Killing Red (11 page)

Night Owls squatted down by the river. It was in a part of Joliet that had somehow eluded the influx of money from a riverboat casino, and even more cash from a nearby NASCAR race track. The place sat there like an unearthed relic.

A large neon owl was perched on top of the uneven roof. It was holding a martini glass, complete with a green olive. No matter how at home the bird appeared, Chapa had a feeling that Night Owls didn’t cater to a mixed drink crowd.

It was no pancake house, either, and the couple by the door looked like they hadn’t seen a breakfast menu in their adult lives. The guy turned his stubbled face away from the artificially blond woman he was talking up long enough to give Chapa one of those looks. It was intended to let the recipient know he was being watched. Chapa nodded to the guy without breaking stride and opened the door.

Wearing jeans and a simple green shirt under his brown leather jacket, Chapa fit right in. He figured as long as he kept his notebook and recorder tucked away he’d be okay. But the moment Chapa walked in he was greeted by an aggressive scent. Like someone had pressed his nose into that ever moist area in a homeless drunk’s beard where the spillover collects.

The bar was a little darker than Chapa would’ve liked, but on the whole it was no better or worse than a lot of others. Its burnt wood paneled walls were littered with posters of race car drivers and pro wrestlers. Chapa couldn’t have named any of them even if someone put a gun to his head and ordered him to—a possibility he was not ready to dismiss just yet.

He pulled up a stool and kept it simple, ordering a whiskey on the rocks. The bartender responded by tossing him a coaster that had the neon owl logo on it.

This was the sort of bar that usually cranked out liquor-stained country music or hard core white trash blues. Bad to the bone. Instead, the jukebox was alternating sappy love songs and heartbreak tunes, giving the place an even more desperate vibe.

“I’m looking for someone. I was told she worked here.”

“In what professional capacity?” the guy sitting next to Chapa asked, forcing each syllable out as though he were giving birth to it. The bartender laughed, Chapa let it go.

“I believe she has worked here as a waitress, her name is Annie, you might know her as Angela.”

The bartender sized him up, and for a second Chapa thought he saw a glimpse of something the big guy didn’t want seen.

“Buddy, if you’re a cop you’ve shown up at the wrong place, and the force must really be hurtin’.”

Chapa handed the bartender his card, it disappeared between thick fingers. Something about the guy’s demeanor didn’t seem quite right. It was as though he was adopting an attitude just for Chapa’s benefit.

“I’m not a cop, I’m a reporter doing a story on this woman who I’m looking for.”

“What makes her so special?”

He slid the drink in Chapa’s direction, the glass left a slug’s wet trail across the counter.

“She’s a local artist who’s gaining some notoriety, but she can be hard to find.”

Faces filled with curiosity and a little too much interest had turned his way, and Chapa figured there had to be a few more he couldn’t see in the shadows that poured into every corner. His welcome, such as it was, was wearing out in a hurry.

Chapa wasn’t the sort to be fazed by being the round peg in a room filled with square holes. Maybe he never had been. Or maybe he’d grown used to it. When he was in seventh grade a group of boys cornered him on the way home from school. Chapa didn’t know them, couldn’t understand why they were calling him a
communist
. Apparently their parents had taught them a lot more about bigotry than world politics. He managed to shield himself when one of the kids, an angry piece of work in greasy jeans and a dull white T-shirt, threw the first punch, but couldn’t do much to save himself when two more joined in.

He went home bloodied and humiliated, cleaned himself up before his mother saw him, then refused to tell her what had happened. But over the next two weeks Chapa tracked down each of the three kids, got them one-on-one, and squared things. He bloodied one bully’s nose, broke another’s, and his third fight earned him a suspension.

That was a long time ago, and though he’d never again engaged in an act of cold-blooded violence, Chapa knew he could take care of himself. With any luck he wouldn’t have to prove it tonight.

“Buddy, the servers here come and go almost on a weekly basis,” the bartender said as he wiped the counter. “The pay is lousy and the tips are a disgrace.”

The guy next to Chapa grunted in approval.

“Most of them take the job hoping to meet some guy who will take them away.”

“Lots of love in the room, can you feel it?” Chapa’s scruffy neighbor said, enunciating every word again, like a college English professor, though he looked more like the school’s garbage man.

An avalanche of blond invaded Chapa’s space, followed by a wave of dollar store perfume. It was the woman he’d seen on his way in. Her bright, artificially colored hair might have been considered artsy in some parts.

“Buy me a drink,” she said and licked her thickly painted lips. “Anything you want.”

She was big all over, and Chapa had no interest in figuring out which parts were natural and which were the result of scientific breakthroughs.

“I’m not going to be here long enough to do that,” Chapa said, just before someone gripped his shoulder and spun the barstool around.

“You’re damn straight about that.” It was the surly piece of trash who was hitting on the blonde when Chapa walked in. He cocked a boney fist, then suddenly vanished from Chapa’s sightline before he could throw it.

“We’ve talked about this too many times before, Skyler,” the enunciator was telling the guy as he held him down against the creaking floor. “You should know by now that Janet is everybody’s baby.”

“Hey!” Janet said from somewhere in the shadows. Chapa thought he saw her sitting on some guy’s lap.

“And that ain’t even it, there’s not going to be any fighting here. Now you go back there and drink yourself blind.” With that he tossed Skyler into the darkness at the far end of the bar, and extended his hand.

“I’m Munson, I own this establishment,” he said and returned to his stool like nothing had happened. “I apologize for Skyler. He’s what you might call a lingering concern. Skyler’s got a streak of mean in him, but I let him hang around because last year his bar tab paid for my new sundeck. This year, I think he’s gonna send the wife and me to Cancun.”

Munson and the bartender laughed, a few others joined in.

“But you know how it is,” Munson said, lifting his glass. “There but for the grace go any one of us. It’s like that, isn’t it?”

Chapa watched as Skyler used the beer-soaked edge of a cardboard coaster to pick something out of his teeth.

“Maybe.” Chapa pulled out another business card. “Anyway, thanks for the help with Skyler. This woman I’m looking for came to work at your place because she was dating someone here.”

“Do you mean Cody?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“He used to tend bar for me, real son-a-bitch, but he brought the girl on, I remember.”

Munson stared at Chapa’s business card like it was about to do something interesting.

“Do you know much about her situation?” Munson asked without looking up from the card.

“Some.”

Whenever possible, let the subject believe he knows more than you do.

“I looked into it quite a bit when one of my employees”—he tossed a nod at the bartender—“told me about her background. Real sad.”

One of the waitresses joined the conversation. She was a little older than the others and looked like most of the romance in her life never made it off a turntable.

“I remember Angela, she was a sweetie.”

Munson grunted in agreement.

“She got a job at some club in Chicago after she dumped Cody. Said she missed the city.”

“What was the name of that place?” Munson asked no one in particular.

“Was it Panthers?” the waitress responded.

“Let’s put on our thinking caps,” Munson said, and Chapa became a spectator as the two of them, plus the bartender, silently searched their memories for the answer.

“Prather’s,” Munson said finally.

“Is it a men’s club?” Chapa hated asking the question.

“She didn’t seem like the exotic dancer type,” the waitress answered without hesitating. “It was somewhere way up north in the city.”

Chapa finished his drink and thanked them both for the information, then started to leave, but Munson grabbed his forearm and pulled him close.

“I know a lot of things, I’ve gotten around,” he said. Chapa was surprised that he could smell no liquor on the guy’s breath. “Lots of people take my calls. You seem like a right guy, you need some information, I can probably help. Maybe we’ll have lunch sometime.”

Then Munson looked around the bar. The shadows seemed more active than before.

“But you can just call me here, you don’t have to drop in,” his words were crisp, like a typewriter key striking cheap paper, and his meaning was clear. “We got some crazy folks here who might want to bring the night down on you. How far away did you park?”

Chapa had been in enough situations to understand that Munson’s powers of persuasion were limited to inside the four crooked and time-beaten walls of Night Owls. As he walked out, Chapa heard the late 70’s disco hit “Heaven Must Be Missing an Angel” playing behind him, but he was certain no one remotely matching that description could be found in this place.

Erin had dinner waiting for him. Her chestnut brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, suggesting that she might have been cooking a full meal. Dinner turned out to be a frozen pizza, but Chapa didn’t care. More than anything he wanted to look into her eyes and feel her warm arms around him.

But before he was able to indulge in any of that, he played a game of Chutes and Ladders with Mikey, then they watched a kid’s television show together. The five-year-old had taken to him right away, and Chapa knew he was the closest thing the child had to a father figure. Chapa had already been around longer than the boy’s natural father.

“I wish you were here more,” Mikey said.

“I like being here with you and your mom.” That earned Chapa a quick hug.

Mikey was a sweet kid who reminded him of Nikki at the same age. A playful force of nature wrapped up in a small but gangly package. Chapa enjoyed being around the child, but in a way it was bittersweet. Every minute he spent with Mikey was another he didn’t spend with his own daughter. That seemed selfish, and he worked to bury those feelings. But Chapa had noticed how much Mikey had changed in just a few months, and wondered how Nikki was changing. Chapa knew he was missing out on so much.

“Mommy is happier when you’re here.”

The child stopped playing long enough to watch a toy commercial on TV.

“It makes my heart happier too,” Mikey said finally, and the game resumed.

Chapa worried sometimes that Mikey was getting too attached too quickly. Maybe it was a natural thing for someone that age. But there were no plans to make any of this permanent, and he wondered how much of a hit the child would take if it eventually came to an end.

From early on in their relationship he had explained to Erin that he wasn’t ready to try marriage again. Maybe someday, maybe never. Too much left to figure out about what went wrong the first time. Erin was nothing like Carla. But he worried that he was still the same guy who struck out once, and he wasn’t in the habit of repeating his mistakes.

After the show was over and Chapa had read him a book, Erin put her son to bed.

“I’m pretty sure Mikey likes you,” she said with a smile.

“I like him too,” Chapa said and slumped into the couch.

“Difficult day?”

“Yeah, I met some different sorts of people today. It was a day for guys who go by one name, Langdon, Munson, and I even met a psychic. It’s a strange, screwed-up world out there.”

He’d decided to leave out the part about the green sedan.

“So let’s just stay in here for, oh I don’t know, how ’bout a lifetime,” Erin said in a way that made the idea seem perfectly reasonable.

That made Chapa feel good. He wasn’t necessarily closed to the idea, just not ready to commit to it yet.

“We have this night, we have now, and that’s more than nothing,” he said, gently touching her warm cheek.

“I know, Alex.”

Erin leaned in and kissed him on his left temple, then gradually moved down until their lips met. The sweet taste of her mouth had become something Chapa thought about every day, and its memory sometimes caressed him as he drifted off to sleep. They exchanged delicate kisses until she pulled back, undid several of the buttons on her white blouse, reached in and unsnapped her bra, exposing the tender skin between her breasts.

“Okay Mr. Reporter, is there anything in here that you might want to investigate?” Erin asked as she pulled her blouse open enough to show off her cleavage.

They rushed to her bedroom, and he hastily undressed her, then took her even quicker. It was fast and it was fun, and when it was over they both knew they were not finished yet.

“What are you thinking about us?”

This again
, is what Chapa thought.

“You know how I feel about you,” he said.

“Do I? Let’s double-check. Why don’t you tell me.”

Chapa kissed her, and though this went on for a while, when it was over he could tell she was still waiting for an answer.

“Should I rent a plane and have something written in the sky for you?” Chapa asked.

“Why would I want you to say something from way up there when I’ve got you right here in my bed?”

She was waiting, giving him a
ball’s in your court
look. He diverted her attention by slowly and gently running his hand down to the base of her right breast, then up and over to the left one.

“I’m not going to forget we were having this conversation,” she partially said and mostly moaned.

They made love again, this time more gently and passionately. He took his time and explored every beautiful inch of her, lingering wherever his touch elicited a soft moan. Damn, it turned him on when she responded like that.

A female college professor once told Chapa he had the sort of face that would age well, and that women would appreciate him even more as he got older. The way Erin looked at him, not just when they were making love, but even in the most mundane moments, had Chapa believing that professor had known what she was talking about.

Afterward, they quietly lay on the bed, arms and fingers softly touching warm skin. But it was clear he wouldn’t be staying. Chapa had only slept over twice, and on both occasions Mikey had been spending the night at his grandparents’ house. He had explained to Erin how he didn’t want the child to ever see him walking out of his mother’s bedroom in the morning. Chapa was never going to be one of those men in Mikey’s life.

Chapa liked how it felt when Erin rested her head on his bare chest, as she was doing now. He let his fingers get lost in her hair.

“You should be more relaxed than you are,” Erin said, a day’s worth of tired in her voice.

“I’m going to lose my job next week. I’m no longer considered
vital
,” Chapa said.

She raised her head to look at him, and he immediately wished he hadn’t said anything about it, though being able to see the warmth in her hazel eyes made the trade-off worthwhile.

“You were told that?”

“There are cutbacks coming. A shortage of ad buys, shrinking of home delivery subscriptions, a drop-off in newspaper readership, it’s all true. It’s a bad time for the newspaper business, and it’s not going to get any better.”

She caressed his face with her long, narrow fingers, then put her head back down on his chest.

“Don’t worry, you’re a survivor. You’re the kind of guy who can figure it all out.”

Her confidence in him never got old.

“All I know is this story may end up being my swan song and calling card all at the same time.”

She kissed his chest in a way that under different circumstances might have led to more lovemaking.

“You’re Alex Chapa, the Chicago area’s best investigative reporter, a heck of a writer, and one of the world’s greatest lovers. Two of those qualities will have employers knocking at your door.”

“Actually, I’m Alex Freakin’ Chapa, but that’s another story. Or maybe it isn’t. I don’t know, I’d be willing to do stud work too. For even less money.”

Erin laughed, kissed his chest again, and said nothing more. A few minutes later he felt her breathing grow steady as she fell off to sleep. Chapa was tired but not sleepy, so he decided to stay just a little longer. He lay there and stared off into the darkness, trying to make the mismatched pieces from several different puzzles fit together.