Free Chicago Stories: West of Western by Eileen Hamer

hooky from work again the next morning, she opened the windows to let the bright fall air and normal everyday sounds fill the loft. The mailman's cart squeaked to a stop, her mail flap clinked shut. Seraphy ran downstairs to snatch up her mail, the first at her new address. Grocery store flyers, a postcard with coupons for an oil change and new tires, a letter from Com Ed confirming her service, flyers from two cable services, one of which she already had installed, and a letter. Pale gray envelope, nice, addressed to ‘New Neighbor.’
Dear New Neighbor,
     
We live next door and would like to welcome you to our neighborhood. Would you come to dinner tonight at our humble abode? Or is this too late to ask?
     
Awaiting Your Reply with Bated Breath,
Richard Kirkland & Andre Beaupre
     
898-6621
2710 Cortez
     
    Hmm. 2710, must be the boarded-over storefront with the hidden Japanese garden. Cool. A quirky note, maybe a little ‘walk into my parlor-ish?’ But intriguing. What would he be like, Richard or Andre, the man who made such a garden here in the middle of a run-down neighborhood? Maybe they'd know something about the man shot here last night. Worth a look, certainly. She could take care of herself, and maybe they'd offer a tour of the garden.
    “This is Andre.” His voice was a rich, sensual baritone, so round and full the cell phone vibrated in her hand. All her neurons stood to attention.
    “Um, hello.” She pulled herself together. “This is Seraphy Pelligrini, your new neighbor. I just got your note and would be delighted to come to dinner. Thank you for inviting me. You'll be first neighbors I've met. And your voice is amazing.”
    “You think?” he said, and she heard his smile. “You must like baritones. A woman of superior judgment. Cool,” he drawled the vowels, making the phone quiver in her hand and a thrill run down her spine. “So you are coming to dinner?”
    “Yes, of course,” she managed, her left hand automatically smoothing her hair. “It's nice of you to ask. Um, when would you like me to come?”
    “About seven, don't dress up?” He made it a question.
    “Perfect. Can I bring anything?” Like gold and frankincense and myrrh, maybe.
    “No, my dear. Let us wine and dine you. It's your welcome dinner. Come to the side entrance, we'll have the light on for you.”
    “Right. I'm looking forward to meeting you.”
    “Seven, then, we'll watch for you at the side gate. As we say here, hasta luego .”
    It was a moment before the spell of his voice faded, her cerebral cortex wrested control from the more primitive parts of her brain, and she remembered. Damn. The letter had been signed Richard and Andre, and he'd said ‘us.’ So not single. Probably.
    Working on her house had left no time for anything else, but now she was playing hooky from work, she decided to explore the neighborhood, maybe meet a neighbor or two. Terreno had mentioned street names, but she forgot, so now she turned to the internet for a map of the city and found a street map with known gang territories marked. There she was, on the Lobos side of Rockwell, just like he'd said. Smack between the Lobos and the Duques. Terrific.
    Several websites gave potted histories of the city. Once this had been a working class neighborhood, mostly German immigrants, and at the turn of the century, featured small brick houses and two-flats, with shops on every corner and several bars. Now only one small grocery remained, on the corner of Thomas and Rockwell. Three of the storefronts, the bar and one of the churches had been colonized by artists. A neighborhood in flux, illegal and legal immigrants, welfare clients, working people, students, Puerto Rican gangs, artists and a scattering of Yuppies. Yadda, yadda. Different, anyway, from anything she'd known before. Soon she had enough reading, she needed boots on the ground, and headed out into late afternoon sun and November air that smelled of damp leaves and rain.
    “Hey,