The Green Line (3 page)

Abby pushed open the door and saw two stalls. She went into the stall directly in front of her and quickly pulled down her pants. Finally, she could breathe one sigh of relief. But there was no toilet paper. She bent down and looked under the stall to her right. She saw part of a high heel and sat up.

“Hello?” she asked. “I’m sorry, I have no toilet paper. Would you mind?”

No one responded.

“Hello?” She bent down again and saw part of a woman’s leg. “Are you okay?”

The foot didn’t move. In fact, it looked kind of odd.

She quickly dressed, flushed, grabbed her bags, and knocked on the stall next to her. The door bounced against her hand as she touched it. It was unlocked.

“Miss?” She pulled the door toward her.

A woman was slumped on the toilet with her head down, like she was unconscious. She had on only one stocking—fishnet.

“Can you hear me?” Maybe she’d overdosed. Abby crouched to the floor and looked up into the woman’s face. Her eyes were wide open. Abby gasped. The woman did not blink. She was frozen. And there was a purplish, bruise-like mark on her neck.

“Oh my God.” Abby fell back, scrambling to get up.

“Oh God, oh God,” she repeated, backing out of the stall.

She looked around for someone to help, someone to take charge of the situation.

She ran out of the bathroom, threw her things on the bar, and went around behind it to find a phone and call the police. It was a mess. Open bottles, dirty glasses, full ashtrays, newspapers, dish towels. She didn’t see a phone anywhere. She tossed the dish towels and papers and shoved some glasses aside in her search. Finally, she saw an old rotary-style phone.

She picked up the receiver and noticed a large zip-lock bag filled with white powder sitting right there on the bar. What the hell? Something else to mention to the police, she figured.

She dialed “9
”
and waited for the dial to uncoil itself. The front door flew open, slamming into the wall. Abby jumped.

Several men entered the room. They looked at her and then each other. Abby was speechless. Were these the same guys from the train? She saw the same gold chains and oversized clothes, though she assumed this was the uniform of the streets, of thugs everywhere.

The short one walked toward her with a swagger and a smile. “Hey, pretty lady. You don’t look like Leon.”

Others followed. “She a lot prettier than Leon,” said one.

“Got that right,” said another.

There were seven of them. Five got comfortable on the stools in front of her. The other two hung back by the door. They were all in good spirits, smiling, looking ready for fun. Or something.

The receiver was still in her hand, but she could not look down at the numbers. She dropped it and moved out from behind the bar.

“Oh, hi guys. Help yourself, I have to get going.” She grabbed her purse and briefcase. The leader put his hands on her bag.

Abby stared at the man and faked confident irritation. “I have to leave.” She pulled her bags away and went toward the door.

The two men by the door stepped into her path, blocking the entrance. She tried to push her way through. One grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms and lifting her off the ground while the other one ripped her bags from her grip. Abby screamed but the man immediately covered her mouth. He was only about five foot nine, but solid, and he laughed at her struggle. The other one went to the bar and began going through her purse.

The door opened. A huge man, as black as night, maybe six foot four, built like a bouncer, entered and surveyed the situation with authority. He wore a black leather coat and a giant gold chain with a cross medallion. A thick, pink scar made a jagged line from his right temple to his cheekbone. He looked past Abby, like her being held captive was nothing, and addressed the short man at the bar. “D, what’s this?”

“Hey, bro’! Just having a little fun.” Like a kid busted for bullying on the playground, the short man then motioned to Abby’s captor, who suddenly released her. Abby grabbed the briefcase by her feet, pushed past the giant man, flung herself through the front door, and practically fell onto the concrete sidewalk. She regained her balance and ran.

Once on Lake Street, Abby turned back to the bar. The giant man was leaving and heading her way. She turned east toward the Loop and kept running.

Sirens wailed in the distance. There were huge warehouses ahead and still no signs of life. She was heading straight into darkness. She did not know what else to do. If she turned away from the train tracks she would lose her sense of direction and at least now, running under the tracks, she had her bearings. She passed a few solitary people, mostly men and a few women who looked like hookers or crackheads, or both.

After several blocks, she slowed to a walk to catch her breath, wiped down her fogged glasses, and looked back again. A figure about a block back was coming toward her. Within another second, she could see that he was running. She started to run again.

A convenience store appeared up ahead on the corner. She wasn’t sure what street she was coming up to now, but it looked like a pretty big intersection. The store was open. She sprinted—as well as she could in her heels—and ignored a red light to run across the street. A passing car screeched its breaks and honked. Abby grabbed the door handle and looked back again. The man was about one block behind, waiting for a car to go by in order to cross the street. The door bells chimed wildly as she yanked the door open with force and ran into the store.

Abby turned to the attendant at the counter, breathless. “Please help me. There’s a man chasing me.”

The man dropped his book. “Come with me.”

He came around the counter and guided Abby to the back storage room. His reaction was immediate, as if he dealt with this kind of situation often. Once in the back, he took her by the shoulders and pushed her up against the wall, where she stood sandwiched between a storage shelf and some boxes. It was dark. He looked her in the eyes and put his finger to his lips, suggesting silence. He left and shut the door behind him. Abby sank immediately to a crouched position and hugged her briefcase. Like a video, images raced through her mind—that woman’s dead face, the drugs, the men, her purse. It felt like ten minutes before anyone came back. It was probably three.

The door opened and Abby held her breath as light poured into the dark storage room.

“Hey.” It was the clerk. He looked calm. “He’s gone.”

Abby exhaled. “What did he look like?”

The clerk offered his hand to help her up. “Black guy, black leather coat, giant gold cross, big scar on his face. He looked around, bought some cigarettes and left. He’s having a smoke on the corner.”

Abby tried to explain. The tears were coming, though she wiped them quickly, trying to maintain composure. It was hard to make sense. “I can’t believe this is happening to me. I got on the wrong train. There was this guy, and these thugs, and then my cell phone died, and they grabbed me and stole my purse.” She couldn’t even say “dead body.” She could barely speak. “I need to get home,” she whispered. She couldn’t look at the clerk, embarrassed by tears that kept escaping.

“Hey, hey, calm down.” His English was good, with a hint of British influence, but his accent told Abby that he was from somewhere far away. “It’s okay. I’ll help you. I know this neighborhood can be scary. I spent the first two years here looking over my shoulder every five minutes. And you, well, I can see why a woman like you would be nervous around here. You’re quite the spectacle.”

Abby did not know whether he was trying to be funny, but she looked up at his face and they both smiled. He put her at ease.

“It’s okay. I’ll get you home. Where do you live?”

“Wrigleyville.”

“By Wrigley Field? You are far from home. We can’t call you a cab—they won’t come to this neighborhood at this hour. I live upstairs with my friend. I’ll have him come watch the store while I give you a ride.”

Abby hesitated. It was a generous offer, but she had never considered getting in a car with a complete stranger.

She looked at him and tried to read his face. She had spent all last summer working on these skills during her first jury trial. She sensed earnestness, maybe a hint of insecurity, a reserved quality. But he was a stranger.

He obviously sensed her concern. “Listen, it’s not every day I meet a beautiful damsel in distress—besides, I’d be happy to get out of here for a while.”

She took the “beautiful” comment as a way to be kind, since there was no way she looked beautiful right now. She could just imagine the mascara smeared all over her face.

She looked into his eyes. Dark, long lashes. Something about his expression was calming. “I need to call the police.”

“Can you describe who stole your purse?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.” She began thinking about what she needed to tell police—the dead body, the drugs, those guys. It could take a while. It could cause a scene. She just wanted to get home. For months, being at home had done nothing but depress her, but right now, she wanted to be there more than anything, to be safely behind her front gate, her locked door, her security system. She would talk to police in her own neighborhood. It was now twelve forty-five. She looked at him again, at his genuine concern.

“I guess I’ll take that ride. I can figure this all out at home.” He had just saved her life, after all. Abby wiped her face.

“What’s your name, anyway?” the clerk asked, putting on his coat.

“Abigail.”

“I’m Ali,” he said, leading her out a back door that went to the alley. “Come on.” He locked the store and pulled a brick from the side of the building. The mortar had fallen away and the brick was chipped away at the back. He slipped the key into the crevasse and replaced the brick.

“Quite a security system, right?” he offered with a smile. “My friend will be right down.”

She tried to make conversation as he opened the door to his car, parked by the exit. “So, ‘Ali,’ as in ‘Muhammad Ali’?” What a stupid comment, she immediately thought.

“Well, I’m no boxer,” he laughed. “It’s Ali Rashid.”

Abby nodded. He seemed harmless, and as he had alluded, he wasn’t an intimidating figure—maybe five foot seven, barely taller than Abby, and probably 140 pounds. She felt safe. “Can you get to Ashland?”

“No problem.”

“Okay. You can take Ashland north all the way to Belmont, and then turn right. I’ll show you from there.” This was enough information to keep Ali going for many miles and probably ten or fifteen minutes, so she took off her glasses to rub her eyes, rested her head, and stared out the window, hoping he would not want to make conversation during the ride home. The evening’s events already seemed like a bad dream. She just wanted to pretend it never happened.

“So what do you do?” Ali asked after allowing silence for a couple of miles.

“I’m a lawyer.”

“Ah, yes. You argue to judges, then?”

“Sometimes.” It sounded more interesting as a one-word answer, and Abby didn’t feel up to explaining that most lawyers like her spent a lot more time in their offices, dealing with mounds and mounds of papers, than they did arguing to judges.

“I was a chemical engineer in Iraq, but no one would hire me when I got here. I had to start over.”

“That’s too bad.” She tried to focus on Ali and his story. It was better than thinking about that dead woman’s face, those men and their laughter, the drugs. She closed her eyes hard, trying to erase the images.

Ali continued. “Yeah, but then I thought I’d live the American dream and be an entrepreneur!”

Abby gave him a half smile. She was exhausted. She looked back out the window for signs of home.

“And it’s been pretty good.” He obviously didn’t need her for the conversation. “It’s been tougher since 9/11, of course. I mean, now everyone from my country is a possible terrorist, right?”

She turned to him and cracked a nervous smile. He was obviously used to the fear. His monologue continued and she offered slight responses to suggest listening.

The Dunkin’ Donuts and Linens ’n Things appeared up ahead. Chain stores, the comforts of home. She began thinking about the large coffee and warm blueberry muffin she’d pick up in the morning. She needed to be up and out in about five hours.

“You are not from Chicago either, I imagine.”

“No.”

“You have just a hint of an accent…like…maybe you’re from the South?”

Abby nodded. “Georgia.”

“Where is that?”

“Pretty far away, out east, about a fifteen-hour drive from here.”

“You must miss your family.”

Abby continued staring out the window. “I do.”

“Me too.”

She advised Ali to head north on Clark and soon saw people on the street and her favorite restaurant, Mia Francesca’s, up ahead.

“You can let me out right here.” She was already grabbing for the door handle.

Ali’s arm shot out across her chest. “Wait a second,” he said.

Abby’s whole body tensed.

Ali pulled back and smiled. “You look like you’re going to jump. We’re still on Clark. Let me take you all the way to your place.”