Big Chicago

Big Chicago Part 9...By Samayel

One night. One lousy, shitty, incredible, wonderful night. That’s how many I got to spend in this bed with him. He’s out there…somewhere…killing someone or getting ready to. He left behind a cell phone for me. A secure line that can reach Maria if I need to get back into the building, and it can reach Ron if I need a driver or security. Doctor Snape’s number is here too, but I don’t think I’ll dare to be dialing that unless I absolutely have to! Maybe I’ll go out tomorrow, but today I stay in. I wear his pajamas because I like them…and he likes them on me. I eat breakfast with Maria and Therese.

Who would expect stern, dignified Therese to gossip about men with Maria and I? She does, and I blush a lot and leave out the positively pornographic details, but I do wax eloquent about what I think of Harry. They think he was called into his office to troubleshoot a crisis of some kind. Only I know that, whoever the crisis is, Harry is going to shoot them, and they won‘t be troubling anyone for long.

It’s therapeutic to talk. They’re both very nice people at heart, and they both have a sense of pride in what they do. I kind of admire them. Maria is always working her way from room to room, keeping every last thing as clean as the day it was purchased, and Therese maintains a kitchen that would honor a restaurant and makes meals that most people couldn’t afford. They’re paid far more than the average wage for their professions, and that’s on top of room and board. They have jobs and do them well. I envy them that satisfaction. I’m from a very different kind of world compared to them, even if we have enough in common to get along. I am from the world of the served, and then I became a trophy on men’s arms, and then I became a prisoner of the state. I’m not sure what I really am I any more, but I’m trying to figure it out as best I can.

I should be happier. It’s hard to remember that I was terrified of all this a few days ago. I guess I’m like that. Once I was free of prison, I turned back into the seventeen-year old that fell hard and fast for Blaise Zabini. I fell for a better class of man this time, but I fell just the same. I don’t have a middle gear. I went from zero to sixty in one second flat, like a racecar that spent too long idling and needed to tear screaming down the highway to feel right again. The minute I lost control of myself I crashed into love, and this is the burning wreckage. Nice things everywhere, and no Harry.

I play the piano for hours. With the nails off and boy shoes on I can play a bit better. It helps that I have notation and that I can pick pieces that will help me get my reach and timing back. Harry was right. I pushed myself too hard. I can make a baby grand sing when I’m at my best. I’m just in dire need of practice…and I have lots of time for that.

I also watch the news. A lot. I’m looking for crime news. Mysterious deaths, shootings, executions, dead gangsters. I get nothing. No surprise really. Harry spent weeks prepping for the job in prison. When I think about it, he arranged my release just before his plan kicked off. He was protecting me even before I felt this way about him, just because he could. I feel strange and wonderful inside, when I think of him looking out for me, even though he might have been seeing me for the last time. A guy like that shouldn’t be doing this for a living, but I don’t have any say in that.

My asshole father is on again though, making the familiar noises about the city and state he loves, pimping his latest pet project for the improvement of Chicago. Urban revitalization. Lovely words, but it means the same old thing. Knock down old buildings, put up new ones. The owners of old properties get forced to sell them to the city for bargain basement prices, the city sells the property to real estate developers for a modest profit, and the developers build incredibly expensive storefronts or office properties, which they lease or sell for piles of cash that would amaze anyone who wasn’t personally involved in the process. It isn’t really about accomplishing anything…it’s about making a chance for money to change hands. They give the process marketable names and then get on their soapbox and bleat about how their business choices are rooted in a love for their community, but to me it all sounds the same. It’s like having Flint read me a love poem just before raping me and beating my ass before throwing me to the curb. The pretty words don’t make it any less of a sick joke.

How long will this job of Harry’s take? Will it just be one person? Other questions come to mind as well. Does he only kill gangsters? What about their families? Does he ever have to kill them too? Women…children? He’s a killer, and the professionals are paid to not ask questions. He has no choice about who the targets are. He’s like a gun…emotionless…distant from it all…a tool aimed in the direction of a target and fired when ready. Can a living weapon pick and choose the people it’s used against? I can’t imagine Harry killing women and kids. I can’t.

The day will come when he tells me more. He can’t afford to tell me certain things until he’s sure I’ll do the right things. I understand this. I could learn more as time goes by, and maybe when he gets back I’ll ask some questions when we’re alone…after I make him compensate me adequately for being gone. That part might take awhile. If I thought I was lonely last night, that was nothing compared to the way I feel the night after that.

I pick through the library again. I won’t be reading poetry before bed. I need a real distraction. One that will keep my attention off of romance! Even though it usually bores me to tears, I take a book on economics, An Inquiry Into The Cause Of The Wealth Of Nations, just to guarantee that sleep will look good. Harry doesn’t keep a lot of liquor in the house. Some scotch…the top shelf, single malt kind that gets imported from Scotland. There’s some gin and vermouth for proper martinis, and there’s a few import beers, several bottles of wine and champagne, and that’s about it. I don’t want to be a lush like Mother, so I settle for mixing some orange juice with one of the lesser champagnes. It’s called a mimosa, and it’s a perfectly acceptable drink for almost any occasion. It won’t be enough to get me drunk, but it’s something tasty to sip at while I read.

Dear old Adam Smith. Most of the authors and philosophers of his time, the Eighteenth century, prefaced most of their assertions with a belief in the virtue and honesty of men who feared a God that punished the wicked. Whoever that God was, no one fears him now, not even his own followers. I haven’t got anything against the concept, but it’s hard to feel any empathy for the faithful when you watch how they conduct themselves.

I’ve noticed a few basic things in my time. One…any religion you have to work hard to sell to others…isn’t worth buying into. Evangelicals have the loudest voices in American religion, and people with loud voices are usually shouting so that people won’t notice that they haven’t got a rational leg to stand on. In nature, animals that make the fiercest noises get left alone or win by default, and here we are eons down the line, still using the same pathetic tricks…and falling for them. Don’t get me wrong…I admire Jesus Of Nazareth, but to me he’s kind of like Eminem. Probably a real nice guy in person, but his fan club is full of annoying assholes that just nauseate me.

I can believe in God, but not the way so many others do. They cite His influence behind every typhoon or tornado, every flood or famine, every disease and every drought. Even terrorism is the Lord’s punishment upon the faithless. Sinfulness, such as homosexuality, brings His wrath down upon the wicked and evil. Funny thing though. If you weigh the evidence from natural disasters, it would appear that God considers trailer parks to be the most egregious sin known to mankind, because he seems to be wiping those out in far greater numbers than gay bars or abortion clinics. Call me crazy, but I don’t believe in a God with lousy aim, and I don’t believe he’s as worried about the fine print as the religious leaders like to claim. I also can’t quite believe that he needs such extravagant donations. If God can’t manage his own money, I’m not sure we should be turning to him for advice.

Economics really does bore me to death. My eyes are sagging before I get through a single chapter. The day ends as quietly as it began. I’m going to have to find more to occupy my time than this or I’ll go crazy. At least the perpetual fear I experienced in prison made time seem to blur. Here, without Harry, I feel the emptiness so acutely that I’m not sure I could cope with it without Maria and Therese. Tomorrow…definitely getting out tomorrow.

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Ron, the driver, Harry’s ’wheel man’, answers the call on the second ring. If I feel a little awkward asking for an escort to town, I hide it well. He’s all business.

“Right. Be there in five minutes.” Click. No sweet talk or chatter from Mr. Driver. I wonder if I should ask Maria to come along, but I think better of it when I remember one of the stops I mean to make.

I feel good. Or better. I guess. I didn’t sleep that well. Big bed and no Harry means lousy sleep I suppose. I’ll get used to it. I dressed up today. I look like a business woman who cracked the ‘glass ceiling’. The white skirt and jacket give me a no-nonsense, ball-breaker, Wall Street look when I wear sunglasses and keep my chin up. I’m too good for the rest of you scum and I know it! Doesn’t really go well with at least one of the places I mean to visit, but at least I’ll knock ’em dead at lunch.

True to his word, Ron pops out of the elevator six minutes after he hung up. Their base of operations must be close by for him to make it here so quick, but it makes sense that Harry would be near transportation and support, even though he can take good care of himself alone. Ron isn’t dressed in the chauffeur’s uniform this time. He looks like a high priced bodyguard. Black coat and slacks, bulge in the left side of the jacket, dark glasses and neatly trimmed red hair.

He’s bigger than I remember, now that we’re standing here in the hall. Bigger than Harry by at least two inches and twenty pounds. His face is expressionless while he holds the elevator door for me and punches the button for the lift to take us down to the garage. Even though he’s very professional, I can just feel the irritation dripping off of him. We’re in the car and en route to a good lunch before I figure out what to say.

“I’m sorry…about last night. It was my birthday.”

His head never moves.

“Nothing to be sorry for. Happy birthday.”

All monotone. He doesn’t mean it. I’m stupid. Why would his approval mean anything to me anyway? Just…he knows Harry well. Harry said they were good friends. I want to be able to speak openly to someone about Harry. Even if it’s someone who doesn’t like me.

“I know I can’t ask where he is…or what he’s doing. I…I miss him. I was going to ask you to…if you could…tell me something to make me believe he’ll be okay.”

He’s quiet for a minute, then he snorts. “What’s to tell? He’s that good. I’m pretty sure Hell wouldn’t take him…’cause he’d take over as soon as he got there. He’ll be back. He always comes back. Trust me on that.”

It’s something. I stare out the window at the cars and buildings while I mull it over. We’re headed for Chinatown first. I want real Chinese, the kind where the people serving the food don’t bring you silverware…they bring chopsticks, and if you can’t eat with those, you can’t eat. Harry left behind petty cash. A little less than a thousand dollars. I expect there will be more once I prove that I won’t do anything stupid with it. I won’t either, because I want very much for Harry to trust me completely. I know he’s being cautious, and keeping me in the dark to keep me safe until he’s sure I can be trusted, and I won’t do anything to fuck that up if I can help it.

“Harry said you were the best driver around. Have you been his friend for a long time?”

“Long enough. Driver, hell! If it has an engine, I can make it fly, swim or roll. Prop engine aircraft, helicopters, boats or small ships. Cars, trucks and semis too. Never flown a jet, though. I may try for that next year. Just hate the idea of something I can’t make go.”

He’s on familiar ground, so it loosens him up a little. This is good. He likes vehicles. We could talk about cars if it makes him more comfortable around me. His head still never twitches. His eyes are always on the road. That’s kind of comforting actually.

“I miss driving on long trips. My father had a small fleet of cars. When I was sixteen, I used to drive for hours, just because I loved the way it felt to be on the road and moving along. Especially in the BMW.”

“Ahh. I’ll give it up to the Germans…they know how to engineer a car. Always hated sauerkraut, and German potato salad, but they know beer and cars, so they can’t be all bad. What other cars did your dad have laying around?”

I run down the list of classics and vintage cars, most of which I didn’t dare touch. The Packard, the Aston Martin, the Lamborghini, and a few of the others I never did more than look at wistfully in father‘s garage. Ron whistles appreciatively. We chat about classic cars for a bit, until I exhaust my knowledge of them…which doesn’t take long. I shift the conversation to more personal topics. He seems like a nice enough guy, once he gets over the whole ’my friend is dating a sleazy prison bitch’ issue.

“When did you first know you wanted to be a driver? Did it just happen by accident? Or did you know that this was the one thing you were going to do no matter what?”

“Hah! When I was twelve I stole my Dad’s car and drove it to town just to prove that I could. I wanted a cold soda and a new comic book, but I didn’t want to bicycle there. The nearest town was almost five miles away. I always watched him drive, so I had a good idea of what to do. The rest was instinct. Of course, when the police brought me home…after impounding the car because I was doing ninety-five mph in a thirty-five mph zone…well, Pop was pissed. Hell, so was Mom, but at least Pop was pissed and proud at the same time. After that, it was just a matter of time. I was doing the raceway circuits when I was just seventeen. By the time I was twenty-one, I was doing this. There isn’t much else I wanna do, but a little more action would be nice.”

That was the most I’ve ever heard him say. Now’s a good time to go for the kill. He’s mellowed, and we’re almost into Chinatown. We’ll have to walk part of the way after that. Better get the private stuff out of the way before we hoof it to lunch.

“That’s pretty cool. Knowing what you want that way. Ron…”

“Yeah.”

“That’s how I feel about Harry. The way you feel about cars. There isn’t anything I want more than that. He isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met…and I’m not here to hurt him. I thought…I got the impression that you…you don’t really like him bringing me into his life. I know it’s…kind of weird…but I want Harry to be happy, and I swear I won’t do anything to mess things up. Okay?”

The tension in his neck says he doesn’t appreciate being led to a conclusion that way, and he’s silent. Too long. We’re parking. He hasn’t budged yet. When he turns around, I feel a twinge of nerves. Just because he’s the driver, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to use that gun. Harry said he was a good shot too. Maybe I pushed too hard, too fast.

“You made your point. I’ll take it under advisement. A word of advice. This ain’t like any other gig you’ve been a part of. This is the big league, and that’s all I can say. You’ve never met anyone like Harry because there is no one else like Harry. He’s the best at what he does, and that’s the only reason you’re here instead of where I picked you up. He’s never brought anyone in like this before, so even if can’t figure it out, Harry is nobody’s fool. You must be worth it for more reasons than one or we wouldn’t even be talking now. You and I will get along fine…if you don’t complicate things for Harry. Harry’s a good man, and he might be generous about a mistake or two. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I have no such problems. You fuck up and put people at risk, I’ll dump your ass in a concrete mixer and make sure you become part of the foundation of a building somewhere, and I’ll apologize to Harry later. Behave, and we’re fine. Fuck up, and we’re not. That’s all there is to it. Can you handle that?”

“Got it in one take. Don’t worry, it won’t come to anything…like that. I promise.”

I sound calm, but I’m good at that when I’m scared shitless. Ron the driver is no one to fuck with. That much is clear. At least the silence is broken, but damn…I know he wasn’t kidding. I can tell.

“Alright then. Welcome to Chinatown. Remember to take a seat facing me while I sit with my back to the room. You eat and enjoy…I watch the crowd and the doors. If I give an order, it’s for a reason, and you follow it! Got it?”

“Got it.”

That aside, Chinatown is a much missed pleasure. It’s one of the few places on earth that I’m actually a little above average height and look tall when I have heels on. Plus, I learned to eat with chopsticks when I was sixteen. Prices aren’t bad in the little ‘mom and pop’ eateries that line the street, and you can get big meals pretty cheap if you shop around.

People bitch about immigrants coming here and not adapting, or they gripe about them coming here period, but aside from expecting people to learn enough English to get by, I never minded it much. They seem so happy to be here, and they like working hard and earning money honestly. Most of them anyway. Every culture has its criminals, but the majority of these people get up at dawn and go to bed after sundown, knocking themselves out to make it in ‘the land of opportunity‘. They do well because they try so hard. I wonder if that’s what went wrong with those of us who have been here for six or seven generations. We stopped trying so hard, and just expected it to be easy. Maybe things get easier the harder you try? Makes sense to me.

Either way, these people know food. They have an intimate relationship with it, because in a lot of cases, they came here to live in a place where there was more of it, and they’re used to preparing it from scratch. Like, live chicken…dead chicken…plucked and gutted chicken…add heat…dinner. They didn’t buy it at the supermarket…they raised it from a chick, or grew it in a garden.

I think of food a lot. I didn’t always, but it’s funny what starvation will do to your perceptions. I was very picky when I was a little kid. Turned my nose up at everything. Ever starved? Not fasted…starved. Like when you go over a week with no food, and you drink from fountains ‘til you feel full just to make your stomach feel better. I did. I didn’t hit the streets here and say to myself, ’Hey, I’m a little peckish…I’ll suck some dick, get paid for it, and then go get dinner.’ When things hit rock bottom, and people had figured out that I was dirt poor and of no value to them, I starved for eight days before my morals were compromised. Not that I had a lot of morals, but one of them was ‘Thou Shalt Not Fuck The Ugly…Even For Money.’ That moral died a hard death, but eventually I got some money and figured out where to get some food on the cheap. Ever since then I’ve cherished food.

When Blaise first took me to the kind of nice restaurant a gentleman takes a lady (or in my case a pretty boy) to, I savored every bite of everything on my plate. The only time that changed was while I was in the pen, eating slop that would make pigs puke. Industrially mass produced glop that no one with taste buds would voluntarily touch without a damn good reason. Besides, prison food will make you fat, and I wasn’t interested in getting dumped by Flint or handed off to the rest of the building. Staying pretty meant staying thin meant staying alive and healthy…so I ate like a bird. Now that I don’t have to do that, I mean to make up for a little lost time, even if it means having to take up exercise to keep my figure for Harry.

I won’t stuff myself or anything, but I mean to eat well and enjoy it again. Ron leads the way and picks the table, sitting with his back against the wall so he can watch the room. I know just a few phrases in Cantonese, and they’re all related to ordering dinner. I aim for spicy, and I ask Ron if he wants anything. He settles for letting me order some noodles and a cup of tea. He’s too on the job to concentrate on food. Good for me, because I feel safer with a large and dangerous man near me, even if he might bury me in concrete for doing anything too stupid. Silly? Maybe…but it beats panicking over it all.

He didn’t realize that there are no forks or spoons here, and it’s pure comedy watching him try to wrangle chopsticks to his mouth while eyeballing the room every few seconds. His eyes flick left and right, and his noodles slide everywhere except his mouth, while I’m cheerily popping bite after bite into mine.

The big goof gets frustrated, and finally winds up a huge wad of noodles on his chopsticks, then pops the whole ball into his face in one gulp, then stares menacingly at the room in general while his cheeks are bulged out like a squirrel eating a baseball. I can’t stop giggling! He gets red in the face, which is even funnier with a freckled guy. He finally grinds down enough that he can swallow and speak, and his voice drips with irritation.

“Not a word. Not a fucking word. You tell this story to anybody, and I call a buddy with a cement mixer. Understood?”

“Okay, okay! Never happened!”

But I still snort while trying to eat. He isn’t so bad, as tough guys go. Blaise’s people were mostly older than he was, and they all entertained notions of tagging the cute, little piece of ass that followed Blaise around like a puppy. I know where I stand with Ron. He’s my bodyguard, because Harry values me, and that’s all. No more, no less, but I think we’ll get along alright.

I don’t plan to be out all day, but I make a few purchases along the way, which leads to our final stop. It’s enough to make Ron turn pink all over. Sure, it’s trashy and nasty, but they have what I need. My mind was made up last night. If Harry is going to be gone, sometimes for weeks, I need something to keep me company, and I won’t be chasing any men other than Harry. I need a dildo. For that, I need an adult store.

It’s the trashy side of town, and there are more than a few of those here in Chicago, but it will have to do. They don’t see a lonely queer boy looking for a way to kill time until his lover gets home, they see a blonde bombshell in a power suit picking out a toy that only the serious would choose. I pick it because It looks just about the size and shape of Harry’s dick, and that’s exactly what I crave right now. If I can’t have Harry, then I’ll at least have something that feels a little like him inside of me.

Dark pink, just about ten inches long, and not quite as thick as a bottle of beer. Perfect. It even has a little suction cup on the bottom so it can be stuck into place on the floor or a wall. The poor, greasy, nervous looking kid at the counter can’t believe a stone-cold fox in a power suit came here for a seriously sizable fake cock, and I’d bet my ass that he’ll be jerking off to thoughts about that now and again for the rest of his life. I pick up a few other little essentials. More good lube, a piece of lingerie I think Harry might like seeing me in, and some large condoms for Harry when he gets back. I plan to make him go through them very quickly!

I pay the poor schmuck at the register, give him a wink, and walk out with a smirk while he watches my ass sway on the way out the door. I love the impact I have on men. It makes all the effort and trouble worthwhile when their tongues hang out and their eyes are glued to me alone. Ron is eager to leave here, and growls out a request for less information when I explain that I needed a little something to keep me company while Harry’s away. I keep the laughter strictly internal, but that red neck of his tells me that he knows I’m laughing anyway.

We pull into the garage in the basement of the building, and Ron gets out to open the door for me. I open it on my own before he gets there and he looks annoyed, like I’m not letting him do his job.

“Ron. You were very nice today. This was fun. Thank you. You don’t have to do the chauffeur bit for me, you know? It’s enough that you’re watching out for me. I’m grateful, and I just wanted you to know it.”

He looks surprised…and irritable. I don’t think he’s used to talking to anyone who isn’t ’inside’ the company.

“Cool enough. No chauffeur gig. But pay attention when I tell you what to do out there. That’s my job, and I’ve never fucked up yet. If I say duck…you duck. If I say stay…you freeze. All clear? You’re welcome…whatta I call you, anyway? Drake?”

“Dee is good enough for me when I’m looking like this. Drake is so formal. I think…just Dee will do. Nice to make your acquaintance, Ron.”

“Likewise, Dee. See ya around. I’m headed back to the depot…as soon as I see that elevator go up. My job isn’t done until you’re indoors.”

“Okay, tough guy. Thanks again.”

I say it with a smile and make my way into the elevator. The old elevator here has been repaired recently. It moves like gliding silk, unlike a lot of the others in a city that’s been around as long as this one. They probably remodeled this whole building for Harry. The money involved just staggers my imagination. He must be planning to operate here for a good long while.

I have what I need to get along while Harry is out. I have a piano to practice so I can play something nice for him sometime soon. Maria and Therese are always good for gossip and girl chat, and there’s a library full of books that beg to be read at my leisure. I knew a day out would put things back in perspective. The elevator door opens and I’m home. This is my home. Harry’s place. My little slice of heaven, even when he’s away and I miss him. I think I can get used to this.


TBC!!!