children are lost in the woods...

He shook his head. Now was not the time for that. He'd been thinking about Andro's riddle more and more, now that Andro had revealed Hunter's con game, and not just because he had time to. It seemed...more important, somehow. Significant, or just large. Anyway, it kept popping up.

The evening was passing pretty swiftly. Hunter showed up a little after eight, just when things were starting to peak and about twenty minutes after the beer drinker had gone. Adrian chewed over the idea of telling his boss about the mystery visitor, but decided against it. After all, if Hunter had had his way Adrian would still be unaware enough to even know that a man drinking beer was dangerous at all. He saw no reason to offer unwanted assistance. He simply waved to the owner as he passed by, headed toward the back office.

Toward Ella.

The Stranger appreciated this thought. "Poor guy," he crooned in Adrian's head. "Did it feel good to hold her? Is it sweet, the way she looks at you when you look after her for him, in between fucks?"

The taunting went on like that for a while, but Adrian didn't reply and eventually the Stranger grew bored and quiet. He wouldn't be taunted about Ella anymore. She was like him...she'd forgotten how to swim, and was just doing what she could to tread water until she washed up on the shore somewhere, and could walk again.

Business slowed quite a bit in the late hours. In fact, by midnight it was so quiet that Adrian was able to get quite a bit of his after-closing chores finished up. At first it was a welcome surprise, but when the last customer walked out a full twenty minutes before close Adrian started to get nervous. He studied the empty room, tapping his fingers on a beer tap, wondering what it meant. It smelled wrong.

Fuck it. He decided to tell Hunter.

Coming around the bar, he tossed his rag into the sink and moved toward the office. Getting closer, he heard the sound of feminine tears, and was filled by an unexpected heat. Moving faster, breathing hard, he hammered three times on the door, wanting to pull Hunter away from whatever sickness he was indulging.

There was an irritated grunt. "Who is it?"

"Me," Adrian said.

"What the fuck do you want? I'm busy."

The heat was growing. "I'm coming in," he said, his voice louder and more clipped than intended.

There was a pause. "Look, Adri-"

Adrian threw open the door. Ella was naked, bent over the desk, Hunter was standing shirtless, sweating. One of his hands rested on the prostrated woman's bright red asscheek. The other held a long, rounded piece of wood, possibly a chair leg. The jagged end, where it had been snapped from its unknown home, was aimed outward at nothing. The almost two inch diameter rounded end, conversely, was aimed far more dubiously. Ella looked back over her shoulders at Adrian, the look on her tear-streaked and swollen face one of intense pleading. He knew she wasn't pleading with him to help her. She was pleading with him to walk away. She was scared of what might happen to him.

He turned his gaze back to Hunter. The large man's face had grown taught. He saw something primal birthed in Adrian's eyes, and he'd seen such things before. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but was already preparing his defense even before Adrian rushed him.

The two men went down in a heap, awkwardly swinging at each other as they fell. Hunter twisted into the collision, causing Adrian to land roughly, shoulder first, on the concrete. Sharp pain squealed down his arm as he rolled up into a crouching position. Hunter was already climbing to his feet, rage pinching his features. He came at Adrian, swinging the wooden club mindlessly. Adrian turned and let the oncoming swing catch his injured shoulder, where it wouldn't be felt as strongly. Meanwhile, he reached for Hunter's face, digging a thumb into his right eye and sending the large man screeching and twisting away. He took the opportunity to send a kick hard against the side of a knee, dropping his opponent down and forcing him to slam the other knee to the floor for support. He lifted his foot to kick again, but Hunter swung out with the table leg and clipped his raised foot, knocking Adrian off balance long enough for the big man to come up and strike him in the shoulder again, sending him sprawled at the foot of the couch.




Chicago Nights Ch. 02



Before Adrian could begin to rise, Hunter was on him. Well experienced in the urgency of a street brawl, Hunter wasted no time in using his combined position and weapon. The first time the club landed on Adrian's head, the pain was electric. The second time, it bounced his skull against the concrete. After the third, Adrian Burke was no longer moving. Red flecks of blood painted the untreated floor.

Hunter lifted the club anyway, but stopped. He elbow ached from the fall earlier, and his wrist was sore from the concussive use of the wooden leg. He threw it angrily away, turning as it clattered to the ground.

"Pig fucker," he slurred, spittle whipping out as he stumbled to the desk. "Fucking PIG fucker." He turned wild eyes on Ella, and she gasped. His right eye was a dark and ugly red, the area around it already swelling and yellowing. Grunting, he reached into his pockets and extracted a key. "Motherfucking pig fucking fucker." He continued muttering to himself as he fumbled, unlocking the top drawer of his desk before finally dropping the key. He ignored it as he extracted a small handgun from the drawer and turned back towards Adrian's unmoving form.

"Goddamn fucking..." he trailed off, face melting from rage to slack confusion. "Smoke," he grumbled. Then he sniffed, and looked bewilderedly at Ella. "Smoke! Why the fuck is there SMOKE?!" He rushed toward the door, stumbling a bit as he did so. "Smoke!" he screamed again, throwing the door wide to reveal a hallway filled with a slight greying haze. "No!" he moved forward, only to jerk back as a loud, clipped noise thundered in air. "Gaah!" Hunter clutched at his left arm, pulling his hand away briefly to reveal dark and expanding red. Swaying on his feet, he leaned out and fired a single return shot into the sightless growing grey, then swung back into the room, dropping the gun and turning mindlessly furious eyes on Ella's frightened form.

"It's you," he babbled, lips loose and pupils dilated. "All that shit about not remembering. All that shit," he swayed on his feet, coughing, and moved toward her. "Who did you belong to, you bitch? Who owned you that wants you back?" He staggered forward. "You knew what you were doing. Turned my own barman against me, even. Well, let me tell you, it won't matter. You know why? I've got fucking Chicago at my back. The goddamn Messenger. The Mad Dog." He picked up the wooden club again, and hacked a thick cough. "Nobody fucks with Chicago. Nobody fucks with Hunter. Oh, you fucking bitch. Come and get what you've earned!"

-=-=-

The world came back blurry. Adrian lifted his head off the concrete and into a moment's complete uncertainty.

Where was he? What was going on?

The combined sound of Ella crying out and something like something striking meat was all it took to remind him. He pushed himself up, and was rewarded with a nausea-filled pain that completely owned him. His shoulder, his face, the top of his head...they all hated what he'd done. Something wet was rolling down his forehead and streaking around his eyebrow before slipping down his cheek. He was dizzy. Somewhere, he heard Ella cry out again, and he renewed his efforts. He had to get to her.

Concentrating, moving with careful precision, he managed to stand up. But he couldn't seem to get his vision to focus.

Hunter was coughing, but it was a different sound from his usual hack. Adrian squinted, focusing on the sound.

Hunter was coughing a lot.

Smoke.

Yes. The air was hot and grey. It irritated the eyes and was dangerous to the throat and lungs. Adrian had to suppress a cough himself. So it wasn't his vision that had gone blurry. It was the whole goddamn world.

Smoke sent a very specific message. It was a message ingrained into all land-based life. It was impossible to misunderstand.

The Rage was burning down.

He turned in the direction of the coughing, and saw Hunter's form in the haze. Adrian squinted, stepping forward, and almost fell as his foot came down on something foreign. He reached down. It was a gun.

"You don't need that," the Stranger cooed. "Just slip your little self out the door. We can be gone before anybody knows."

Adrian frowned, putting a hand to his head. When he took it away, the palm was streaked red.

"Trust me," the Stranger insisted. "You know I can keep us alive. You know I can help."

Adrian hoisted the gun and stood up. The smoke was getting thicker, but he didn't care. "What good is staying alive?" he asked the Stranger.

"It's what we have to do," the voice responded, but for once the Stranger sounded scared. "Forget the others. It's just us two."

The sound of Hunter cursing at Ella drew his attention. He moved forward, looking past Hunter's shoulder at Ella's cowering form.

She glanced past Hunter at him, eyes pulled wide inside a swollen, battered face. Her whole body seemed to be racked by tremors.

Adrian breathed in the smoke. There was something about look in her eyes...

And then, suddenly, in the back of his mind, he heard the riddle. It came to him in a new voice, one untainted by anger or defiance. It came to him in the voice of a child.

"Two children are lost in the woods. They have nothing with them...nothing to save or carry. Neither one knows the way home. However, the girl knows something that the boy does not, and that one thing makes her very, very wise."

He saw it with a marksman's clarity. It solidified his thoughts and vanquished his pain. He understood everything. He knew why the riddle was important, why it kept bothering him. He knew why the Mad Dog had given it to him. The answer was right there, clear as weeping water, in Ella's human eyes.

It was about them. The barkeep and the woman who had forgotten herself...they were the children in the story. Adrian was lost in the woods. He had been ever since the accident. He didn't know the way home, or if home was even his to have anymore. The stolen whore was lost, too, and would never see her home again. But she had known, from the very beginning, something that he had not. Something important. Something he should have realized from the very minute that Hunter hired him to tend bar. And that one thing made her very wise indeed.

She knew fear.

He didn't fully realize he was in motion until he heard the thunderous echo, felt the jarring push of the recoil, watched the fat pimp's death come to take him.

Ella screamed. Hunter only grunted and spasmed on the floor.

"You...fuck..." he sputtered. His arms spasmed, as though he were trying to get up but couldn't make them work.

"We have to go," Adrian turned to Ella. "Can you walk?"

"Y...yes," she held out her arms, and he pulled her up. "I have no clothes."

"A problem for later. Let's go."

"Wait!" she pulled at his arm, sending agonizing warnings from his shoulder. "There's someone out there." She coughed, bending over. "They...have....a gun. They shot at him when he tried to put out the fire."

Adrian was coughing, too. The smoke was getting thicker, and the heat was unbearable. "When we step out, go right," he managed to say. "Use the...back....door."

"Adrian-" She looked up at him.

"Go!" He pushed her forward. "Run!" He turned, coming out the door with her so that his body shielded her from the direction of the bar. He flinched, pointing the gun at fire and ash, and waited to die.

Nothing happened.

Adrian swayed, uncertain. He felt dizzy. The smoke...

"Adrian! Hurry!"

He turned, almost falling in the process, and leaned against the wall for support. She stood outside, at the bottom of the small stairwell near the back of the bar, holding the door open.

"Ella," he muttered, dropping to his knees.

"Adrian! Please!"

He crawled, fighting for awareness, until he reached the threshold. She began to pull at him, pleading to someone to help her, and he felt strong hands hoist him out into the alley.

He lay coughing for a few minutes, fighting for every breath. When he had gained some degree of control, he looked up.

The Mad Dog was smiling down at him, hands tucked deep in his pockets. Next to him, Ella was wrapped in a tall trench.

"I was starting to worry," Andro admitted.

Adrian coughed, and sat up on the concrete. He noted two unmoving bodies face down in the dark. "This wasn't you." He coughed again, and slapped his own chest. "You...you knew this was going to happen, though."

"We knew that a peon of a man named Buscetta was looking to hit something of ours in as noisy a way as possible. He was on his last legs, and thought that if he could put on a little fireworks show he might be able to draw the dregs together under his banner." Andro sniffled, pinching his nose. "Cold out here. Let's get going." He turned toward the end of the alley, and started walking. Somewhere, there were sirens. "At least get in the goddamn car."

Adrian climbed to his feet, swaying, and Ella stepped up to help him. "You look terrible," she said.

"You've seen better days yourself." He smiled, still calculating his breathing.

"Shit. You're both ugly. Hurry up," Andro opened the door of a black sedan and stood waiting.

As soon as they were in, the driver took off. Craning around to look out the back window, Adrian could see smoke billowing out of the Rage. The sirens were getting close.

"That's what you wanted him for," he muttered to himself. "Hunter was a sacrifice."

Andro looked out the window. "Sometimes, the gun gets pointed in your direction, and you find someone else to stand in the way."

Adrian nodded, remembering.

"Hunter was a real piece of shit," Andro continued, "with a real piece of shit operation. Almost valueless, to be honest. But Buscetta didn't have the resources or men for a large hit, and we just wanted to draw him out. A bar like that, centrally located and known? It was perfect for what he had planned. Still, we were starting to think that maybe it wasn't going to work...right up until you told me about your good friend the beer drinker."

Ella shook her head. "You let them come to kill us, and then you killed them."

The Mad Dog smiled. "But you didn't die."

Adrian frowned. "Why? Why didn't we die? Why tell me that riddle, why help me see what was going on beneath my nose? Why would you even care about the two of us, anyway?"

The tall man yawned. "Maybe I don't care. Maybe I just like to play." He winked. "Or, maybe I saw something familiar in you. And maybe the savior really does cry with Joseph's eyes."

"I still don't understand that phrase."

Andro smiled. "That's because it's time for the riddle, but not the answer." He turned to the driver. "Pull over here." Once the car had stopped, he climbed out before ducking his head back in. "This doesn't seem like the town for you. Too cold, you know?" He tossed a roll of bills into the car. "This man will take you to Kankakee. If you don't go dying of a concussion along the way, he'll take you to see someone who will look at your injuries. After that, you're on your own, kids."

Ella pulled the trench coat tight around her. "Why are you doing this for us?"

"Oh," Andro looked around the interior of the car, "who can say why any of us do anything? I suppose I'm just kind of fond of underdogs." He touched his index finger to his temple. "Right, Adrian?"

Adrian snorted. "I'm not Stranger anymore?"

"You are what you are." And then he was gone.

That night, as Chicago disappeared around them and the stars began to make themselves known, Ella cuddled up against Adrian and yawned. "What will you do now?" she asked.

Adrian looked out the window. "I thought you'd want to go south...maybe find out who you are. I was hoping you'd let me help you with that."

There was a long silence. He began to think she was phrasing her rejection, and prepared himself for it. But when she spoke, she said, "I don't think I want that...to go chasing after someone who no longer exists. I think I want a new me. One that lives someplace new. In an average place, where I can have an average life full of everyday things like love and hope and sorrow." She snuggled in closer. "Maybe you could help me with that?"

He put his arm around her, looked out into the dark, and wondered what might keep a person from wanting to know their own history. Then he thought about Laura, and her new baby....about a single green Taurus speeding madly down a stubborn hill on the plains, and of a lonely stop sign just outside a small Midwestern town.

He shook his head. Maybe he didn't have to wonder after all. "I'd love to help," he whispered, "if you'll have me."

But she was already asleep, her breath blowing warm against his neck.

-=-=-

End.