The entrance to the Dan Ryan Expressway was right in front of the truck.
“Second, a car is following us,” Franco said calmly.
Lew didn’t turn around to look.
“Driver’s young, big, buzz cut,” said Franco. “Passenger is the one who was looking at you at the curb.”
Southwest had open seating. The one-eyed man had chosen to sit next to Lew.
They were on the expressway now.
“Want me to push them to the rail?” Franco said. “I’ll get out, yank ’em out of the car and find out what the hell they’re doing.”
“No,” Lew said. “But if you can get behind them I’ll get their license plate number.”
“This have something to do with Catherine?”
“I don’t know.”
Franco slowed and when the other car was no more than fifteen feet behind them, Franco pulled suddenly into the next lane cutting off an SUV. The driver of the Buick didn’t have Franco’s skill or experience. Franco cut across lanes, dropped back and then scooted right behind the Buick. Lew wrote the license plate number in his notebook.
“Okay,” said Lew.
Franco was grinning and shaking his head.
“I can’t believe this, Lewie. You’ve been here what, five, ten minutes and people are following you. Beneath that beat-down exterior, you are one piece of cake.”
“Thanks,” said Lew.
Franco picked up the cell phone from the charger on his dashboard and punched in two numbers.
“Rick,” Franco said into the phone. “How’s with you? Me too. Say, listen, can you run a plate for me and the driver’s license? Great.”
Franco looked at Lew who read the plate numbers. Franco repeated them to Rick.
“Got that?” Franco said. “Great. What you say we go for beef sandwiches at Fiocca’s for lunch next week? Name the day… okay. Wednesday at one. Make it fast on those numbers.”
He pushed a button on the phone and put it back on the dashboard.
“Now do we stop ’em?” asked Franco.
“Yes,” said Lew.
Franco grinned.
“Great to have you back, Lewie.”
Franco moved into the lane next to the Buick. Lew could see both the driver and the one-eyed man. They didn’t look back at Lew.
Franco checked the traffic behind him and moved the tow truck to within inches of the other car. The driver tried to move forward, but there was another slow-moving car in front of him. Franco gently eased the truck against the Buick at forty miles an hour. The other car started to lose control, regained it, and came to a stop against the rail. Franco parked ahead of the car, looked at Lew and said, “What do you want to know besides why they’re following us?”
“They’re following me, Franco.”
“Same difference. You, me. I’m fuckin’ offended.”
Franco was staring at the rearview mirror. The car parked behind him didn’t move. No doors opened.
“They might have guns, Franco,” Lew said.
Franco opened his tow-truck jacket revealing a holstered weapon.
“Legal,” he said. “Glock Twenty-eight… 380 caliber. Six inches long, a little over an inch wide. Weighs less than twenty ounces. I’ve got a permit. I’m a tow-truck driver in Chicago.”
“You ever shoot anybody?” Lew asked.
“No, you?”
“Once,” Lew said, looking at the car which Franco had pinned to the steel divider.
Franco looked at him, waiting. Lew offered no more.
Franco turned on the radio, which was tuned to the police band. He kicked up the volume and got out of the truck, checking traffic.
“Leave your door open,” he said, starting toward the other car.
Lew got out. He had almost forgotten the noise of expressway traffic, the clanging, coughing, squealing, braking, screeching agony of bouncing trucks and addicted horn pushers. And then there were the highway fumes. The memory became a reality again.
As Franco approached the Buick, the driver was looking over his shoulder, trying to find room to back up and then get back into traffic. He didn’t have time and there were no breaks in the traffic.
Lew’s eyes were on the one-eyed young man, who didn’t look the least bit concerned that the barrel of a man was lumbering toward him.
Franco reached for the handle of the driver’s door. It was locked.
“Open it,” he commanded over the noise.
The driver showed no sign of opening the door. Franco reached into the lower pocket of his jeans and came up with a small silver metal hammer. He showed it to the driver who knew what it was, a compact powerful hammer made to go through automobile windows in an emergency.
The driver looked at his passenger, who nodded to indicate that the driver should open the window. The window rolled down.
“We’re not-” the driver said.
Franco reached through the window, grabbed the man’s jacket and pulled him out. The man was big, not as big as Franco, but a certain two hundred pounds.
“The police are going to be here,” the driver panted as Franco pushed him back against the car.
“Take them ten, maybe fifteen minutes,” said Franco. “You could both be hurting a lot by then. I’ll know when they’re coming.”
He glanced at the tow truck. The voice on the police band was clear in spite of the traffic that zipped by.
Cars began to slow. There would be a gapers’ block in a few seconds. The possibility of seeing death or destruction or someone being beaten because of road rage was too much for most people to resist. They had to slow down, catch a glimpse and drive on, comforted by the fact that it was someone else who was at the side of the road.
The one-eyed man sat calmly, looking forward. Then he made a decision, opened his door, got out and faced Lew.
“Talk to me,” Franco said to the driver.
The driver said, “No.”
The one-eyed man turned and fixed his only eye on the driver. There was a distinct family resemblance. Brothers, cousins?
Franco looked at Lew who nodded, and he let the driver slump against the door. Lew walked toward the one-eyed man.
“Why are you following me?” Lew asked.
“To keep you alive,” he said.
“Men in blue are coming, Lew,” said Franco.
In the distance, weaving toward them, a police siren shrieked. Traffic was at a very slow gawker’s walk.
“Who wants me dead?” Lew asked.
“Let’s just say a very bad person who knew your wife,” the one-eyed man said.
“A very bad person,” Lew repeated.
The young man pointed to his glass eye, giving a hint of how bad this person could be.
“Here they come,” said Franco, standing by the driver who was still shaking.
The police car inched its way through the traffic, flashing its lights. Cars and trucks made room.
“This bad person kill my wife?”
“I don’t know,” the young man said. “Probably.”
The police car pulled in and parked in front of the tow truck.
“Why does he want me dead?”
