Ed Gorman - Cold Blue Midnight

These were her thoughts on waking. Unfortunately, Marcy had a hell of a lot to do today so, as usual, she hurried through her shower, hurried through her makeup and hair-brushing, and then set off for Hardee's in the massive black Ford pick-up truck, complete with glas-pak mufflers you could hear from a block away, that she'd borrowed from the used car lot down the street. She'd run down a few deadbeat customers for them (the car lot floated its own paper, meaning that they carried their own loans) and the owner was properly appreciative (plus he was always hitting on Marcy and probably figured loaning her the truck would bring him closer to her boudoir).

After breakfast, she drove the huge roaring beast of a truck over to a Volvo dealership on Dempster, where she asked one of the men on the floor if they had a brochure that showed various Volvo models for the last five, six years. The guy obviously thought this was kind of a weird request, but went along with it anyway. He left Marcy in his tiny cubbyhole of an office to look through brochures from the past eight years. The blue Volvo that had been at Jill's last night was a model from three years ago. She wrote it all down, thanked the salesman and left.

Her next stop was a computer outlet on West Belmont. On the way there, another truck pulled up alongside her. The driver, a guy who was doing his best to look like a pirate of the scurviest kind, right down to this really twinky eye-patch, obviously decided that here was some cute little chick with her big brother's wheels for the day. He was going to show her how to handle one of these babies. He ogled Marcy and then revved his engine.

Marcy blew him away. By the time the pirate was done peacocking around, the light had changed and Marcy was already through the intersection.

What a dip that guy was.

In the computer place, Marcy asked for a man named Jose and moments later a handsome Latino man appeared. He was in his forties, trim, wearing an inexpensive dark suit that gave him a funereal air contradicted by his merry dark eyes.

Jose Sanchez escorted her into his office, closed the door and said, 'It's illegal, isn't it?'

'Gee, Jose, you always make me feel like a criminal.'

He grinned. 'You are a criminal. And so am I.'

She grinned right back. 'Yeah, I guess we kind of are, at that.'

Technically they were, anyway. Jose always hacked into the state Driver's License Bureau computer for her. Marcy didn't know any cops who'd use the computer for her, so she had to turn to her former night-school computer instructor. Jose was very, very good as long as she stayed within his guidelines. He would only hack into public information. Nothing private, no violation of anybody's rights.

'How're the kids?'

'We bought Donna her first training bra.'

'Wow.'

'It depresses me.'

'How come?'

'All the boys I see around her. I know what they want.'

'You were probably one of those boys once.'

'I was. And that's why I'm so depressed.'

'Well, you turned out all right. Maybe these boys will, too.'

He nodded and sat back in his comfortable leather executive chair. His office was modestly appointed but neat in every respect. His father had been an illegal immigrant. Jose took great pride in how far he'd come. He was always pushing magazines of the conservative political persuasion at Marcy. Jose had grown up on welfare and knew how it strangled not only ambition but dignity as well. At this stage, his office furnishings were not the most expensive wood but someday, through his continued hard work, they would be the best cherry wood available. He had pride, and great drive. In addition to owning this small store, he still taught computer classes three nights a week.

'So what government computer are we going to rape today?' he enquired.

'The Driver's License Bureau.'

He grinned. 'Good. They will only give me twenty years in prison for that one.'

She handed him the particulars. 'Blue Volvo. Here's the year and the model. And here's a description of the guy.

See how many matches you can turn up.' Then she looked up at him from the notes she'd put on his desk. 'And this time, I'm going to pay you.'

'No, no. You were a pleasure to have as a student, and you're even more of a pleasure to have as a friend. Besides, we small-business people, we have to stick together.'

'Jose'

'My word is final, Marcy. Final.'

She smiled and shook her head. 'You're crazy, you know that? But in a real nice way.'

She gave him a little kiss on the cheek before she left.

Then she went and got in the big black monster truck. She hoped she would run into that leering pirate again. This time she'd really humiliate him.

Jill worked in the darkroom all morning. Every twenty minutes or so, she'd call Mitch's phone and let it ring four times. Nobody ever answered. She'd hang up before the operator picked up. She didn't want to leave a message, didn't want Mitch to know how frantic she was getting. Did Lieutenant Sievers really have any hard evidence against her? Wouldn't he believe that somebody unknown had stolen her blouse and skirt and apparently soaked them in blood?

By two o'clock, Mitch still hadn't called.

Jill remained working in the darkroom, but now she was making some really stupid mistakes.

Really stupid mistakes.

Cini's first stop was at Baskin-Robbins, where she bought one quart of French vanilla ice cream and one quart of Dutch chocolate.

Her second stop was at Dunkin' Donuts. She got a dozen assorted donuts and half a dozen filled cream puffs.

Forty-two minutes after leaving her apartment, she rolled into Fanny Farmer's in a strip mall on the way to O'Hare.

A bell tinkled above her as she walked in.

The place was tiny, with space for only three very small glass display cases and a nook for a cash register. Two prim elderly ladies with blue-tinted hair were at the register now. One of them paid the hefty, middle-aged, white-uniformed clerk with a trembling, liver-spotted hand. 'You know that Esther and I have been coming to Fanny Farmer ever since we were little girls?' The clerk resembled a 'Woman in Prison' movie posterwith her cast in the role of sadistic guard.

Obviously, the elderly woman expected the clerk to make some sort of fuss.

The clerk just shrugged wide, sloping shoulders. 'Oh. That's nice.'

The old ladies exchanged glances of disappointment.

'Where's Molly today?' the second one said, obviously implying that Molly was more their type.

'She was awake all night pukin' her guts up,' the clerk informed them crudely. 'Musta picked up the flu. Anyway, they called me at home this morning at six-thirty, if you can believe it. My husband was really pissed. This is his day off.'

The prim ladies looked at each other again and sort of shook their heads.

'Vulgar,' Cini could hear them saying. 'So vulgar.'

She felt sorry for the old ladies. The world was such a harsh place these days.

The ladies went out, the tinkling bell announcing their exit.

'I hope I never live to get all pruned-up like that. Yer skin hangin' down in bags 'n stuff. So how can I help you?'

Memories of the bad old days were coming back to Cini now. To an overeater, a Fanny Farmer store is just like a bar to an alcoholic.

She inhaled the various aromas of the rich, dark chocolates. Her eyes scanned row after row of chocolate delicacy.

'You hear me? I said so how can I help you?'

Cini said, 'I want two pounds of those and two pounds of those and two pounds of those.'

The woman whistled. 'You know how much that's gonna cost you? Especially the ones with the pecans?'

'I have plenty of money, if that's what you're worried about,' Cini said. Then, remembering how the clerk had treated the old ladies, she said, 'Anyway, my finances are none of your fucking business.'