God Makes Them Mean

Chapter 11

The night is chilly. Scratch that. December cold has settled in, it bites deep with fangs of ice. I wish I had warmer gloves with me. I blow into them, and I crank up the car's AC to the maximum. Warm air blows out like Arizona breeze. I cruise the Loop, following the grid like I'm trying to lose some ghost that has been following me. Ghosts are like shadows, you can't lose them. I give up. I'm only wasting time and fuel. 

Suddenly, I get thirsty as soon as I realize I haven't drunk anything since I walked in that bedroom from hell the first time around. A feeling of being parched grips my throat, dries my mouth, swells my tongue.

I stop at a tiny watering hole under the el. The night is dark, downtown is darker. The light emerging from the narrow place is a shaft of pale yellow. I must've passed this place a million times, but I've never stopped before. I stop in front of the door. The bartender is a solitary creature that looks at me like he's craving not only my business, but my company. In no mood for conversation, I walk back to the car. I see the disappointment in his eyes as I turn. I find an automatic dispenser a block down, and drown in Dr Pepper. The sweet taste makes me bitter.

I go back to the car, I cross the river on Dearborn and drive until I can turn left on Ontario and then left again to hit Blue Chicago on Clark. Place is still open, a sullen crowd still keeps going, running on fumes and the dread of going back home alone.

Skinny man dark as strong coffee is picking his guitar and singing Members Only. He's flying solo, an eerie light shining on him, like God has singled him out. He's good, in a gloomy, throaty sort of way. He's no Bobby Blue Bland but he still makes me feel like I'm one of the members of that broken hearted club. He picks better than he sings, but as he comes to the end of the tune people still clap, satisfied. It's not a choosy audience, this one, mostly tourists and suits and the girls the suits pick up and take along for the night's ride.

Apart from a group of suits down to their sweaty, expensive shirts and loose tie who are a little too loud and bellicose, the place is the kingdom of silent couples talking in whispers, looking over their shoulders and spying the other couples hoping they are the most-in-love one of all. They sip wine, they give a passing nod to the musician, they wave away the waitresses with short gestures of their fingers. They drink desperation and hope in equal measures from each other's eyes. They hold hands and slowly skirmish with their feet. They pretend like they're the only people alive on Earth, but it's painfully obvious they are just putting on an act for their own benefit.

I know, I'm a fucking cynic. Sue me.

I clap along with the others, before sitting down at the bar and ordering a whiskey, neat, and a tall glass of sparkling water that solicits a judgemental stare from the bartender. I drink the water, ask for another, then empty the whiskey.

I look at the suits. If Jonah's profiling is true, one of these men could be the killer. I look at each one in turn, wondering if a simple glance could reveal foul secrets and admissions of guilt. Can a man do what the killer did and then spend the night getting drunk with friends? It would reveal a form of sociopathy that probably any consultant psychiatrist will attach to the murderer in the next few days. To me, they look too young to match the mental image I'm painting of him. Too drunk as well. You don't kill and drink. Alcohol looses your tongue and slows your wits and gets you in all sorts of troubles. I keep watching as a member of the group attempts an awkward grope at a waitress's ass. She wiggles out of danger, her long legs quick with expertise, leaving him in an unbalanced stance that almost makes him go down like a ton of bricks. He laughs just as loud as the loudest of his buddies at his predicament. He uses a chair to hoist himself back into an almost erect position. I think he sees me looking at him. He winks triumphantly, superior and self confident even in his inebriate state. Not in a million years I could show such supreme nerves.