Cold Fury (20 page)

It occurred to me then that just as important as the strict security of my school was my mom’s expectation that I would continue to attend, even in her bitter absence. Like I said before, her philosophy as a teacher—as a person—is that knowledge is power. But more than that, she believes that knowledge is the air we breathe, the food we eat, the rhythm of our hearts. Knowledge is life, and she would expect me to go on living. Just by attending school I would be closer to her, and feel the strength of her confidence flow like lava through my veins. So I vowed not to let her down, then heard a question mark at the end of Max’s sentence.

“I’m sorry . . . what did you say?” I said.

“Tomorrow? You know, Wednesday? Will you be back in school?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I will.”

And then we said good-bye and hung up, and I looked at the phone in my hand. With one call, Max had reminded me how easy it was to track a phone with invasive apps and beeping satellites and meticulous provider records. Now I was sure I was being listened to and spied on. Just across the street, Lake Michigan winked and sparkled like a blue quilt covered in diamonds. I needed fresh air and my phone needed a permanent, watery resting place. Sometime during my twelve hours of unconsciousness, the old sweats and crusty clothing had been magically replaced with jeans and new underthings, a good pair of shoes and a plain white, super-soft T-shirt, all in my size. Al the doorman, I thought, remembering the skeptical look he’d given me before asking if there was anything else I needed. I dressed quickly, lifted the briefcase, and left the room. He was at his post outside the hotel entrance.

I tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Hi, Al.”

He looked at me and the slick little mustache under his nose lifted in a smile. “Hi, Al. What can I do for you?”

“I need a phone,” I said quietly.

“Flip-top, candy bar, PDA, or iPhone?”

“Actually,” I said, looking around, “something untraceable.”

He nodded. “Disposable. How many?”

“I don’t know. Three?”

“Let’s go three dozen, just to be safe. Nice day, huh? Going for a walk?”

“Just to the lake.”

“They’ll be in your car trunk when you get back. And listen, don’t dillydally. The hotel’s throwing a Cinco de Mayo party for guests. Mariachi, mango salsa, and margaritas. You can enjoy the first two, but no booze. Underage drinking is
strictly
prohibited. After all,” he said solemnly, “at the Commodore, we respect the law.”

“Thanks, Al,” I said.

“You’re welcome, Al,” he replied with a salute, the gold epaulets of his uniform glinting in the sun.

My quick stroll to the water’s edge consisted of an extended look over my shoulder and envy. Everywhere I turned, from busy Michigan Avenue to the North Avenue Beach House boardwalk, people were going about their lives. It was at least eighty degrees, a summerlike day making an appearance in May, and everyone seemed to be enjoying the generous sun. They weren’t racked with suspicion or desperate to be rid of a phone or carrying steel briefcases full of secrets, guns, and money. The world seemed so ridiculous—some people floated along in peace while others fought to survive, with both groups sharing space and rubbing shoulders. And then sand crunched under my new shoes and I hurried toward the lake, swiveled my body, and extended an arm. The phone skipped across the water like a flat, rectangular stone. It was an early sixteenth birthday gift from my mom and dad, and left a trail of sparkling bubbles as it sank—another small part of them gone with it. And then I turned and looked at North Avenue Beach and realized what a mistake I’d made.

I don’t mean throwing away the phone.

I mean walking unprotected in broad daylight.

It seemed like an entire beach full of people stared in my direction.

Some were shirtless on towels, others wore bikinis and held volleyballs, and still others stood with their arms crossed, wearing sunglasses and sport coats. The sunglasses were okay, but my gut quietly informed me that guys in sport coats under a hot sun were not. They had cop written all over them, from the chunky shoes to the blank expressions focused on me and my briefcase. I had no doubt they belonged to Detective Smelt. I felt like a fool, surrounded by acres of hot sand and endless lake. My only option for cover was the old beach house, built to resemble a 1930s cruise liner, complete with smokestacks.

And there it was.

The 1930s.

If it really was that old, maybe it had a Capone Door.

I remembered how Joe Little installed them between 1921 and 1950 in private and public structures, and few things were as public as the beach house. I ran for it, and the cops ran for me. I was panicked in a save-my-butt way but calm, the chilly blue flame flickering in my gut, and was able to file away the fact for further use—
when looking for a Capone Door, look for an old building.
I took steps two at a time and hit the sandy concourse running hard, wondering where it could possibly be, looking past decades of renovation for something that was part of the original structure—
concession stand? No—lifeguard office? Too new-looking—upstairs beer garden? Too exposed
—and hearing them behind me.

“Stop, thief!” one of them barked in a patrolman’s voice.

“Stop her!” the other one shouted, trying to get someone to intervene. “She stole a briefcase!”

Well played, I thought, and skidded around a corner, pulling up in front of two entryways, one leading to the men’s showers, the other to the women’s. They would expect me to go into the women’s, so I ducked into the men’s, thankful that it was empty. It was a square, tiled room—no doors, no windows, a dead end—until my eyes were drawn to the knobs beneath each of the ancient dripping shower heads, one for hot stamped with little
H
’s, the other for cold stamped with little
C
’s.

Those beautiful little
C
’s.

I pushed them all quickly, one by one, but nothing happened.

Looking closely, I saw decades of hard-sealed rust encrusted around the letters.

I pushed each of the
C
’s again, leaning into them with all of my weight, until one moved and a door popped open as silently as if it had been oiled yesterday. I was sealed safely behind the wall before the first cop’s shoe squeaked on wet tile, and then it was quiet, neither guy saying a word, just walking slowly around the room. I could feel their frustration vibrating through the wall. Finally one of them said, “Well, shit. Where did she go?”

The other one said, “Smelt’s not gonna be happy.”

“Smelt was born unhappy,” the first one said. “That’s why she’s always at Twin Anchors. Sweet liquor eases the pain.”

“That’s funny. You’re a funny guy. You should tell her that.”

“I’m dumb,” the first one said, their footsteps receding, “not stupid.”

It was the second time I’d heard of Detective Smelt’s hangout—Twin Anchors—and filed away that nugget too. And then I turned to a painted hand on the wall pointing down a flight of stairs that ended at a hallway, which branched in opposite directions. One wall bore the words “Lincoln Park Boathouse” with a hand indicating right; the other read “Commodore Hotel” with its hand pointing left. I turned down the dim hallway listening to something thump and echo above me, and realized I was passing beneath Lake Shore Drive. A few minutes later my foot kicked a bottom step. I climbed a short flight to another door. It unlatched quietly and I lowered myself into a toilet stall. I shut the Capone Door, eased from the stall, and turned to a dozing men’s room attendant. The old guy was propped precariously in a chair next to a display of mints, aftershave, and crumpled dollar bills. I tiptoed past but my shoes were wet, the rubber soles complained, and he sat up and stared at me.

“I went through the wrong door,” I said with a shrug.

He smacked his gums, mumbled, “It happens,” and closed his eyes.

I turned the corner and heard a cheerful “Ay-yi-yi-yi!”

“Cinco de Mayo,” I murmured, the date reminding me that school would be out soon. That meant I’d lose the security of Fep Prep for the entire summer, which added even more urgency to what felt like an increasingly hopeless quest. The music grew louder and I heard people milling about, margarita glasses tinkling, voices raised in celebration. The lobby was crowded with partiers as the mariachi strummed and tweedled in the corner. I pushed through the throng, headed for the elevator, anxious to reach my suite in the sky, when something odd caught my eye.

There were five musicians in the mariachi band.

Four wore sombreros and played guitar, violin, horn, and accordion.

The fifth, in a rumpled plaid suit and plastic devil mask, plunked a ukulele.

Even without the Satan-head mask, I realized Hawaii was a hell of a long way from Mexico, and I didn’t freeze, didn’t pause, just made a U-turn and cut back through the crowd. The last thing I saw was Ski Mask Guy’s neck twisting in my direction. I flew down the hall and then remembered that I was in the Commodore, and that the name of the Outfit-run hotel probably began with the third letter in the alphabet for a reason. I stepped around a corner and stared at a wall covered in flocked wallpaper. The pattern was end-to-end diamond shapes with small raised
C
’s in the middle. I pushed one, and then another, and another—I realized Ski Mask Guy would be rounding the corner any second—and pushed another, and one more, and then I thought screw it and took a fire extinguisher from the wall, listened for galumphing footsteps, and stepped out swinging.

I nailed him at solar plexus level.

He staggered backward groping at air, caught himself, and charged.

I went low on the next shot, kneecapping him, and he squealed like a debutante.

And then I was gone, down the hallway, pushing through the revolving door briefcase-first and sprinting for the Lincoln, yelling, “Al! Throw me the keys!”

“Head’s up, Al!” he said, flipping them through the air.

I snagged them, leaped in, and called out, “Thanks, Al!”

“My pleasure! Watch your back, Al!”

I roared from the curb, waved from the window, and hoped for more Als just like him.

16

WHEN YOU TELL A LIE
but you don’t mean to tell a lie, it’s not really a lie. It’s an alternate version of reality, or sincere disinformation, or in my case, the truth deferred.

I told Max I would be at school the next day and meant it.

Because I meant it, it wasn’t a lie, although I didn’t actually return to Fep Prep for a week.

First I had to hide inside a brick wall.

It all began with a hundred-dollar bill. I needed food and gasoline, except, as I learned, a sixteen-year-old kid peeling off Franklins tends to raise eyebrows among the average mini-mart merchant and fast-food vendor. The last thing I needed was unwanted attention, or the police called based solely on suspicion. So, after I fled the Commodore Hotel, I stopped off at a currency exchange on North Avenue, told the teller that my dad needed change for a hundred, and walked away with a pocketful of fives and tens.

That’s when Ski Mask Guy materialized out of thin air, catching me with a huge open hand across the mouth that drew blood. I ducked under his fist, which swung like a wrecking ball, and answered with a perfectly aimed right that sounded like it broke his nose. He reeled and stumbled, and I took off down the sidewalk like my hair was on fire.

I was fast, but he was pissed.

He was on his feet in a flash.

I ran through the nearest open door, into the North Avenue train station, and was charging toward the platform stairs with him galloping behind me. And then, in the long second when there were only inches between my swinging ponytail and his grasping fingers, the air grates popped open and began raining rats.

Ski Mask Guy gasped and began swatting at the writhing gray bodies, while I took the opportunity to run for my life. I remembered what the notebook said about Capone Doors being located in every El station electrical closet built before 1935 and hoped this one was at least that old. I rounded a corner and spotted a door bearing the words
DANGER: ELECTRIC—NO ADMITTANCE
, which cracked and yielded to my very determined shoulder. I ducked inside, located a tiny
C
covered in grime, and leaped into the wall, followed by a gang of rodents. It wasn’t the steamy heat or pitch blackness or cobwebs adhering to my face like a second skin that sucked so badly, or even my bleeding mouth dripping over my lips that I couldn’t wipe away because the space was too tight to lift an arm.

What sucked were the rats.

Wedged between brick and mortar, I was unable to bend down.

It sucked that I couldn’t caress their hot spiky hair and wormy tails, and scratch lovingly between their triangle ears, since they had saved my butt.

For an hour I stood between two walls—in the intervening years since the Capone Door was installed, another building had been built against the station, cutting off the escape tunnel—while dozens of rats skittered and clicked over my feet. Now and then I felt a cold nose inch its way up my ankle. There was tentative nibbling at the end of my little toe and one of them squeaked, then stopped, and then started again: squeak, stop, start, repeat, for what seemed like a hundred years.

It was so narrow I could smell my own bloody breath.

Through layers of old brick, I heard the El train pass overhead.

For thirty of those minutes I listened to him out there in his creepy ski mask shuffling around, trying to figure out how I (and a crowd of rats) had disappeared in a train station closet with no windows and only one door, the same one he’d run through a few steps behind me while peeling off rats. He pushed over boxes and punched at the ceiling, got on his knees and felt along the dirty tile floor, exhaling the F-word with every girlish breath. When he was done, he sat down and crossed his arms, waiting for me to reappear. Even with a wall between us, his nauseating fuzzy pork chop odor was inescapable.

Through a pinhole, I watched him bob his foot impatiently.