Chicago Nights Ch. 01

Hunter liked that. Reaching up, he rubbed her shoulders approvingly with big, calloused hands. "Youarea good girl," he said. "I can tell already." Then his grip hardened, and pressed insistently downward. He took in a deep, satisfied breath as little Ella sunk to her knees in front of him. Reaching down, he stroked her head like a favored pet. "Such a beautiful sight," he said, and then his grip on her hair tightened as, with his free hand, he began to undo his belt and pants.

Ella shivered, fighting back fresh tears as she reached up to help.

-=-=-

Adrian chipped mechanically at the ice, glad to have a menial task to help fog up his mind. The Rage offered precious little in the way of actual work, most nights, and he craved distraction. Work...any work...took his mind off of Laura.

The door to the bar swung open, and the bald man who'd arrived earlier walked past with a nod. Adrian stepped aside, waiting to go back to chipping his shovel against the ice until the man had gone. He didn't have to wonder why the beautiful Latina girl the man had brought in hadn't left with him. He knew what this place was. It was a whorehouse, a torture chamber for lost souls. A supermarket for the depraved.

It was The Rage.

With a deep breath that came out like smoke in the chilled winter air, he went back to work.

He measured the time that had passed since he came to Chicago. Seven months. Long, ugly months, each as hideous to him as the scars upon his face.

It had been hard going. One of the lingering truths of the car accident that had damaged his brain and carved its name upon his visage was that he was never, ever going to be the best applicant for the job. Any job. By the time he'd met Hunter Kaufman, he'd been applying for work more out of desperation than any sense of hope. He'd applied at grocery stores, Walmarts, gas stations...everywhere that might have enough turnover to get desperate. He'd heard nothing.

He hadn't, however, applied at The Rage. He'd simply been a costumer there, and an unwelcome one at that.

From the first time he stumbled into it, Adrian had liked going to The Rage. Nobody was ever there. He could drink in peace and quiet, pretend to be social without ever having to be social. He no longer drank alcohol, so he'd been hunched on his stool in the shittiest bar in town, staring down at his Pepsi, when he was offered the one job in this world that he was still the best applicant for: customer deterrent.

Hunter very clearly ran his bar as a cover. He hadn't said so directly, at least not in the early days, but he'd hinted about things. He'd also made several veiled statements about the importance of having people he could trust around...statements that were never quite threats. And he'd never fired Adrian, even though it quickly became obvious that Adrian was a terrible bartender. In fact, Hunter seemed delighted by his new barman's lack of ability. The worse it got, the more mistakes that were made, the happier he became.

It drove Adrian mad. He wanted to succeed, to prove to himself that there was still something out there that he was capable of. It was important to him, regardless of what Hunter Kaufman preferred. Every little pleased look Hunter threw his way only pushed him harder. But it didn't matter. He could never make himself remember what drinks were ordered, what mixes the various names referred to, or how they were made. He kept fucking up the tabs, misreading or miscounting even when things were simple. And, he often tried to bill people twice for the same drink.

But if Adrian Burke seemed dark, it was because he was always standing in the shadows of the past. Ever since the car accident, when his little Taurus was t-boned by an oncoming semi, he had learned to live with loss. Loss of memory. Loss of ability. The loss of his career, and his dreams for the future.

The loss of his wife.

In many ways, Adrian believed that his accident had been fatal. Someone had been pulled from that wreckage and put back together. Someone had woken up and answered to his name. But it wasn't him...not really. Whoever he was now, Adrian Burke was just his Halloween costume.

There were other things, too. New things, to replace the lost the way water rushes in to fill a shark bite. And the most noticeable of these was anger.

Whenever he got upset, Adrian lost control. More than a dozen times now, he'd thrown expensive bottles to the ground in heated fits of frustration. He'd cursed at costumers, at himself, at Hunter and the world and at the glass that he'd shattered. But Hunter would always smile, wave the words away like a pestering fly, and tell Adrian not to worry about it.

He never got upset, he never took it out of his pay, and he never, ever, pushed Adrian to do any better. And that's what bothered him the most.

It had finally boiled over two weeks prior. Adrian had dropped a bottle of tequila, shattering it on the floor. When he jumped back to avoid the spill, he'd bumped into the shelf and busted it, sending an unending row of glass onto the floor as well. In frustration, he'd screamed at the costumer and kicked a hole in the wall.

"I'm not worried about it," Hunter said when Adrian confessed later. "These things happen."

Adrian had felt cold bitterness twisting in his guts. "That's because you're a fucking pimp, Hunter. You don't give two shits about this bar, or about me."

Hunter had blinked indifferently, studied him for a long quiet moment, and then said, "You're wrong, Adrian. I do care about this bar. I care a great deal, in fact." He'd run his hand lovingly over the wall, looking at it affectionately. "I care that it's a piece of shit. I care that nobody ever wants to come here...except for the people who are my real costumers, of course. I care that other people make faces and tell horror stories when they remember the time they made the mistake of coming through that door. And you, my friend, are perfect for that, so I care about you very, very much, as well." He'd slapped Adrian on the arm, then, and smiled. "I mean that."

Adrian had almost quit, right there and then. But he needed the money, and he doubted that Hunter would make it that easy for him to walk away, now that they'd both come out and acknowledged the truth. So instead, every morning since that night, he gotten up in his tiny studio apartment, looked himself in the cracked bathroom mirror, and said, "He only hired you because you were a joke, and he only keeps you around because youstill are."

It was a mantra, one that kept him from ever making peace with his situation. Adrian didn't want to make peace with his situation. Maybe he couldn't just walk away from Hunter Kaufman or the Rage, but he promised himself that he would never, ever forget the truth of his position.

You couldn't fight your enemy if you didn't understand what it was.

Seven months since he came to Chicago. He shook his head again. Back in Iowa, Laura would have had her baby by now. How long ago? He tried to remember what her due date had been, but he couldn't. Like with most things, the information was floating somewhere in his brain, but he either couldn't find it or couldn't decode.

Laura's baby. Not his. It was nothing to do with him.

He spat on the ground and wondered what she'd named it. Maybe after the father.

The wind picked up, blowing more snow down the stairway of the Rage. Adrian shook his head, pushing the question away as he moved up to the top step.

It didn't matter. His ex-wife's child might grow up someday and decide to look for its father, but it wouldn't be looking for him. Adrian Burke had no children. In fact, he had very little at all aside from a much-valued independence that was starting to look like a con and his stubborn refusal to give up on himself.

And, he supposed as he gently cleared the snow off the sign, he had the Rage. Or at least the Rage had him.

Coming back inside a few minutes later, he brushed off his arms and shoulders and put the shovel back in the supply closet. He froze for a moment when a high pitched feminine yelp came from the back room, but he understood and went back to his place behind the bar to wait.

It had been two weeks since he had admitted to Kaufman that he knew about the prostitution ring. Since that time the broad-shouldered, thick-necked man had become more open about his work, but he still kept his methods and systems to himself. All Adrian really knew was that sometimes men would come in and order a few drinks. Then they would pay for their drinks and leave. That was it. The only reason he knew something was afoot was that the same two or three dozen men would show up repeatedly, and they all seemed about as shady as Kaufman himself. Some of them would sit at different tables on different days. Others would always sit at the same spot. Adrian looked for a pattern, and checked the tables and chairs repeatedly for some way that they might be communicating, but he couldn't find a thing.

Somehow, the pimp was able to connect the mafia types to their preferred or desired girls. Just how it happened, he couldn't say. Hunter never actually spoke to anybody who came in, except on very rare occasions like tonight. But it wasn't uncommon at all for the broad man to bring one of his whores in and make use of her in the office.

Adrian wasn't sure if he should feel bad for the girls or not. For all he knew, they preferred it this way. At least with Kaufman's operation they weren't walking the streets, right? From what he could tell, Kaufman set them up with a place to stay, kept them healthy, and made sure they weren't beaten or anything (unless he took it upon himself to do so). It just seemed like a call-girl service for organized crime, and organized crime has resources all its own. The girls probably made good money.

Another yelp, and a slapping sound, made him clench his jaw. Adrian hadn't been with a woman in over a year...since well before he managed to get escape his ex-wife...and nothing drives a lonely man crazier than having to deal with the fact that somebody shittier and meaner than him is getting laid.

Another slap. Another yelp. This time, perhaps, a little more desperate sounding. Adrian clenched his jaw again. Turning around, he looked into the mirror behind the bar. He'd halfway expected to see the Stranger looking back at him, but it was just his reflection.

"This is not my problem," he said under his breath. Hunter Kaufman's groaning pleasure sounded out in the back room. Then, silence. Adrian repeated a variation of his mantra into the mirror. "He only wants you for the job because you're not any good. He only brings you back because you're a joke." He couldn't do anything to Hunter Kaufman. Christ, heneededthe man.

"What was that?" Hunter called out from the hallway. He was swaggering out into the main area, tucking his button-up into his pants and looking relaxed and happy. "I thought I heard to talking to someone."

"You heard wrong," Adrian said flatly. "I need to take a piss."

"Yeah, sure. I'll watch the bar," Kaufman leaned against it. "Listen, though. We have to talk about something important. I have some people coming in late tonight, after we close. Businessmen. I'll need you to stick around but not say a fucking thing. Even if you fuck up the order, say not a word. Let me deal with it. Okay?"

Adrian shrugged. "Will I be getting paid for this?"

"Triple pay," Hunter smiled. "Scout's honor."

He snorted. "Then I'll be here."

Movement down the hall caught Adrian's eye, and he glanced over. The girl he'd seen come in earlier...the one the bald man had brought in...had wandered out into the hallway. She was dressed, but her clothes looked wrinkled and hastily put on. Her hair was a mess and her arms were wrapped across her stomach. She reached up with one hand and wiped her mouth while she looked around nervously.

"Get thefuckback in that office!" Hunter snapped. "Did I tell you to come out here?Did I even tell you to get dressed?!"

She jumped like an abused child, and scurried back.

Kaufman grunted a laugh. Then he turned to look at Adrian. His eyes studied the other man. "You wanna try that one?" he smirked. "You don't ever ask, but I'd bet you could use a good wet hole a lot more than you could use an extra eighty bucks. Whaddya say, Adrian? She's not real talented, but she does make just the cutest little face when you-"

"No," Adrian turned and walked away, headed towards the bathroom. He didn't trust himself to say anything more. Not without trouble.

In the restroom, he slammed the door and looked in the mirror. This time, the Stranger was there...the same Stranger that he had seen so many times since the accident. The one that looked just like him.

"You should fuck her," the Stranger whispered.

"No," Adrian hissed.

"Why not?" the Stranger bared his teeth like a nervous wolf. "You wanted to."

Adrian touched the scars on his face again. "I'm just lonely," he said. "That's all it was. I'm not...I just...it's been a long time. That's all."

"You don't have to tell me," The Stranger spat. "You don't think I've noticed? You don't think I care?"

"Leave me alone."

A sneer. "You need me."

"I don't."

"Then why don't you take your meds?" He chuckled low. "Why did you ever stop taking them? Were you really that lonely? Jesus Christ."

But then, before Adrian could respond, he was gone.

With a sigh, he used the restroom and washed his hands, keeping his head low so as not to see who would be looking out at him from the mirror now.

-=-=-

Time passed.

Hunter paced nervously back and forth in the office, growing more and more nervous as the hour grew later. At first, Ella sat on the couch and watched him fretfully, but as the clock struck midnight she sank low, drifting off to sleep. At one he woke her up, thinking that another fuck might help soothe his nerves, but after ten minutes she was still unable to get him hard, so he pushed her away and told her to go back to sleep.

Sitting back in his chair, sipping from a cup of coffee, he watched the slow movements of the clock on the wall. At two the bar would close, but the door would remain unlocked. At two-thirty, they would arrive.

By three, his continued survival would be ensured.

The broken girl's heavy breathing, and the total relaxation of her soft figure, had an effect. He began to get drowsy himself. He made a point of not looking at her, but it didn't help. The office was warm, full of captured heat. One o'clock found him slouched down in his chair, staring almost mindlessly at the floor in front of him. Another hour found him slumped over his desk, half asleep.

Finally, though, he heard the pained creaking of the door out front. Low, masculine voices, one of them Adrian's, carried down the hallway. Hunter leapt up, jumping into his personal bathroom to use the mirror. He smoothed his haggard appearance, as though making himself look more alert would cause him to actually be more alert. Then he practiced a few smiles, found one he liked, and headed out to do business.

They were already seated, but they stood to shake his hand as he approached. Ron Mellor, called The Messenger by some, was the front-runner in this violent grab for power. He was something of a mystery, having in fact actually been a non-consequential messenger who had ran off some years back, leaving his partner to die in an ugly moment. In a business where trust and honor were still highly valued, even necessary, this made him a talked-about man...and a marked one. For years, nobody had been able to find him. Then one day Piero had suddenly vanished out to Arizona, taking with him two of the more eccentric figures in his organization. One was Andro, known widely as the Mad Dog for his uncontrollable and unpredictable form of violence. The other was known only as the Doctor, and he was best not spoken of at all. Piero never returned from that journey. The Mad Dog and the Doctor returned a week or so later with the errant messenger boy, inexplicably, as their new would-be king.

Nobody could say for sure how that happened. How on earth does a low an insignificant figure like Ron Mellor...a marked and hunted man...suddenly gain the loyalty of such dangerous and influential people? It seemed impossible. But one thing was clear regardless: no one was prepared to follow a former nobody who only wasn't a nobody because he'd cut and run. Not even fear of the Mad Dog or the Doctor was going to make a fucking coward messenger boy intimidating to anyone.

The mob had splintered immediately, and violently. The resulting power vacuum destroyed any trace of unity and marked the beginning of this stupid war. Ron Mellor and his Mad Dog should have been among the first to die, of course. By offing Piero and instigating this conflict, they had made enemies of everybody who stood to lose from it...and everybody stood to lose from it.

Besides which, they had nothing. Not one man would stand with them in the beginning. Not one piece of property was left for them to hold, not one corner of one alley was safe for them to inhabit. They didn't have a goddamn thing.

And yet, piece by piece and person by person, they either turned or burned down everything and everyone they came across. At first, people credited the Mad Dog. He had been known, and feared, long before the war had started. But he was playful, in his way, and erratic. His sanity had been a frequent topic of conversation among the thugs who visited the bar even before Piero died.

Mellor, on the other hand, had shown an unexpected and rapidly growing tendency toward violence. The lowly messenger who'd fled had been hardened somehow, and made ugly. He was calm, direct, polite, quiet, and very, very sick.

And he had the Doctor.

Hunter felt the chill that accompanied the name, and forced himself to concentrate. He had to be perfect, tonight. His life depended on it.

There was a knock at the door, and he put the rehearsed smile back on as he reached to open it.

-=-=-

The minutes passed slowly for Adrian. After an indeterminable period of time, curiosity got the better of him and he finally glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was twelve past two. He stifled a yawn poorly and tapped his fingers on the bar as he waited for the meeting to wrap up.

It had started out mildly interesting, but had quickly lost most of its more admirable qualities. When Hunter had first come out and sat down with the two visitors, he'd been nervous. His face had been a deep crimson, and his gestures and conversation forceful and animated.

This didn't faze the Mad Dog or the Messenger, though, and when Hunter realized that his bullying antics could find no footing he'd decided to play the part of the cheerful, boisterous barkeep instead. It was a tactic Adrian had seen him use before, and it seemed to work well most of the time. Not here, though.

It seemed that Ron Mellor did most of the talking. He never cracked a smile, or responded to Hunter's tired jokes. He just pushed forward until he got his way.

Andro, on the other hand, seemed every bit as bored as Adrian. He spent long minutes staring at the floor, either studying tiles or inspecting his shoes. He wandered over to the jukebox at one point, then sighed and returned to his seat without even checking the songs. He wandered over again, and again returned without doing anything of note.

As Adrian turned back from checking the clock, though, he saw the Mad Dog staring directly at him. His eyes were hard, but his mouth twitched upward in a way that looked strangely pleased. He tilted his head slightly to the side, and he almost seemed to sniff at the air. His face cracked, suddenly, a smile snapping across his lean features almost like a nervous twitch.