Danny still has some of the sportswear he pulled off the rail in Gene Peterson’s office: basketball tops and shorts, shiny man-made fibers unpleasant to the touch, and when the elevator doors open he flings them in front of him, head height, before he can see who it is he’s flinging them at, and follows, head down, right shoulder exposed. Hit them low in the tackle, that’s about as much football coaching as he can remember, let’s hope it’s a cop or a security guard and not somebody’s grandmother or a pregnant lady, no, it’s one of Chicago’s finest and he’s on his back, grabbing at Danny’s feet, but Danny is driving his heels and steps off the cop’s shoulder.
He can hear him scream as he runs up the incline towards the exit, up past pallets of crated supplies for the different offices in the Ainslie Building, hears the cop on his radio now, crackle and spit, flutter and wow, up past parked cars and a hugely fat security guy by a barrier who’s coming out of his cabin.
Fuck this. Danny heads for the side furthest from the fat guy and vaults the barrier and runs up the slipway and nearly collides with a car coming down it and the slipway routes around into an alley but there’s a set of metal steps and Danny piles up them and there he is, the roar of the street, North Michigan Avenue. Tribune Tower opposite and what did Claire say? North? That’s left, two cops coming out of the entrance to the Ainslie, shit, Danny skids out on to the street and plods around the outside of a CTA bus moving slowly, cars honking, honk back if he could, fuck them, keep your nerve, keep your nerve. He navigates back toward the sidewalk by Nordstrom’s looking for the underpass; there are the steps, down and three blocks. Go. Go.
There are voices shouting, but he can’t be sure if they’re cops or people he bumped into or knocked over, or if they’re even shouting at him. Don’t look back, out of the underpass now, cross Rush Street, past the Meridien Hotel, Nordstrom’s again, how big is that fucking store? Cross Wabash, Christ, he’s out of shape, right side of the street, he can see the red sign on the corner, Grand El Station, past the Hilton Garden Inn and down the steps.
Danny fumbles in his pockets, looks at the vending machine, $2.25, he pulls three dollar bills out and stuffs them in and waits for the machine to whirr and grabs his ticket and walks towards the turnstile.
‘Sir?’
Oh, shit.
‘Excuse me, sir? You, guy in the gray suit?’
There are people staring at him. His breath is coming hard, hot sweat seeping down his face. He’s lost the momentum. He turns around. A thick-set African-American man in navy pants and a yellow and red CTA reflector coat is holding his hand out toward Danny. In it are three quarters.
‘You a millionaire today, sir?’
‘Far from it,’ Danny says.
‘Then pick up your change. Maybe you will be someday; stop throwing your money away.’
Danny takes his change. ‘Thank you.’
‘Best believe I’m not going to be a millionaire, giving it away,’ the CTA guy says, and wheels away.
Danny goes through the turnstile and down on to the north platform, still watching for cops, still breathless, still jumpy. But he is smiling too, for the first time in he can’t remember how long. It’s nice to be nice. Even Chicago’s still the Mid-West.
Chicago and Clark underground, up into the light for Clybourn, and then Fullerton. He’s stopped panting by now, but he’s still sweating like a pig. He gets off the train, and takes the down escalator, and follows the Exit signs and comes out on to West Fullerton Avenue beneath the tracks. There’s a jumble of construction work on the street and the sidewalk opposite is closed, concealed behind green mesh fencing. Danny looks this way and that. This way, there’s a Dominick’s pizza restaurant. That way, there’s a parking lot. In front of the parking lot, there’s a tall, spindly tree with rust colored leaves. And in front of the tree, there’s a woman dressed in black with long auburn hair. He walks toward her, trying to keep his expression steady, and he sees by her face, Christ, her beautiful face, that’s she’s trying to do the exact same. He looks over his shoulder, and doesn’t spot anything, no cops, no one following, but when he looks back at Claire, his eyes flashing, red for danger, red for passion, her eyes flash right back at him, the two of them again, at last, looking at each other.
‘I’ve got the car right here,’ she says, her voice tight, almost choking, almost laughing with the tension of it all.
‘Good,’ he says, and he’s almost laughing himself, adrenaline lighting him up. ‘Good. Let’s go.’