Chicago Nights Ch. 01

Somewhere, within the storm, there was a sign.

It wasn't much. It could be, and frequently was, easily missed. Unadorned, made of faded bronze...just another plaque stuck to the side of a deteriorating brick building, tilting a little bit to the left in its old age.

The curious and careful reader would find Olde English lettering, scratchy and unpainted, informing that the bar at the bottom of the stairs was called 'The Rage.' Not many people can claim to be curious and careful reader, however, so it was a name very few were aware of.

If the dilapidated condition of the sign alone wasn't enough to encourage dismissal, a dusting of January snow had managed to accumulate in its curvy nooks. Tiny mounds of snow were packed into each curve and kink like ivory-colored barn swallow nests.

Hunter hunched his shoulders against the wind and moved past the sign without brushing it off. He rarely paid any attention whatsoever to the existence of the plaque that named his bar, in fact he often forgot about its very existence. If he had noticed it, he would in fact have been quite pleased by its illegibility.

The staircase down to the Rage was slick with that certain type of smooth and secret ice that loves a city, most of it hidden further by that same light coating of powdered snow. This was a common problem in winter, so Hunter instinctively pressed one swollen, calloused hand against the brick for support before starting down. Stepping carefully, using the gritty texture as a grip, he gingerly and experimentally approached the door.

There was a handrail, of course, just inches below where his hand met the wall, but Hunter ignored it. It was a bent and ugly thing, sharp with jutting elbows that could cut through skin and glove. It clung to the wall by rusted, poorly-fitting brackets, and their loose hold left it free to groan and twist in a person's grip. Someday, probably soon, someone would reach for it in a moment of panic and simply tear it right off the wall.

Hunter himself managed to slip a little on the third step down, one foot shooting defiantly out in front of him, and he took a moment to balance himself before continuing on. "Jesus," he muttered, moving at a slower pace now. "This is fucking ridiculous."

Reaching the bottom at last, he swung the door open and stepped into the entryway. Dim light made shadows of his thick eyebrows and bulbous nose, which he pinched between thick nicotine-stained fingers as he sniffled. Hunter knew he had a rough face, the kind that brought grey rock, glass, and abstract illnesses to mind. But he wasn't upset by it. People in his business respected a rough face. They flocked to them; they understood them. So to his mind it was just another asset.

Brushing the snow off his shoulders, he blew into his cupped hands for warmth a few times and then pulled off his coat. Draping it over his forearm, he stomped heavily on the mat and waved to the only other person occupying the wide yawn of a bar.

"Hey, Adrian," he called, voice pockmarked by phlegm. "How's business been this fine evening?"

The other man glanced over at him expressionlessly, and Hunter fought the urge to laugh.

Adrian Burke had a rough face, too, and Hunter admired it. It was even rougher than his own. Oh, Adrian must have looked normal once upon a time. Shit, maybe he'd even been a little handsome. But these days he was a goddamn Christmas tree of thick and angry scars. His jaw didn't seem to sit right, either, and his right eye was always glassy and infected looking. On top of it all, he really sold the whole thing by always being so fucking sullen. Hunter was almost envious of him for that.

"It's been just like this," Adrian grumbled, looking around the empty room. "Just like always."

"Good," Hunter nodded approval at his barman. "That's real good. It means you've got some time on your hands. I need you to go out and get the ice off of the steps. Nearly broke my goddamn neck trying to come down here." He stomped his feet one more time on the ratty mat for good measure. "I want this place to be the worst bar in town, not a goddamn deathtrap." He pinched his nose and dislodged a measure of mucus from somewhere inside himself.

Adrian nodded wordlessly, heading for the door with a passive indifference. He went about the assignment with the same expressionless malaise that he carried everywhere.

Hunter sighed his disappointment. Adrian Burke was a terrible bartender, and that was just what Hunter needed him to be. He was also a moody fucker when he didn't take his meds, and one ugly son of a bitch to boot. Hunter liked those qualities, as well. But he wasn't much for conversation, and Hunter liked conversation. He liked it a lot.

With a shake of his head, he turned and kept walking.

At the back of the large main room was a narrow hallway that led to 'his' and 'hers' bathrooms. Just past those, right before the pile of cardboard boxes that covered up the rear exit, was a third, narrower door, unlabeled. Hunter took that one, slipping into his office and smiling when he saw that it was already occupied.

Two figures, a large man and a young woman, were sitting on the chewed up yard sale of a couch that set opposite his desk.

"How long you been waiting?" he asked the man as he closed the door behind him.

"Not long," the wide, ruddy-cheeked man replied. He reclined on the couch, head back and eyes toward the ceiling, looking completely bored. Next to him, though, the short, thin Hispanic woman with long hair showed the curled, fetal posture of the truly afraid. Her clothing defied the season: small, clinging shorts that rested low on the hips and high on the thighs, with a tight tank top that mashed her breasts together and upwards. The bald man was rubbing her left thigh lazily with one hand, a casual and intimate gesture that she made no effort to avoid or respond to. "But I do have other business to see to tonight," he continued, "so have a look and let's get this over with."

Hunter tossed his coat on his desk, pinched his nose, and gave one last valiant effort to clear his tracts. Then he waved the girl over. "Very well. Come over here, sweetie. Let's see what you're worth."

The girl glanced at the bald man, just a tiny turn of the head and a flickering of the eyes. He nodded tersely, and she tensed. Still, she hesitated, not making any effort to move until he let out a sigh and took his hand off of her thigh. These were the tiny, telling actions of someone who is deathly afraid of doing the wrong thing, because they know exactly what the wrong thing will mean for them. Biting her lip and keeping her eyes to the floor, she stood shakily up and walked over to where Hunter stood.

"She has a nice figure," he admitted, grabbing her hips like property and running his thumbs over her pockets. He tilted his head this way and that, as he turned her from side to side. Then he leaned toward her and in a loud, careful voice, repeated, "You have a very nice figure."

"She does speak English," the fat man said dully.

Hunter grunted. "Good. That will make things easier. I like this horse's mane, too. Thick. Good for pulling." He gave it a tug, jerking her head backwards, and smiled at the quiet feminine yelp that his action produced. "How old is she?"

"Tells me she's nineteen," the fat man tugged at his ear. "Might be lying, but I don't have reason to doubt her." A small smile curled his lips. "She yelps like that when you take her, too. Right when you slip in. Happens every time, without fail. It really is a hell of a sound."

"Oh? She doesn't look like one of those." Hunter was almost disappointed.

"I don't think it's pleasure," the fat man corrected with a sniff. "Sounds almost like...I don't know. Something tragic. But I never really bothered to ask." He stretched and yawned.

Hunter grunted. "Why would you?" He turned back to the girl. "Look at me, honey. Hey. Let me see your face."

She raised sad eyes up to him. He gathered her hair up away from her face and studied. "Very pretty. Wow." He looked closer. "This is unreal. One of the best I've ever seen. She's got nice cheekbones, pretty brown eyes. A small mouth." He gripped her firmly by the jaw and turned her face. "Full lips, though. Small mouth and full lips. That's got to be worth a lot all by itself." He leaned in, locking eyes with her. "You like kissing games, sweetie?" She winced, tensing but not retreating.

The bald man grunted a laugh. "'Course she does, John. They all do."

"Don't call me that," Hunter snapped, good mood instantly evaporating. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Jesus. Don'teverfucking call me that." He tightened his grip on the girl's jaw, squeezing and looking very intently at her. "Hunter. My name is Hunter," he raised his eyebrows. "You'll remember?" She nodded, looking terrified.

The bald man shrugged lazily. "Hunter, then," he said. "Makes no difference to me."

"It makes a difference." He frowned at nothing. "It makes a difference." Turning back to the girl, he let go of her face. "I like your mouth. Open it for me, honey. Wider. I said wider." He put his thumb on her lower jaw and pushed down. When she had finally complied to his satisfaction, he slid two fingers in and examined the cavity clinically, as a dentist might. "Good teeth. That's a pleasant surprise. Almost too pleasant." He removed his fingers suddenly, folding his arms and studying the man. "This isn't Mexico City pussy, Ben, and don't try to tell me that it is. Where'd you pick her up?"

"Not far from Zihuatenejo. Some small town I've never heard of. I don't think she was from there, though."

Hunter shook his head disapprovingly. "The Triangle of the Sun? Jesus Christ. What on earth were you evendoingdown there? That's way dangerous territory for plucking flowers, my friend. There are a lot of powerful people down there, and they like to keep their pretties all for themselves."

"I know. I wasn't even looking, to tell the truth. Just passing through, saw her by chance." He waved his hand dismissively. "I'm telling you, they don't know she exists. In fact, I'm not sure anybody does. She was all alone out there. No family, no husband or boyfriend to come searching. No friends." He grunted. "It was easy. Those fat old Mexican women don't much like pretty young trim hanging around their villages, talking to their sons and smiling at their husbands. I just picked her right up, told a few miserable-looking women that she'd died, and they were happy as all hell to spread the word just as far and wide as their large and sagging asses would carry them. Right now,Hunter, you and I are the only two people in the world who know that this bitch is alive."

Hunter thought about that. It was possible, but it seemed strange nonetheless. The last thing he needed right now was some tough-as-nails Mexicano asshole showing up accusing him of lifting. "You, me, and your people," he corrected. "They know about her, too."

"Oh, well, they know the cargo we carry. And sometimes they take a little fun for their troubles. But not with this one. I kept her with me. I'm the only one who got a taste of it. I thought you might like that. You know, the whole innocence thing." he shrugged. "Anyway, I pay them well and pick them carefully. I always hire the ones who want to taste it but can't get it on their own. That way I know they won't turn on me. They get loyal."

Hunter grunted. "Dogs are loyal, but they'll still eat you when you die." He squeezed the girl's ass. "How noble of you to keep them away from this one."

"Look, I'm a businessman. Used to run a deli, even. The best sandwich in the world will have very few takers if it looks like it's already been nibbled on, you know?"

"People rarely have the same qualm about pussy," Hunter noted drily. "And thank God for it." He felt up a breast through the girl's shirt, hefting it and feeling for the nipple. "Firm, not droopy. You know, I'm getting more and more impressed all the time. Take off your clothes, honey." The girl glanced fearfully at the bald man, and Hunter rolled his eyes. "You're a good scout, Ben, I'll give you that. But it's always the same. You coddle these girls and then you leave it to me to break them in."

The fat man looked unapologetic and bored. "I do enough," he yawned.

Hunter's expression betrayed his opinion of that statement. "Honey," he said to the girl, "you've got ten seconds to strip down to nothing before I take it upon myself to hurt you. And I don't like to hurt women. I really don't." He sneered. "So, on those occasions when it becomes...necessary...I always make it count." He stepped in close, breathing heavy, and she backed up, the backs of her legs bumping against the desk. "I figure, if I have to teach a lesson to one of my girls, then I owe it to them to make it the lesson of a lifetime." He leaned in even closer, licking his lips, voice becoming a whisper. "And Iknowyou understand me."

Quickly, with shaking hands, she began pulling the clothes from her body. Soon she was standing naked, visibly fighting the urge to shield herself.

Hunter examined her carefully, taking his time. He touched her all over, giving short commands. "This will have to go," he said at one point, yanking on her pubic hair and making her yelp again. When he ordered her to lean forward against the desk and hold her butt cheeks apart, she broke down and began to sob. But she obeyed, and he squatted down to examine her.

"Remarkable," he admitted at last. "I hope her work is as impeccable as her appearance."

The bald man frowned. "She's not particularly...experienced, I'm afraid. It's the down side of innocence, yes? The poor thing doesn't hardly know what to do with it besides to get it out of your pants and stick it up her cleft. That's her one weakness." He grunted. "Shit, if it weren't for the fact that she didn't bleed the first time I saddled her, I'd half wonder if she'd been a virgin."

Hunter sighed. "Well, I guess even that is survivable. I'll take looks over wisdom any day of the year. After all," he ran his fingers up her slit and then tasted them, "anyone can teach a virgin to be a whore. But not even I could train an ugly bitch pretty." He glanced over at the bald man. "The usual?"

"Plus nine." The man's bored look was suddenly betrayed by a twinkling light in his eyes. "This one's special. You can see that. And," he faked a yawn, "I had to transport a lot further than usual."

"Yeah, and I'll have to feed and house the stupid cunt for a month while I teach her the fucking trade."

"The fucking trade. I like that. It's funny. But you are a poor, inconvenienced man...so I suppose I can live with a plus seven."

Hunter started to haggle, but as he watched glistening tears form in the alluring eyes of the shivering Hispanic girl he felt his blood grow warm. He found he was prepared to lose the extra seven just to get the haggling done with and the training begun.

And ifhewas that eager to have her, others would be, too. "Fine," he said. "What's her name?"

"Ella," the bald man stood up, pulling his jacket on. "Or so she says. Dunno her last name. You know how to pay me?"

"I do," Hunter rain his hands through the girl's thick mane, like an owner brushing a favored horse. "Look for it by the end of the week."

The man stopped at the door. "Hunter," he said, "I've been meaning to tell you...this is the last one for me. I'm not coming back to Chicago. At least, not until things have settled down."

Hunter winced, sorry to lose a scout he could trust. But he nodded. He understood, even if he didn't like it. Ever since Piero, the mob boss who had reigned over the city's underworld, had been gunned down violent turf wars had blossomed throughout the Windy City. Every friend you made earned you a half dozen enemies. Fistfuls of hungry lieutenants popped up from every street corner, hoping to take the dead boss's place...or at least get a decent slice of his pie. Each carried their own collection of businesses, lackeys, and influences...and each wanted more. They fought each other, as well as the various gangs that inhabited the city and the police. In just one year's time, Chicago had gone from a careful businessman's dream to a nightly news report of a war zone. People were moving out, creating a bit of an exodus. Businesses were either relocating or murmuring about relocating. Talking heads were comparing it (in their ridiculously exaggerated way) to battle zones in the Middle East. There was even talk of the National Guard being mobilized.

What these idiot lieutenants, with their splintered resources and big ambitions, failed to realize was that they were killing themselves. They were running down the goddamn streets, painting great big targets all over everything. The American public will allow a lot to go on under their noses, especially if they benefit from it in some way. They only have one stipulation in return: don't ever, ever let them see that it's fucking happening. They don't mind knowing...just like they don't mind knowing how their shoes and IPods got made, or how people die every day fighting over the drugs they get from South America. Just like they don't mind knowing how babies all over the world starve to death, twitching in final agonizing throes, while America eats supper. They just don't want to have toseeit.

And that's exactly what was happening right now. By bringing its problems out into the bloody open, the mob was reminding everyone in the world that they were still alive, that they were in Chicago, and that they were very, very violent. The government had no choice but to grind them down and destroy them. Otherwise the people might rise up and do something drastic, like vote for the other candidate.

They wouldn't stop it completely, of course. Not really. The mob was good for business. But some sense of retribution was going to have to occur, and only the very wise and the very lucky would still be alive by the time this war was over.

Hunter was hoping to make sure he was among the lucky. In fact, he had a meeting on the matter scheduled for later this very night. "When things do settle down," he said to the fat man, "you will know where to find me."

"I hope you're still here." It sounded earnest enough. Even a little concerned.

Hunter nodded. "I do, too."

The fat man stared at his contemporary a moment longer, almost pityingly, and then broke into a grin. "You know," he said, "your bar still stinks like shit. I almost think you do that on purpose."

Hunter smiled back. "Maybe I do."

Although the naked girl's eyes pleaded with him over Hunter's shoulder, perhaps preferring the known evil to the new, the trafficker left without another backward glance.

Hunter turned back towards her. Leaning in close, sniffling loudly, he kissed her on the lips. Nervously, her fear of punishment only slightly more powerful than her revulsion, she responded. Her lips were dry, however, and she betrayed her lack of affection and her distaste with every movement. Hunter could see that he had his work cut out for him. He kissed her again, harder, and held her against him. Then, with his face so close to hers that she was breathing in his humid exhalations, he said, "You know what you are now, right?" She nodded almost imperceptibly, fresh tears watering her eyes. "Good," he smiled. "That's good. I didn't want to have to teach you that. But you do still have a lot to learn, and I'm going to have to be the one to teach it to you." He cupped her face. "We're going to get to know each other very well, you and I. You do a good job, and I'll always treat you kind. My good girls live very well, I promise. Try me, though..." his smile darkened. "Well. Just don't try me."

At that, Ella uttered her first words of the night. "Yes," she said, "sir."