The Undertaker

I walked back toward her building and found a spot up the street in a doorway where I could hide and watch her building. At 8:15, her curtains moved and I saw a haunting, pale-white face with large, dark eyes look out. She had short, black hair, styled fashionably “messy” with sprigs and clumps sticking out in every direction. Her only concessions to color were a big slash of cherry bomb red lipstick, a wide, bright-red watchband, and bright red nail polish. From the window, she glanced up and down the street, searching for someone or something, then she let the curtains drop back into place and she was gone.

Five minutes later, she came bouncing out the front door. A leggy blonde in a pastel business suit? Hardly. She couldn't be more than five feet tall, slim, and athletic. In the bright morning light, her black hair shone like a raven's wing. It hung down over her forehead and ended at a pair of dark, oversized sunglasses that completely hid her eyes. I smiled. Her “pale-green business suit and brown-leather attaché case” looked like a short, black-leather skirt, bold-patterned, gray hose, a frilly, white-silk blouse with a scoop neck and lots of lace, and a huge, black leather over-the-shoulder bag. Well, she got the leather part right. Considering my dark-blue, pinstripes suit and red striped tie had morphed into a plaid shirt, stonewashed jeans, and Briggs and Stratton hat, I figured we were about even.

When she hit the sidewalk, her head tracked back and forth like radar as she checked out the street, looking for something or someone. Finally, she gave up, pushed a shock of black hair out of her eyes, and set off speed walking south on Clark. If I had to guess, I'd say she was in her mid-twenties. The big, black-leather shoulder bag she was carrying was big enough to pass for an overnight bag. Over her left shoulder hung a thirty-five millimeter camera with a long telephoto lens. Well, at least she wasn't bull shitting me about being a photographer. She had on a pair of old fashioned, black-and-white high-top Keds gym shoes. Like most big- city secretaries, she probably carried her dress shoes in the purse, but the rest of the clothes weren't exactly “going to the office” togs. What did she call it? A late night “shoot” at 3:00 AM? The clothes were too nice for the day shift at the train station, but I wondered what she really did do for a living, and who or what was it she was ‘shooting’ in the middle of the night.

As she walked away, her hips moved with a soft, supple, roll and I'd bet the farm she wore black-lace underwear. Probably a thong. Had to be, I thought, if she wore any at all. My God, I thought, terribly embarrassed. Had it really been that long? Maybe Sharon was right. If I ever got out of this thing alive, I really did need to see her friend Doris. Yeah, it had been that long. I turned my eyes up to the high, cerulean-blue, Chicago sky, relieved to see there were no clouds up there. There were no worried faces looking down at me, and no lightening bolts flashing out of the blue to fix my problem, permanently.

I hung back a half block on the opposite side of the street and watched as she continued south. She had no idea I was there, and in that outfit, she proved easy to follow. The streets began to fill with traffic and the sidewalks with fast-moving pedestrians, making it easy to blend in, even in my plaid shirt and Briggs and Stratton hat. She crossed Division and went south on State, and then swung up Rush Street. The restaurants, bars, and jazz clubs were probably a lot trendier at 8:45 at night than they were at 8:45 in the morning with the delivery trucks, trash, broken beer bottles, and puddles of puke in the gutters, but our girl knifed through it all and didn't look as if she cared. Like Tom Petty sang, “she was an American girl — full of promises”, and she didn't have time for the minor details like the street clutter or the strange man who was following her.

When she reached Chicago Avenue, she turned left and her pace slowed. Up ahead lay the Water Tower and a small park. She stepped back into a shadowy doorway on the opposite corner and braced herself against the wall. The camera with the telephoto lens dropped off her shoulder and she pushed the sunglasses to the top of her head. Those dark eyes darted back and forth across the park, but she didn't go any closer. She stayed on the south side of Chicago Avenue. Smart, real smart, I thought, as she quickly panned across the park, checking the place out. Apparently satisfied, she lowered the camera, looked at her watch, then stepped back further into the shadows. Was she waiting for me? Or, waiting for someone else? There was no way to tell, so I hung back and did the same.