Dirty Martini

He walks briskly, hoping to get there before everyone has left. There are still news vans parked in front, so that’s a good sign. A hot dog vendor is set up on the corner. He approaches the forlorn figure and orders one with the works.

“Thanks, buddy. Business has been terrible.”

The Chemist takes a bite of the red hot, smothering his grin with pickle relish. He considers poisoning this man’s stand. It’s the perfect location for it, right outside the police station. Cops probably eat here all the time.

Maybe later, when he comes back.

There’s a bench on the sidewalk with a good view of the front of the station. He sits down and eats leaning forward, so nothing drips on his suit. Ten minutes pass, and he orders another dog, to the eternal gratitude of the vendor.

“Bless you, guy. I got two kids. Wish this city wasn’t so chickenshit.”

“You’re not worried?” asks the Chemist.

“Hell, no. My food is fresh. No one will get sick off my dogs, that’s for sure.”

“Didn’t you hear the latest?” The Chemist feels ripples of excitement, talking about this topic. “One man is doing all of this. They call him the Chemist.”

“And if I ever met this Chemist, I’d bust him in the ass.”

“What if he snuck up on you, poisoned your food while you were talking with another customer?”

“You got a sick mind, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

The Chemist returns to his bench. After twenty minutes, he begins to wonder if he had gotten there too late and missed the mark, but like magic she walks out of the building. Alone. It’s almost a hundred yards away, but he recognizes the hair, and the gray jacket she wore on TV.

He takes some extra napkins from the hot dog vendor. Then he trails the cop from the opposite side of the street, staying parallel to her.

She walks two blocks, turns onto Michigan Avenue, and enters a well-known grill pub, a chain place where kitschy things are stuck to the walls and the bartenders dress in sports jerseys. If it’s like the others of its ilk, the interior will be crowded, smoky, with low lighting. Which is perfect.

Traffic is against him, so he has to wait for the light to change before he can cross the street. When he walks into the restaurant, it’s exactly as he expected. The cheerful hostess tells him it will be a half-hour wait for a table. He declines, heading for the bar.

The bar is packed too, but he sees the cop standing between several men, trying to get the bartender’s attention.

He moves in closer, getting to within a few feet. Up close, she seems smaller, less substantial, than she appeared on television.

“Dirty martini, up,” she orders.

My, my, my. Our city’s finest, drinking while on the clock. Still, who can blame her? It’s been a tough morning.

A stool opens up, and she goes to it, and then does something that proves to the Chemist that fate is truly on his side: She takes off her gray jacket, places it over the stool, and asks the bartender where the ladies’ room is.

He points over his shoulder, and she heads in that direction. A moment later, the bartender sets down her drink by her stool.

The Chemist doesn’t hesitate. He opens the lens case, palms it in his right hand, and approaches the bar. With his left hand he reaches over, snagging some cocktail napkins from the bartender’s side of the bar, and with his right he dumps the toxin into the drink.

Now it’s a really dirty martini, he muses.

He shoves the napkins into his pocket, backs away from the bar, and finds a vantage point from several yards away. No one gives him a second glance.

A few minutes later she returns from the bathroom and sits atop her jacket. Grabbing the martini in one quick motion she brings it up to her lips-

– and drinks the whole thing.

He ticks off the seconds in his head.

One…

Two…

Three…

Four…

Five…

She touches her head.

Six…

Seven…

She wobbles slightly on the bar stool.

Eight…

Nine…

She rubs her eyes, then stands up.

Ten…

Eleven…

He cranes his neck up for a better look.

Twelve…

Thirteen…

She’s bent over now, a line of drool escaping her mouth. It’s followed by a flood of vomit.

Too late. Vomiting won’t help.

At fourteen seconds, she falls over.

People give her a wide berth. Several say the word drunk.

It takes almost thirty seconds for an employee to approach and kneel next to her.

“Call an ambulance!” he yells. “She’s not breathing!”

Of course she’s not breathing. She’s dead.

As the curious gather, he slips out the door, calm and casual. He has no doubt that several people are now frantically dialing 911. But according to statistics, a 911 response will take a minimum of ten minutes. Chances are it will take much longer. He knows this from experience. There is zero chance she’ll be revived.

The Chemist uses the napkins to wipe out the contact lens case, then deposits them into a garbage can. It’s a gloriously lovely day, and he takes off his blazer and uses one hand to carry it over his shoulder, Frank Sinatra style. Someone is bound to recognize the cop shortly. And when they do, it’s going to be a media frenzy. He wants to be home in time to see it, but TiVo is taking care of that for him, and it has been so long since he’s actually enjoyed a walk downtown.

In fact, it’s been a while since he’s actually enjoyed anything. A long while. Six years, three months, and thirteen days.

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

He considers heading to the lakefront, or walking through Grant Park. Then he remembers walking through the park with Tracey, and a foul mood overtakes him.

Who could have ever known that wonderful memories would someday prove painful?

He heads back to the car and climbs in, considering his next move. The satisfaction of watching the cop die is gone, replaced by a cold, dead feeling.

He wonders if this is why people become killers. That emptiness deep down that nothing-not drinking, not drugs, not therapy, not sex-can fill. Perhaps some people are born like that. Soulless. That’s how he feels most of the time.

Before, he was a normal guy. Decent friends. Decent job. A hardworking, tax-paying, red-blooded American who voted for the current mayor because he promised to be tougher on crime.

It seems like it was someone else’s life. But it wasn’t. It was his.

And now, there’s only cold.

He thinks about the hot dog stand, and that warms him a bit.

The Chemist snakes the jet injector tube up his sleeve and arms the spring. He’s wrestling to put on his blazer in the cramped front seat when he hears a car horn, right next to him.

Startled, he looks up.

A man in a rusty, older model Chevy stares at him, the rage on his face an indicator he’s been waiting there for a while.

The Chemist shrugs at him and shakes his head, indicating he isn’t moving.

The man honks again.

“I’m staying,” he says.

The man leans on the horn now, screaming, “Move your car!”

The Chemist ignores him, pockets the jet injector, and exits the vehicle. Some people just don’t take a hint. He’s actually doing this city a favor, reducing the population of idiots like-

“Hey, asshole! I’ve been waiting five fucking minutes for that space!”

The man has an unkempt beard and crazy eyes. In the passenger seat is an equally unkempt woman, obviously seething.

The Chemist shrugs. “This is my spot. Find another one.”

“We’re fucking late for court and we need that fucking space!”

No surprise there. The Chemist wondered what white-trash crime these two had committed. Set fire to their trailer to get the hundred dollars in insurance money? Or maybe sex with some sort of animal? His wife was so ugly, she’d qualify. He smiles at the thought.