I didn’t care, and dropped it.
Bits of fire attacked the dry paper towels, leaping nimbly from one to another. Just like in Girl Scouts, I blew on the baby flames until they spread and grew, and the trickle of smoke became a black plume filling the restroom. When it was hard to breathe, I counted to three and kicked open the door, shouting, “Fire! Fire!” The room froze until a thick, scary gust of smoke rolled out behind me, and then everything was in motion. People screamed, an alarm was pulled and began to wail, some customers leaped to their feet and ran for the exit while others came toward me. A jittery busboy with a fire extinguisher tripped and dropped it, its contents sliming the floor, a waitress slid and fell, and I jumped over her, headed for the door, when a steely grip attached itself to my arm.
The cop said, “Hang on there! Stop!”
“Let me go!” I said, trying to yank free.
“What’s this about?” he said. “Did you. .?”
And then someone bellowed for help, and the restaurant manager was tugging desperately on the cop’s sleeve. He was torn between me and a real emergency. I saw the choice on his face, and he gritted his teeth, released me, and ran toward the restroom. I turned and shoved through the crowd, elbowing my way onto the sidewalk, desperate to get to the Lincoln, and darted into the street.
That’s when I was hit by the fire truck.
I was in such a hurry that I hadn’t seen it flying up Jackson Boulevard.
A blast of its horn and squealing brakes were the last thing I heard before everything faded to black.
When I came to, I was lying on a gurney in the back of an ambulance with my head bandaged. I sat up and the world tilted, and I puked on the floor. The pain on the left side of my skull was so intense that I gasped, and I touched at it gingerly, feeling it pound against my fingertips. My ear was still there, which was good, and my face felt like it was in one piece, but barely. Bits of memory came to me then-glancing up at the last minute, seeing the bright steel mirror of the fire truck and feeling it clang against my face as the rest of the enormous red vehicle roared past. I looked at the scene outside through the windows of the ambulance-firemen hustled around Lou Mitchell’s, leaky hoses snaked through the street, flashing lights rolled on top of the fire truck and police cars-and I was overcome by a wave of guilt. Like waking from a dream, I realized that I’d caused all of this because I’d been gripped by paranoia.
I knew it was a delusional result of fear and anxiety (thanks, health sciences class) that attacked a person with feelings of a perceived threat.
Maybe, I realized, the diner full of cops hadn’t been cops at all.
Maybe they were just normal folks having an early breakfast.
Maybe paranoia had transformed a concerned police officer sipping an innocent cup of coffee-one who could have helped me-into an imaginary enemy in blue.
I moved to the doors-they were locked from the outside-and saw the officer from Lou Mitchell’s headed wearily in my direction. He stopped and spoke to an EMT, pointing at the ambulance, and the EMT nodded. Now that I was seeing him with my delusion goggles off, he looked like a nice, normal guy, probably my dad’s age, probably even a dad himself. He removed his hat and scratched his gray head, still talking, then patted the EMT’s shoulder and continued toward the ambulance. I was so embarrassed to face him that I stood behind the doors practicing an explanation, then an apology, then a combination of the two. And then I heard something ring.
I peeked out and saw him flip open a phone.
He leaned against the ambulance door and answered it.
Tiny hairs on my neck stood up when I heard him lower his voice and say, “Tell Detective Smelt I got the girl.”
Something cold and furious flickered in my gut, moving me around the interior of the ambulance until I found what I needed and lifted it carefully. I lay on the gurney, pulled a sheet under my neck, and closed my eyes as he opened the door. He climbed in and stood over me, still on the phone. I cracked an eyelid and watched him twist the end of his mustache between thumb and forefinger, saying, “That’s right, five grand, in twenties. Don’t try to negotiate with me, moron, I’m the one who caught the prize. You tell Detective Smelt if she wants a discount, try the Dollar Store. If so, I’ll drop this little fishy in the Sanitary Canal where no one will
I squinted, watching him rock on his heels.
He was listening, smiling smugly.
He twisted the finger inside his nostril, inspected it, and put it to work in his ear.
“Way to go, pea brain, now you’re talking sense,” he said. “Right. One hour, at the Twin Anchors, Smelt’s home away from home. And dummy? Don’t forget. . twenties.
“It’s
I was off the gurney and on my feet before he hit the floor.
I peeked out the door to make sure no one had seen or heard anything.
Everyone was moving-firemen dragging hose, cops barking into shoulder-talkies, gawkers craning their necks-with the Lincoln parked on the other side of Jackson Boulevard, beyond the cordoned-off area. There was no way I would make it through the crowd looking like I did, from the weird old sweats to the bloody bandaged head. My only chance was an extra EMT shirt hanging in plastic, white and starched, and a cap that read “Chicago Fire Department Emergency.” I put them on, each a size too large, and then bent down and felt the officer’s pulse (thanks, Red Cross Club), which was strong. I’d watched enough crime flicks to know that there’s nothing worse for a cop than being disarmed, and no one deserved that humiliation more than this devoted public servant, so I plucked his gun from its holster and was going for the door when I spotted a pen and clipboard with fresh paper. It took seconds to scribble a message and pin it to his shirt-
That’s how I felt now.
Action swirled around me as step by careful step I moved toward the Lincoln.
Seemingly unseen, I lifted yellow tape and climbed into the car.
It was after I calmed Harry and slid the key into the ignition that I heard someone yell, “Hey!” and turned to another blue cop, this one younger and much more intense. His uniform was tucked tightly over his wiry body and he removed his reflector sunglasses while leaning forward, Terminator style, inspecting me and the car. I pulled the cap low over my bandaged head and reluctantly rolled down the window. He looked inside the Lincoln, looked all around it, and then his concrete face broke into a grin as he said, “What year is this bad boy? 1964?”
“You mean the car?” I said. “Um. . ’65.”
“Man, they just don’t make ’em like this anymore. Steel, chrome, and an engine powerful enough to fly a helicopter.” He crossed his arms and made a face. “Nowadays it’s all hybrid-this and electric-that. Sissy stuff. Gimme old-school, American-made every time. You know what I’m saying?”
“Oh, hell yeah,” I said, starting the car.
His face turned stony as he said, “Whoa-whoa-whoa, relax. Where do you think you’re going?”
“Uh. . away?”
He grinned again. “Not unless you demonstrate this old monster’s horsepower.”
“Horsepower?”
“You EMT folks. . always so damn cautious,” he said, shaking his head. “Come on, honey, peel out! Lay some rubber! Spin this thing!”
