Dirty Martini

We zipped past some Rollerbladers, but Buchbinder was still driving like an old lady in a rainstorm. A blind old lady, with gout in her accelerator foot.

If I got a gun, and if I had some private time with the Chemist, I’m sure I could convince him to tell me what he was pla

Buchbinder picked up a tiny bit of speed. On our left, Lake Shore Drive, eight lanes packed with cars. On our right, a strip of grass and trees, and beyond that, Lake Michigan, a giant black mirror dotted with tiny white boats.

I checked my watch. Eight minutes left.

Maybe this would all work out. Maybe-

“Dog poo!” Buchbinder screamed.

He jerked the handlebars left, then right, avoiding the little brown land mines dotting the walkway.

“We’ve been hit! Did you see the size of that pile?”

“Buchbinder, dammit, you need to-”

And then he turned too fast, the bike spun, and we hit a tree and both went flying through the air.

CHAPTER 28

I OPENED MY EYES and wondered what kind of crazy dream I was having. My neck hurt like I’d slept fu

I tasted something metallic, delicately probed a fat lip, and looked at my fingers. They had a few blades of grass clinging to them, and blood.

I looked around, saw the lake, saw the cars, and remembered where I was. The motor scooter lay about fifteen feet away from me, crumpled like a frat boy’s beer can. Someone, a tall white guy, was leaning over it, inspecting the damage. The Chemist? No. Too big.

“Police,” I said. “Get away from there.”

I had meant for it to be a yell, but it came out as a croak. Then I searched for Buchbinder, saw him sitting on the lawn a few yards from me. He was wide-eyed and holding out his hands in front of him, Lady Macbeth style.

“No no no no no,” he moaned.

“Buchbinder! You okay?”

He held up his palms for me to see. They were covered in dog shit.

I sat up, the motion bringing a world of dizziness. Someone helped me to my feet. Someone else asked if I was all right. I reached for my radio earpiece, discovered it was gone. So was the radio. Thankfully, I still had the cell phone. And I wasn’t the only one. Several people had their cell phones out, calling 911.

“I’m a cop,” I said. “Everyone put down your phones.”

If the Chemist saw a big gathering of emergency vehicles, it might spook him. I must have looked like an authority figure, because everyone put their phones away. Now I needed to find my radio. I looked through the grass, between me and the wrecked scooter.

“It’s on my face!” Buchbinder screamed, high-pitched and manic. He began to rub his face, but since his hands were already coated, he wasn’t doing much in the way of cleaning.

I glanced at the bike again, and saw the curious tall white guy remove the final bungee cord and begin to drag the suitcase up the walkway.

I automatically reached for my holster, which did about as much good as Buchbinder’s face-rubbing, and then took off after the guy. My legs felt good, strong, but my vision was wiggly and my neck hurt like I’d been playing tetherball with my head.

“Freeze! Police!”

My voice was in full effect, but Tall Boy had apparently misinterpreted my order as “Run away faster,” because he picked up speed, heading in the direction Scooter and I just came from. I checked my watch. Six minutes left. If I turned around and ran the rest of the way, I might make it to Navy Pier in six minutes. But I didn’t have a gun, and I would owe the city of Chicago two million bucks. If they took it out of my paychecks, I wouldn’t be able to retire until I was 163.

I gained on Tall Boy, part of me wanting to shout, “Hard to drag that bastard, isn’t it?” I managed to restrain myself, and instead reached out and caught the suitcase by a strap.

One of Newton’s Laws got involved, something to do with objects in motion and pulling and pushing, and I jerked him off his feet and ate my own asphalt sandwich a millisecond later. When the tumbling stopped, Tall Boy was on his knees, opening up a folding knife and snarling at me.

It’s never a good time for a knife fight, but this really wasn’t a good time.

“I’m a cop,” I said, trying to sound stern despite my fear and exhaustion.

“I’m Charlie Manson,” he said.

Great. A loony.

I reached into my back pocket and took out the butterfly knife. I opened it slowly, with some flourish, letting the handles swing back and forth a few times to show this punk I knew what I was doing.

“I’m not going to kill you,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’m only going to poke out your eyes.”

I closed and opened the knife again, as fast as I could. His bravado cracked a bit.

“Just turn around, and run away. After I take your eyes, I’m going to take your ears.”

I changed my grip on the knife, did another blindingly quick open and close, and sliced open my knuckles pretty good.

“Son of a-”

Tall Boy saw my mistake and attacked. He came in low, his weapon held in an underhanded grip, blade up, stabbing at my chin. I pulled back, wincing at the pain in my neck, but avoiding the cut. He followed up with another jab, to my chest, but momentum was already taking me backward and I twisted my shoulders and all he caught was the fabric above my left breast, making me thankful for the first time in my life that I was a B cup.

My knuckles were bleeding, but functional, and my grip on the butterfly knife was solid as I brought it down on his thrusting arm, jamming it a good two inches between his radius and ulna. His knife flew into the grass, but leverage was on his side and as he fell the balisong was jerked from my hand.

He howled, staring at the handle protruding from his forearm, his entire body shaking.

“Leave it in,” I told him. “If you pull it out, you could bleed to death.”

I checked my watch. Four minutes and some change left. I hurried to the suitcase, happy to find it intact, and began to jog back to Monroe. My bottom lip was now so swollen I could see it if I looked down my nose. It throbbed with every step. I tried to find my rhythm, tried to find the cadence, but my feet weren’t moving as swiftly as I wanted them to.

I passed Buchbinder, who was wiping his hands on the grass and moaning, “I need a moist towelette,” and one of the onlookers pointed at me and screamed. I must have looked pretty bad to provoke such raw fright. But then I realized she wasn’t pointing at me, she was pointing behind me.

I chanced a look, and Tall Boy was a few steps away from me. He hadn’t taken my advice about leaving the knife in his arm. The knife was now in his hand, raised over his head like Mrs. Bates during the shower scene in Psycho, and his expression confirmed he wasn’t in a happy place.

I stopped in four steps, pivoted my hips, and swung my right leg around, planting the mother of all spin kicks into his stomach. It knocked me backward, but I stayed on my feet. Tall Boy fared worse. He fell onto all fours, retching. I was on him in five steps, kicked him squarely in the jaw, and he sprawled out onto the lawn, where he’d probably stay until he bled to death.

“Buchbinder! Tourniquet!”

Buchbinder stared at me like my nose had grown five inches. I tried a different tactic.

“This guy has antibacterial wipes.”

Buchbinder scrambled over to him, and I headed back up the footpath, toward Monroe, dragging the suitcase, two minutes to go, hearing Buchbinder cry behind me, “I crawled through vomit!”