William Brown - The Undertaker

I walked back toward her building and found a spot up the street in a doorway where I could hide and watch her building. At 8:15, her curtains moved and I saw a haunting, pale-white face with large, dark eyes look out. She had short, black hair, styled fashionably “messy” with sprigs and clumps sticking out in every direction. Her only concessions to color were a big slash of cherry bomb red lipstick, a wide, bright-red watchband, and bright red nail polish. From the window, she glanced up and down the street, searching for someone or something, then she let the curtains drop back into place and she was gone.

Five minutes later, she came bouncing out the front door. A leggy blonde in a pastel business suit? Hardly. She couldn't be more than five feet tall, slim, and athletic. In the bright morning light, her black hair shone like a raven's wing. It hung down over her forehead and ended at a pair of dark, oversized sunglasses that completely hid her eyes. I smiled. Her “pale-green business suit and brown-leather attache case” looked like a short, black-leather skirt, bold-patterned, gray hose, a frilly, white-silk blouse with a scoop neck and lots of lace, and a huge, black leather over-the-shoulder bag. Well, she got the leather part right. Considering my dark-blue, pinstripes suit and red striped tie had morphed into a plaid shirt, stonewashed jeans, and Briggs and Stratton hat, I figured we were about even.

When she hit the sidewalk, her head tracked back and forth like radar as she checked out the street, looking for something or someone. Finally, she gave up, pushed a shock of black hair out of her eyes, and set off speed walking south on Clark. If I had to guess, I'd say she was in her mid-twenties. The big, black-leather shoulder bag she was carrying was big enough to pass for an overnight bag. Over her left shoulder hung a thirty-five millimeter camera with a long telephoto lens. Well, at least she wasn't bull shitting me about being a photographer. She had on a pair of old fashioned, black-and-white high-top Keds gym shoes. Like most big- city secretaries, she probably carried her dress shoes in the purse, but the rest of the clothes weren't exactly “going to the office” togs. What did she call it? A late night “shoot” at 3:00 AM? The clothes were too nice for the day shift at the train station, but I wondered what she really did do for a living, and who or what was it she was ‘shooting’ in the middle of the night.

As she walked away, her hips moved with a soft, supple, roll and I'd bet the farm she wore black-lace underwear. Probably a thong. Had to be, I thought, if she wore any at all. My God, I thought, terribly embarrassed. Had it really been that long? Maybe Sharon was right. If I ever got out of this thing alive, I really did need to see her friend Doris. Yeah, it had been that long. I turned my eyes up to the high, cerulean-blue, Chicago sky, relieved to see there were no clouds up there. There were no worried faces looking down at me, and no lightening bolts flashing out of the blue to fix my problem, permanently.

I hung back a half block on the opposite side of the street and watched as she continued south. She had no idea I was there, and in that outfit, she proved easy to follow. The streets began to fill with traffic and the sidewalks with fast-moving pedestrians, making it easy to blend in, even in my plaid shirt and Briggs and Stratton hat. She crossed Division and went south on State, and then swung up Rush Street. The restaurants, bars, and jazz clubs were probably a lot trendier at 8:45 at night than they were at 8:45 in the morning with the delivery trucks, trash, broken beer bottles, and puddles of puke in the gutters, but our girl knifed through it all and didn't look as if she cared. Like Tom Petty sang, “she was an American girl — full of promises”, and she didn't have time for the minor details like the street clutter or the strange man who was following her.

When she reached Chicago Avenue, she turned left and her pace slowed. Up ahead lay the Water Tower and a small park. She stepped back into a shadowy doorway on the opposite corner and braced herself against the wall. The camera with the telephoto lens dropped off her shoulder and she pushed the sunglasses to the top of her head. Those dark eyes darted back and forth across the park, but she didn't go any closer. She stayed on the south side of Chicago Avenue. Smart, real smart, I thought, as she quickly panned across the park, checking the place out. Apparently satisfied, she lowered the camera, looked at her watch, then stepped back further into the shadows. Was she waiting for me? Or, waiting for someone else? There was no way to tell, so I hung back and did the same.

It didn't take long. Two gray sedans with black-wall tires pulled over to the curb next to her. All the gray ones must have been on loan to Columbus, I figured, but anything that ugly had to be government. A goon in a dark suit and sunglasses got out of the passenger seat of the lead sedan. He glanced cautiously around, then walked over to where Ms. Kasmarek waited in the shadows. He wore a dark suit, a tie, and a white shirt with French cuffs, and gold cuff links. French cuffs and gold cuff links on a Fed? That didn't compute. He didn't look too happy as he joined her in the doorway, motioning toward his car as if he wanted her to get in. She shook her head and wasn't having any of it. She put her hands on her hips and I could see enough of her face to tell the goon wasn't making a dent. I smiled.

The two sedans had small radio antennas on the trunks. More of Tinkerton's elves? How encouraging, they weren't even trying to hide any longer. The girl? Hard to tell whose side she was on. Obviously, my witty banter on the telephone hadn't made much of a first impression. Not only did she want to see me busted, she wanted the film rights too.

The two cars finally pulled away, leaving the head goon standing next to her in the doorway, still working on her. Was he protecting her or making sure she didn't get away? The lead car turned left onto Michigan Avenue and pulled over to the curb a half block down. The driver got out and took up position at the far corner of the park, his arms crossed, intently scanning the sidewalks, trying to look casual. The second car parked even further up the street in a No Parking zone on the other corner. One goon stayed with the car and the other one worked his way west, giving them a man at each of the square's four corners, each with a hand-held radio.

It was 9:00 now. Foot and car traffic was even thicker. Still, I didn't want to take any chances. I eased back from the corner and slipped into a coffee shop. From a booth along the windows, I could see enough of the doorway where the girl and the goon stood to know they were still waiting there. This could take a while, so I ordered some pancakes and coffee. No telling when I was going to eat again. As I watched, every now and then, telephoto lens peeked out and scanned the park. Too bad it wasn't raining. That would have served them both right.

They stood in the doorway until 9:40. That was when the girl must have decided I wasn't coming, because the she stepped out onto the sidewalk followed by the head goon. They were arguing. The other three goons got in their cars, circled back around, and pulled up in front of them. The head goon must have had enough of her mouth, because he grabbed her by the elbow and tried to lead her firmly toward his sedan. That was a really bad idea. With a slow, graceful Judo move, she took his hand off her elbow and pivoted around, bending it back at the wrist before she tossed him head-first into the brick wall next to the doorway. His knees buckled and he sat down awkwardly on the sidewalk. I almost spilled my coffee, but she wasn't finished with him. She stood over him, hands on hips, telling him something he didn't want to hear, no doubt about his bad manners, then turned and walked quickly and confidently into the park. The head goon slowly got to his feet. He dusted off his slacks and adjusted his cuffs, but he didn't try to follow her. He got back in the lead car, slammed the door, and they all drove off.