CHAPTER 12

I left Kelly’s at a little after ten p.m. and parked on Addison, just around the corner from my flat. I needed a smoke, shrugged into the night, and walked north along Southport Avenue. A half block from the Music Box Theatre, I brushed shoulders with the past. Annie was walking out of the old-time movie house and she was with someone, a tall, probably good-looking someone. He leaned over to speak at a crosswalk. She laughed into his chest, slipping a hand around his waist in a way I preferred not to remember.

The light changed and the couple approached, arms now linked, strides matching perfectly. A friend once told me that was a sure sign a couple was having sex. I leaned back, into the shadows of a convenient Chicago alley. They floated past. I caught a glimpse of her hair, maybe a cheekbone washed over in the pale reflection of neon. Then they were gone.

I moved into the slipstream and followed for another block or five. Her scent was there. Or maybe it was just me. Anyway, I followed, feeling more than I wanted. Nicole was dead-on. It shouldn’t be that way. But it was.

After a while, I had my fix and dropped off the pace. Nearby, an Irish bar named Cullen’s beckoned. I wandered in and ordered a pint. Then five more.

Four hours later, they announced last call. A half hour after that, a more than nice waitress offered me a lift home. I took it. We made time for a bit in her car, but she had to get up early. I said okay, went inside, and fixed a cup of tea. I thought about taking a look at the report on Gibbons’ homicide but knew I was drunk. Instead, I watched late-night Chicago flow past my window. After a while, I finished my tea and lay down, promising myself to fall asleep before the memories arrived.