Marcus Sakey - At The City's Edge

In the shower he'd scrubbed hard, the soap stripping off what felt like half an inch of grime and sweat. Stepped out reborn, knotted a towel around his waist, and opened the door. Elena had smiled as she breezed past him, and run a hand along his bare stomach. She'd drawn a bath, humming something, a high, sweet song, and he'd thought how he might not mind hearing it for a long time.

Then he'd opened his closet and the garment bag had ambushed him.

His clothing was orderly, T-shirts and jeans neatly folded on the shelves, socks and underwear in bins below, dirty laundry in a basket in the corner. The rod held two pairs of slacks, a windbreaker, his suit, three stray hangers, and the garment bag. He hadn't touched it, or even looked it, since he'd hung it there months ago. It was like he'd developed a localized blindness that screened it out.

The plastic felt cool. Jason carried it to the bed. Set it down like a priest laying out his vestments.

The creases were still razor sharp. Ribbons hung on the left breast, above his marksmanship pin – sharpshooter, not expert, which had bothered him as an NCO – and below the combat infantry badge. His sergeant's chevrons were stitched on the sleeves. Behind the jacket were two pale green oxfords, the trousers, and a black tie.

He hadn't worn his Class A Dress Uniform since he'd walked out of the Administrative Discharge Board, the words "other than honorable" ringing in his ears, his mouth dry and craving bourbon. He'd finished his truncated deployment in BDUs, packed his ruck, and hopped a plane to Kuwait, then Germany, then Atlanta, and finally Chicago. Only to arrive home and find the same kind of war raging in his old neighborhood. The same murky alliances and lust for power, the same lies and obfuscations, the regular people caught in the crossfire.

He ran his fingers along the fabric. It felt right. He'd gone in the closet intending to wear his suit. But what was a suit to him?

After all, he didn't have to be in the Army to be a soldier.

Jason knocked on the bathroom door and told Cruz he was going for food, then took the fire stairs to the street. His uniform drew nods from the guys hanging out on the corner. He nodded back, walked past the payday loan place to the Italian beef restaurant.

"Two combos, wet and spicy."

"Fries?"

"With cheese." The smell of grease set his stomach rumbling.

He took the bag of carryout, two cans of Coke, and an inch-thick stack of napkins back to his apartment. Moved the cereal bowls to the sink, wiped the kitchen table, and set out the food. He thought about fixing a drink, decided he didn't want one. Couldn't afford it, anyway – exhaustion had drained his limbs, and whiskey wouldn't help. He heard the bathroom door open, and then Cruz stepped out.

"Holy shit," he said, his mouth hanging open.

"Ruby came by while you were gone. You like?" She wore a dress of thin fabric, black with scarlet roses. The material clung to her, tracing the soft curve of her breasts, the swell of her pubic bone. Makeup concealed the bruise on her forehead, and she wore her hair twirled up and held in place with something that looked like chopsticks, revealing a graceful neck and collarbone.

"You look amazing."

"Thank you. You look pretty good yourself, soldier. Want to see the best part?"

"That isn't the best part?"

She held up a black clutch purse, smiled coquettishly, and withdrew the Glock 27.

He burst out laughing. "Come on. Let's eat." He held a chair for her, and she sat demurely. The whole situation felt surreal, a tiny time-out against a mad world, and he decided to enjoy the minutes they had. Sat beside her at his crummy kitchen table, poured her a Coke as if it were wine. "We have several specials tonight. First, Freedom Fries Velveeta: select portions of potato lovingly boiled in two-day-old grease and smothered with yellow. I also recommend the combo, a Chicago classic: spicy sausage nestled in a Kaiser roll, topped with two inches of Italian beef, dipped in au jus, and crowned with pickled hot peppers. The use of fingers is advised."

"Mmmm," she said, reaching for her sandwich. "I love a man who knows how to treat a lady." She took a bite and chewed languorously, her eyes fluttering closed. "I don't think I've ever tasted anything this good in my life."

"It's like camping. Everything tastes better if you have to work for it," he leaned forward to keep the hot grease off his uniform.

"I'll keep that in mind next time I'm escaping a sinking Honda."

They attacked the food, the two of them in formal dress eating junk food under fluorescent lights. He finished first, and leaned back to watch her, her fingers shiny with grease, a smear of cheese on her lips. When she finished, she crumpled up the wax paper, then set to sucking her fingers one at a time. "You know, this plan…" She paused, took a sip of Coke, holding the cup with her palms. "Well, it's not a plan."

"More like a prayer," he agreed. "Got any better options?"

"No. But even all cleaned up and looking fine, I'm not sure he won't think we're crazy."

He shrugged, took a napkin and scrubbed his fingers. "Maybe. But we can tell the alderman exactly where to look. You said he's a good guy, tough on crime, big on his district. This should matter to him."

"If he believes us."

"If he believes us." He tossed the napkin in the garbage, leaned back in his chair. Had the flashing urge to suggest they call the whole thing off, spend the night in bed instead. Not even sex, he realized, feeling the aches in his body. Just sleeping. "Speaking of crazy, some day, we get through this, I might do something else crazy."

"What's that?"

He smiled. "Ask you on a date."

Their timeout was over.

Jason could feel it in his chest. Breathing was a conscious activity, something he had to remember to do. Whatever cosmic force had conspired to give them a few stolen moments of peace and animal comfort, it had moved on.

The Swissôtel was a fifty-story glass triangle wedged between the Chicago River and Lake Michigan. It was above his pay grade, but he'd heard it was nice: panoramic views, modern décor, a penthouse pool. None of which mattered a damn to him right now.

What did matter were the three squad cars parked in the front circle, twenty feet away from them.

"What did you expect?" Cruz asked. "It's not just the alderman. This is a two-hundred-dollar-a-plate benefit. These people are the aristocracy. Helping the unwashed is one thing; eating with them is another."

"Where will the cops be?"

Cruz stared out the windshield of their borrowed car, a Taurus with a bad case of the shakes and a yellow-ribbon bumper sticker that read, I support empty gestures .

"Uniforms in the lobby, probably a few plainclothes upstairs."

Jason nodded, energy speeding his pulse, sharpening his vision. "Look, last chance. This is the only way I can see to get Billy free of this. I have to do it. But you don't."

Cruz leaned over and kissed him, a soft play of lips, more comfort than sex. When she broke the kiss, she kept a hand against his cheek, her eyes close. For a moment they shared a look. Then she said, "Game on, soldier."

Game on.

He got out of the car, closed the door. Tension shivered up his spine, but he kept his face calm and smiling. A valet took the keys in trade for a ticket Cruz tucked in her purse. Jason straightened his uniform with a gentle tug, then extended his arm. Together they walked into the lobby.

The décor was Upscale American Hotel: muted paisley carpet, polished mahogany, yellow light rising from brass sconces. Artfully arranged couches in beige and gray, occupied by guests in expensive shoes. An attractive blonde concierge stood at one end of a marble counter.