The Undertaker

“Talbott, I don't do that on a first date,” I heard her mumble.

“That guy Tinkerton? The one you think I'm paranoid about. Well, he's standing across the street,” I said as I slid lower, trying to hide behind the steering wheel.

“I want to see.” She pushed my hand away and raised her head enough to peek over the dashboard. “That's him?”

“Yeah, and Gino was right. Your smart mouth's going to get us both killed.”

I sat there holding my breath waiting for the light to change, hoping I might melt into the upholstery and vanish before Tinkerton looked our way, but that was wishful thinking. I watched him talking and yelling at the other men, but his cold gray eyes never stopped moving. They swept across the white Lincoln and moved on. Then, they stopped and tracked back. Tinkerton squinted in the bright sunlight. He frowned as he focused on the white Lincoln and I knew that was trouble. His eyes opened wide. Even from across the street, I felt the wave of hatred and anger wash over me like heat pouring out of the open door of a blast furnace. His arm shot up and he pointed a long accusing finger at me, mouth open wide, as he shouted to his men.

I didn't wait for the light to change. I pushed the accelerator to the floor, spun the steering wheel to the right, and laid rubber through the intersection. The Lincoln fishtailed out onto Cermack Road, but what the heck. They weren't my tires. I cut between two cars and got ahead of a delivery truck, putting as much distance as I could between Tinkerton and the Lincoln. With its big engine, it could outrun most things on the open road, including police cars and Tinkerton's LTD. In city traffic, it wallowed like an old barge. Still, if I could loose them before they even got started, then the size of the engine wouldn't matter.

“You said you know the city,” I shouted to her over the engine roar. “The Dan Ryan, it's up ahead, right?”

“Yeah, keep going straight, to State, then turn south, I guess.”

We raced across Wentworth Avenue. The road dropped away and the big car soared into a railroad underpass beyond. The Lincoln bottomed out on its axles and roared up the other side without skipping a beat. The traffic soon thickened again and I cut left, crossing the double yellow lines, using the westbound lanes to pass a pokey bus and a delivery van. I looked in the rear-view mirror and still couldn't see Tinkerton's cars, so I eased off the accelerator a tad. There was no reason to commit vehicular suicide, not yet anyway. Up ahead I saw a busy intersection with people walking around. The sign read State Street, so I swung the steering wheel and took the turn on two wheels. The car leveled out and we were on a broad, six-lane boulevard, racing south.

“Last chance,” I told her. “I can let you out before they catch up and you can disappear into the crowd.”

“No, I'm staying.

“We're probably gonna both get killed, you know.”

“Nah. Maybe maimed and scarred for life, but not killed. Besides, this is fun.”

“You really are crazy.”

“Compared to the black hole I've been in the past two years, this is fun, Talbott. You'd be fun too, if you ever let yourself,” she said, as she reached over and lightly touched my arm. “Now drive.”

I felt a shiver run through me. She was quirky and funny, with sharp edges, but all girl, and I was glad she wanted to stay. I couldn't admit it back then, not even to myself, but I was lonely. I loved Terri and always would, but memories only took me so far. My life had been teetering on the edge since the day she died. I filled it with tequila and then with work, desperately trying to ignore that basic fact, but one light touch of skin on skin had tipped my pat little world upside down and I wasn't ready for that.

I put the accelerator to the floor and tried to focus on the traffic. On my left lay a fenced, railroad embankment filled with trash, broken bottles, and tall weeds. On my right was a long row of ugly, yellow-brown apartment buildings. My God, I groaned, that was “the projects,” the Robert Taylor Homes. I had spent two days in Chicago only to come full circle to the same south side public housing I passed on my way in.

I glanced over at Sandy. She had her Pentax out, snapping pictures as I drove. “The camera?” I said. “I don't believe you.”

“Believe what you want. This is me.”

Yeah, and you're still there, I thought as I looked into the mirror. We had a nice lead, but the two gray sedans were already closing the gap. I pressed the accelerator down again and the Lincoln responded with a throaty roar, but up ahead the traffic was already backing up at the next red light at 28th Street. The on-coming lanes were filled with cars, but there was no way I was going to wait for the light to change. I cut the wheel and drove the Lincoln up on the sidewalk. There was just enough room between the parking meters and the fronts of the buildings for the Lincoln to squeeze through, so I hit the horn, sending pedestrians scattering into doorways as we roared past. The car's left fender struck a newspaper box and sent it cartwheeling high into the street, scattering the newspapers in the wind as we blew through the intersection.

“I hope Parini has good insurance on this thing,” Sandy laughed.

Clear of the traffic again, I cut back into the street and floored it. On our right, the cruel ugliness of the projects gave way to the modern black steel buildings of the campus of the Illinois Institute of Technology. I drove on past 30th Street and 33rd Street, weaving in and out, with one eye on the traffic and one on the rear view mirror. We were running out of options. I could never pull very far away from them and they could never quite close the gap. Ties might work in horseshoes, but when angry men with guns are chasing you around, eventually you're going to lose.

Tinkerton must have realized that too. By the time we reached the big intersection at 35th Street, he had had called for reinforcements. Another sedan, dark green this time, sat sideways across the southbound lanes ahead of us, blocking our way, and there were two men with guns standing behind it, already taking aim. The car might be a different color, but their expressions were as murderous as their pals coming up behind.

“You got any ideas?” I asked. The only choice was 35^th Street, so I didn't wait. I spun the wheel hard right and took the corner on two wheels. The Lincoln rode up onto the sidewalk and fishtailed out into westbound 35th Street. As we accelerated away from the intersection, a bullet punched a fist-sized hole in the rear window of the Lincoln and exited through the left front windshield.

Sandy's eyes went round as saucers. “What the hell?” she exclaimed as she swung the camera back on the blue car and began clicking away. “They shot at us! When I get this stuff printed, my photography class will never believe it.”

“Get down!” I shouted at her but she wouldn't listen, so I put my hand on the top of her head and pushed her down below the top of the seat again. “I mean it this time.”

“Hey, I'm into soft and tender now, Talbott, enough with the rough stuff.” She tried to squirm away as another bullet punched through the rear window.

“They've got more, you know.” What was left of the rear window broke up in a lacy pattern and a thousand shards of broken glass crumbled into the back seat.

“Okay, maybe I'll stay down here for a while.”

Up ahead I saw LaSalle Street, the service road that ran along the east side of the Dan Ryan Expressway and I knew exactly where we were. The green car, the two gray cars, and Tinkerton's big LTD were turning into 35^th Street behind us, coming up hard and fast. We were quickly approaching the Dan Ryan, but Tinkerton and the cops already knew that. Coming straight at us down 35th was another of Tinkerton's gray sedans accompanied by two Chicago police cars, their sirens screaming and blue and white light bars flashing, blocking our way, while two other police cars had the entrance ramp to the Dan Ryan shut down. Bad form, Ralph, you brought in the locals. That means he's getting desperate. Maybe he's worried I might actually get away again.

That only left LaSalle Street, a three lane, one-way service road that ran back north along side the Dan Ryan.

“Right, turn right,” she screamed. I reached the intersection before the white sedan and the two cop cars, but the Lincoln's speedometer was topping one-hundred as I hit the brake and spun the steering wheel. The tires squealed. The big sedan heeled over and slid through the intersection on two wheels, leaving a black arc of shredded rubber behind us as we swung north onto LaSalle. Not bad driving for an amateur, but Tinkerton's goons were closing fast and they were probably a whole lot more experienced at this than I was. They had chased us east, south, west, east, and now back north in an ever-tightening circle. No matter how fast I drove or how much rubber I laid, it was only a matter of minutes before they brought cars in from that direction too, blocked the road, and had us trapped.

Sandy pointed down at the expressway median. “Hey, there's the El. If we can get down there.”