Armand falls in step beside me without saying a word. I give him a sideways glance and realize I have to be the one to break the silence. “I thought you went home an hour ago.”
He nods, then shakes his head. “Forgot my jacket and had to come back.”
“Oh.”
We walk most of a block 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 dollars. If you order pie with either one, it’s only a dollar extra.” Deli-Lishes does not pretend to be a place where healthy choices are paramount.
“I’ll take the meat loaf,” he says, finally looking up. “The platter.”
I turn to stone.
His face is angular, with thick cheekbones and a pointed chin; a day’s stubble covers the long jaw. One cheek is puckered by a narrow scar, while the other sports a tattoo of some unrecognizable glyph picked out in blue ink. But it’s his eyes that are really chilling. They’re dark brown, almost black, heavy lidded, incurious, cold. They seem like the eyes that you’d see on an assassin or a corpse. Someone whose soul or body is dead.
I can’t tell if he recognizes me or not, but his expression doesn’t change. “And a Coke,” he adds, and hands me the menu.
My fingers are so nerveless I can’t believe I actually manage to hold on to it. I nod dumbly and turn away, so distraught that I can hardly make my way across the room to the kitchen door. I shoulder it open and then just stand there, trembling, unable to speak. Any minute now, my legs will give way and I’ll dissolve to the floor.
“Sasha? What’s up, girl?” Juwan asks.
“I—” I shake my head. “I—he—I—”
Sanjay drops his spatula and sprints for the door, pushing it open just enough to peer out. “Did that creep come back? Should I go get the bat? I don’t see him.”
“Not him—not—” I can’t explain. I can’t form words. I’m incapable of taking an actual step, so I slide my feet along the floor until I am close enough to the wall to lean on it for support. My hands are palsied; I can feel my shoulders shaking. I might be going into shock.
Sanjay turns from the door and exchanges a look with Juwan. “Should I get Kenny?”
“Wish it wasn’t Armand’s day off,” Juwan mutters.
Just then, Lili bursts in and comes straight for me. “What happened to you? Did that guy say something to you? The look on your face when you left his table—”
“She’s freaked out about something but she won’t say what,” Juwan informs her.