in silence, except for the ever-present sound of traffic along Chicago’s crowded streets. There’s so much neon and street lighting and light pouring out from bars and restaurants that you could lean against any brick wall, pull out a paperback, and read the text with no trouble.
A few blocks away, I can hear the low rumble of a train pulling into a raised station and the scree of the metal wheels against the rails. Probably just missed my train and will have to wait twenty minutes for the next one.
“You live right off the Sheridan stop, right?” Armand asks.
“Yeah.”
He nods and says nothing else. A few minutes later, we’re at the station, and he’s right behind me as I climb the open stairs to the platform where the rail lines run. “You don’t take the Red Line,” I challenge. “Don’t you live in Irving Park?”
“Yeah,” he says, and shrugs.
And that’s it. He doesn’t say another word as we wait with the dozen other commuters until the train arrives, as we find seats beside each other in the half-empty car, as we exit at another elevated station and make our way down the damp streets. I live in a residential block that’s nothing but one U-shaped apartment building after another. Armand follows me up to my door and watches me get out my key, then nods.
“See ya,” he says, and turns to go.
“Armand.”
He turns back. “Yeah.”
“You want—I mean—should I ask you up for coffee? Or a beer?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Nothing I need.”
I just stare at him. Much less lighting in this part of town. Much harder to read faces. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing. Just wanted you to feel safe going home.”
“But—”
“It’s not a big deal,” he says.
I stare at him helplessly a moment. “Thank you,” I say at last.
He nods. “See you tomorrow.”
And he’s gone. Doesn’t even wait to see if my key fits in the lock, if I make it safely inside, if the small apartment is clear of monsters. It does, I do, it is.
I still don’t feel safe. But I do feel better.
* * *
—
The creep doesn’t come back at any point over the next seven days. Lucky for him, because Juwan and Sanjay have appointed themselves my protectors. Sanjay has brought three cans of mace, one small enough to fit in my purse, and Juwan has brought a baseball bat. The bat and the largest can of mace have been left at the front counter, where anyone walking into the diner might spot them. Armand hasn’t objected to their addition to the décor, and neither has Kenny, the night manager.
“We should take a self-defense class,” Lili says Wednesday afternoon. “Karate or aikido or something. Maybe learn to use nunchucks.”
“That’s not easy,” Sanjay comments.
She looks over at him. “You can fight with nunchucks?”
“Well, I took some classes, but—no. I never got any good at it.”
“I think we should take karate,” she decides.
“Maybe,” I say. “I think there’s a martial arts studio near me. I’ll look up the schedule.”
I pick up a tray of drinks to take out to one of my tables and see that I’ve got a new customer in the back booth. His head’s down and he’s focused on the menu as if it’s a treasure map marked with caches of gold. When I’ve delivered the drinks, I pour a glass of water and take it over to him.
“Hi, I’m Sasha, I’ll be taking care of you today,” I rattle off. “Would you like to hear the day’s specials?”
“Sure,” he says, not looking up. All I can see is his hair, a tousled brown that looks like it should have been washed at least a day ago. “I’m hungry.”
“There’s meatloaf with gravy and fried onion chips for ten fifty. If you want the meatloaf platter that comes with mashed potatoes and green beans, it’s thirteen dollars. There’s also a fried-chicken special with mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables, also thirteen