Luc steps onto the burning sidewalk, hazy with the mid-afternoon heat of another sweltering Chicago day. He digs in his breast pocket with deliberation, glancing over the tops of his sunglasses, clearly checking out the woman on the far side of the street without a hint of shame.
He is perhaps surprised to see that she is checking back. She seems unbothered by the heat, judging by the clothing she's almost wearing. A sheer cotton dress of red and white pattern, which reaches to the middle of her bare, tanned thighs and flutters in even the slightest breeze.
Luc pulls a cig out of the crumple pack of Export A's and indulges in a long stare. Putting the pack back in his pocket, he steps off the curb and rolls the cig around his lips with his tongue. Since he has decided to quit, this is the only luxury he will allow himself.
The woman in the gossamer-thin sundress straightens and begins to move toward him.
Luc ignores the motorcycle that screeches to slow before hitting him; serves him right in a 25 MPH zone, anyway.
The woman is no longer looking at him but, rather, just past him. The concentration in her face is in contrast to the casual swing of her hips.
Luc curls around the front fender of the bike, glancing back over his shoulder to see what she is looking at.
She crosses the street, seemingly heedless of traffic, and weaves her way along Wabash. She steps back up on Luc's side of the street, brushing past him. She moves on, in the wake of a tall balding man with a silver brief-case in his left hand.
Luc slows, back-peddling slightly, and turns to follow at an impolite proximity. "'Scuse me," he says unapologetically.
She doesn't acknowledge him.
"...but I was just staring at you, and you went and made that difficult."
She throws him a sidelong glance, sparing only a second for the French accent.
"You want it?" he asks, indicating the briefcase with a slight nod. "I'll get it for you."
At this, she swivels her head fully in his direction, risking a frontal assault on the faux-antique street light. "What?" She side-steps the light in time, not missing a beat.
"The case, the case," he murmurs, so as not to draw attention to their conversation. He flicks the cig into the gutter. "I'll get it."
"And why would you do that?" she asks calmly, with a touch of amusement in her tone.
His mouth twitches slightly. "I like to amuse pretty girls."
She eyes him again, her mouth pursed slightly.
"-Women-" he amends quickly. "-Beautiful-...women."
Her chuckle is low, throaty. "Better," she concedes. "And just what makes you think I want..." She glances down in the general direction of his hips. "...it?"
He shrugs, a liquid movement of the shoulders, unsettling the wide neck of the t-shirt. "I don't. Maybe you want his watch. But if so," he winks at her, "I would be disappointed."
The balding man goes through the revolving doors of the Sheraton.
"Oooohhh," he says with faux disappointment. "You see? Now we will have to go inside." He throws up his hands with mock resignation.
"Maybe I want his body," she--Callie--suggests, and then looks him fully in the face. "Would that disappoint you, too?"
He pouts slightly. "Hm, well, I hadn't planned on spending the afternoon with him, too."
An El train rattles overhead. She stops, as if listening to it. "I don't know," she says, dreamily. "Two men... one woman... sounds good to me."
"Ah," he smiles. "You see? I know a trick..."
"Do I care?" she asks, contemplating options.
He just winks and beckons her after him into the lobby.
She starts moving forward again, with an audible sigh.
He waits for her to catch up to him so that they can pass through the door one after the other. "Go around a full turn," he advises.
Annoyance flits through her gray eyes, but she has little choice but to obey. "This had better be one damned good trick..." She completes the turn.
As they spin around to come out the other side, they are suddenly standing on the sidewalk again, with the balding man turning toward the doors. "You want the case?" he asks mischievously.
Callie hesitates... stops... and looks at him piercingly. It was as though they had gone back about 5 seconds in time. All was as it had been, barring the conversation they had shared which allowed her quarry to slip inside ahead of her. "How did you..." She glances at the balding man, quickly moving beyond her reach again.
Luc's shoulders fall in a feigned exasperation as the balding man heads back in. "You gotta decide *quickly*," he admonishes her.
"Yes!" she hisses. "I want it." To herself, she mutters, "Dammit!" He had once more limited her options. She is beginning to think she should deal with this puppy before she went much further.
"OK! Let's go in." As he turns toward the doors he says reassuringly, "don't worry, I know another trick!"
Words rumble under her breath, but she follows him.
They look around the lobby as they enter. The balding man is standing at the concierge desk, pulling a credit card from his wallet.
Callie grips Luc's sleeve and mutters in his ear, "-This- had better not be the only kind of fucking you intended to do with me!" she warns him. She moves away and walks breezily toward the desk.
He looks at her with a hurt expression, but follows her.
As Callie gets within arms-length of the balding man, she suddenly stumbles, her left leg collapsing under her, falling into the balding man with a cry of distress. The Concierge reaches for her, but the balding man is there first.
"My ankle!" she cries.
Luc steps in beside the balding man, bending over the two of them with apparent concern.
Callie starts a rush of words in a tearful, soft voice, tinged slightly with the suggestion of the Deep South. "Ah just bought these shoes!" she weeps. "Ah don't know what possessed me! Ah just -knew- they were too high..." She sniffles back tears. "An' now Ah've twisted mah ankle!" She leans heavily on the balding man.
"Perhaps I can be of assistance," Luc suggests authoritatively. "I am a doctor. Excuse me, sir," he says brushing Baldy gently aside.
Callie glares at him. "Ah think Ah'll be all right... if Ah could just sit down on a chair..."
The balding man steps back, glancing uneasily at the concierge.
Luc crouches down next to Callie and gives her a wink. There, between his legs, is a silver case. "Now, now, don't move for a moment," he warns her, shielding the case with his body.
"Ah...Ah won't," she promises with a trembling chin. "But...it does hurt so..." She glances up at the mark with tears in her wide eyes. "Ah'm terribly sorry to cause such a fuss..."
Luc palpates her ankle slightly, then pronounces in a loud voice, "It's a sprain. We're going to have to get you to a hospital."
"Oh, de-ah..." she says, just short of a whine. "Do you really think so?" She inches the hem of her flimsy skirt up her thigh a bit.
The bald man notices a long length of leg, but little else. But he does move back out of the way.
Luc steps back a half and turns to face the bald man quickly. "Yes. Sir, could you please step aside just a bit? We'll need some room here." He addresses the concierge. "Madam, if you don't mind, an ambulance." Throwing an arm around the bald man's shoulder, Luc puts his head next to the man's and murmurs, "A word with you, sir."
The balding man recoils slightly from the touch. "Yes?" he asks in a cold voice.
Luc gently directs him a few steps away, turning his back to the woman. "I believe that it is actually a fracture, sir."
Callie, meanwhile, grinds her teeth as a crowd begins to collect. "Ah'm fahn... really," she insists to no one in particular. "Just a sprain..."
"Of course," Luc interjects quickly, "we won't be certain until we can get your wife to the hospital."
The balding man pulls back. "She's not my wife!" he asserts. "I was just standing there, minding my own business. I don't want to get involved with this."
"Well, sir," Luc practically chokes. "I am -so- sorry..." he stammers, still holding the man's shoulder. "What exactly -did- happen, over there?"
The man looks annoyed, and begins to notice the crowd. "Nothing! I was simply tending to my business. The young woman merely stumbled into me."
Meanwhile, a young man who standing next to Callie asks her, "Are you comfortable? Should I bring a chair over?"
"Oh... that would be so nice!" she exclaims, shooting daggers at Luc. "Thank you so very much!"
The young man pulls a chair over and helps Callie into it. Another nearby lady puts the silver case by her chair.
"Thank you," murmurs the Injured Party. "Thank you so much." She pushes the case back as far as it can go and still be within reach.
"Ah, I see," says Luc. "Well, in that case, we should just stick around until the authorities show up to give a report, and then we should be free to continue our afternoon."
The balding man glances around the lobby. "Uh... that won't be convenient. I have an appointment in..." He consults his watch. "...fifteen minutes. I was just arranging for a taxi with the concierge... I'm sorry, " said baldy, " but I really can't become involved in this." He starts to move away.
"Oh, sir, please use my cell phone," he hands a Nokia to the man and demurely ignores the glance.
"For what?" he asks, blankly.
"Why, for your appointment sir." Luc leans in slightly, "Sir, you must know that the concierge will identify you to the authorities." He smiles wanly, "I am afraid that we -are- involved in this, like it or not!"
"But..." sputters the man. "I was just standing here!"
"However, if you need to be discreet...." Luc leaves the sentence incomplete.
"Discreet? what are you suggesting?"
"Nothing, nothing... merely that your appointment may not be... easily rescheduled," Luc says knowingly.
The Patient turns the chair away from Luc and the mark and lifts the case into her lap. She glances up at the people crowding in. "Ah'm so flustered... Ah don't know if Ah can remember the combination..." She starts to twirl the cylinders. She works them briefly, and the latches pop with a satisfying click. She smiles up at the young man who had procured the chair.
She lifts the lid, rummages inside, and retrieves a case about the size of a deck of cards. This she slips into the handbag hanging from her left wrist. She closes the case and sets it down again.
"If you wish," continues Luc after a moment's thought, "*I* could take your place here. I could simply say that she fell into *me*. There would be no problem," he assures the man.
The balding man looks at him with a hard, comprehending look. He glances at Callie. "Uh... no. That won't be necessary." He reaches into his breast pocket. He pulls out a wallet and begins thumbing bills of high denomination.
"Well," sighs Luc. "I don't know all the policies in your country..." he shakes his head with apparent confusion.
The man thrusts several bills into his hand. "This should cover... her hospital bills," he says. "Now I really must be going." He looks about for his case.
"Certainly, sir," replies Luc, taking the money. "Thank you for your concern."
Baldy pushes past Luc brusquely, spies his case and grabs it without a word to the girl in the chair.
Callie patient moans dramatically.
Luc turns back to the crowd and Callie, quietly watching the man leave. "Are you in pain, my dear?" he asks the woman.
She nods, pouting. "It does hurt," she tells him.
"Let me assist you to the sidewalk," he suggests. "The ambulance is on the way?" he calls to the concierge sternly.
"Ah really think Ah can walk," she counters. "It's not quite so bad anymore..."
The concierge quickly responds, "Yes, doctor."
Callie looks up at the young man who had gotten her chair. "This kind man thought to get me a chair. Ah think Ah just needed a little courtesy... It's really not so bad..."
"Good, good," says Luc. "Well, maybe a bit of fresh air will do you some good. No point in making the ambulance attendants come into the lobby...."
The young man volunteers, "I could help, if you want to go outside..."
Callie smiles adoringly up at the younger man, and reaches for his proffered arm.
Luc frowns slightly, but quickly replaces his smile.
With the young man's help, Callie begins to limp stoically toward the doors.
Luc steps ahead to hold the door open.
"Will you be okay?" asks the young man. "I... I have to go..." He is clearly reluctant.
"Oh... yes... Ah'll be just fine," she assures him, patting his cheek. "Thank you for your kindness."
He blushes to his hairline.
Luc follows them out. "Well, my dear," he smiles, pulling another fag from his breast pocket. "It should be fine in no time." He half closes his eyes, rolling the filter on his tongue with his hand. "The ambulance will soon arrive. Perhaps you would like to sit over here to wait?"
"Oh, sure," she mumbles. "-Now- you offer a chair..." She waves to the young man, who goes back in after a lingering, hungry gaze.
"Well," Luc drawls, dropping the formality. "I can't do *everything*. Let's go get a coffee somewhere."
Callie looks at him appraisingly. "I think I've had about all of your company I can take for one lifetime," she declares, starting off down Wabash.
He nods with a little smile, strolling in the same direction and admiring her from behind. "We'll see," he says to himself quietly, pulling air through the unlit cigarette.
*****
"Yes, I got it... No, he didn't... No.... You know the arrangements. I get the second half of the payment, you get your prototype.... No, that's not what we agreed to... Fine. You want to play? I play rough. Get the money to me, as agreed, within half an hour, or the prototype goes back where it came from."
Callie examines the mass of plastic and microchips in her hand and shrugs, stuffing it back in her bag. She thinks for a moment of just tossing it down the garbage chute and walking away with half the prize. She doesn't like dealing with people who try to change the rules after the fact. And she doesn't like selling a take back to the mark. That smacks of double-dealing and theft-for-ransom, both of which are against her personal code. She'd made a deal; she'd keep her end of it. If the other party didn't, she'd send the prototype back via courier, no payment exacted.
She unwinds the towel from around her long, lustrous golden blonde hair and begins to brush it dry. In the mirror of the cookie-cutter hotel room, the reflection of her naked and drying body reassures her. She thinks of the man who nearly cost her the score, and the next few brush-strokes claim several strands of hair. "Asshole," she mutters, tossing her head forward to brush from the under-side. "What the hell did he think he was doing?"
The bedside phone rings, and she freezes. -No one is supposed to know I'm here,- she thinks, her brain spinning into high gear. -Maybe it's just the desk.- She sets down her brush, calculating. Then she reaches for the hand-set.
"We want the prototype, Ms. Jones," says a voice on the other end, even before she speaks. The line goes dead.
Though she had given her client the name "Jones", she had registered at the hotel as "VanKirken". How had they traced her to this particular room? Had they followed her? She hadn't seen any tails. Had that stupid Frenchman distracted her so much she'd missed something? Had -he- been the tail?
She scrambles into clean clothes--white shorts and a bright-aqua tank top. She didn't have time to look for underwear. She stuffs the few things she'd taken from her backpack into the bottom of the bag, slipping her Beretta Compact into her shoulder-bag. Leaving her electronic key on the bed, she opens the door, checking both ends of the long, carpeted hallway.
It's clear. She slips out and heads for the set of elevators farthest from her room. Then takes the stairway beside them to the basement.
*****
Luc liked the Indian who sold papers on the corner; he never asked him if he intended to buy a journal or magazine that he flipped through, however slowly. They were not on a first name basis - Luc called him "Rajah" and he called Luc "Chief" - but they had a history, and they seemed to understand each other. Luc was pressed to decide what it was that Rajah liked about him, since he never did buy a thing from the man.
"Hey, Chief. What is happeneen'?" the paperseller asks. Rajah had recently begun taking American lessons from a young woman that included some conversation; whatever other exercises were involved were definitely improving his vocabulary, if not his accent.
"The usual, I see," Luc responds, flipping through the top few pages of the Sun Times before throwing it down with disgust. "Got a light?"
"Heeeey, I thought you don't smoke," he says with a verbal wink, tossing a Bic lighter over the counter.
Luc spins the wheel and lets the flame burn a while, but doesn't apply it to the virgin cigarette dangling from his lips. He sighs. "I don't." He lets the flame die.
"See you tomorrow, Rajah," he says, handing the lighter back and heading down the street from the kiosk.
"OK, Chief."
He realizes that it is only a matter of time before he decides that he might as well stop wondering about her and do something about it, so he chooses to spare himself the wait, and searches the ground for a discarded gum wrapper or cigarette pack. He finds an orphaned earring; even better. He moves over to a sidewalk bench near a bike rack and a set of phones, and places the earring on one of the decorative posts near the curb, sitting on the bench. While he waits, he whistles an almost recognizable tune, and is soon rewarded with the appearance of a magpie, out of character in the urban setting. The bird drops something that it is carrying and picks up the earring. Before it takes off, it seems to look at Luc and wink, but he knows that is impossible.
"Thank you," he says, getting up to retrieve the fallen object. It is a coin, the size of a quarter, but with an unfamiliar woman's face on both sides. He slots it into the nearest phone, picking up the receiver. There is a short series of clicks as the phone line engages, and then immediately rings.
"Docksider Hotel," says a young child's voice.
He hangs up wordlessly. The Docksider; not far from here. He smiles to himself and moves briskly off in that direction, taking a shortcut he knows.
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