Free Calumet City by Charlie Newton

boulevard becomes smeary headlights and shadows. And the traffic signals are brighter than usual, hot, like red spotlights.
    My driver checks me in his mirror for the tenth time, eyes all scrunched up. I show him my star too fast and up tight to his ear. "Drive, asshole. Worry about the road."
    He cows, wishing he had a thick plastic partition.
    Nice, Patti. Real nice
. "Sorry. Sorry, just drive, okay?"
    I slip back heavy into the seat, then startle. Annabelle Ganz is here too. She thinks I should wonder how long she was in District 6. I slap her part of the backseat to prove it’s empty. The driver checks me again. Parts of District 6 were white back in the ’80s and early ’90s. But what was Annabelle doing there, other than the twelve years Tracy said she was buried in the wall? My fists ball. No telling who was with her either. They—
God, Roland too
—he could’ve been there. Probably was—
    Big shiver. I might puke.
    The cab stops outside the L7; the driver eases his eyes back into his mirror. Either a lesbian fantasy or he expects a cop to stiff him. He gets ten instead and watches my ass. I really want to shoot somebody, start to turn but don’t. Maybe I’m not finished crying and just can’t admit it. Julie’s out front under her awning watching the rain.
    "Where the hell have you been?"
    "Took the train. Next time my date is your ex, spare me, okay?"
    She slides sideways and blocks the door. "Trace said you ran.
Away?
"
    I hard-eye her, then say, "Too happy to stand still," and try to pass. She grabs at the shirt she lent me and I knock her hand away. "Not tonight."
    Julie floats her eyebrows and looks down her nose. But she steps out of the way. As I walk through the bar to Julie’s backstairs, Tracy waves me over. I take the stairs from Julie’s office instead. My phone vibrates and I answer without looking.
    It’s bar noise and Tracy saying, "We have to talk. I’m coming up."
    "Maybe tomorrow."
    "No. This is important…for you—"
    "I said no." Every part of me clenches. "
Do not
fucking do it."
    In the room I do the door locks, sit on the single bed, and want to cry for so many reasons I don’t know where to start. Tracy doesn’t come, nor does Julie. I lie down and kill the lights, then cover my eyes. My son’s face is with me in the pillow, the face I made up for him. The face isn’t his and I’ve never seen it, but it’s what I have. Tonight he’s not enough.
     
     
WEDNESDAY, DAY 3: SUNRISE
     
     
       The night’s all sleepless dreams, hazy and frightened and guilty and then sunrise finally hints at my window, ending a night not unlike drowning. My cell and my pistol share the bed. I check the clock—the superintendent wants me to call at 9:00; this time it won’t be a surprise mission, it’ll be about IAD and the criminal complaints Alderman Gibbons has stacked atop Kit Carson’s CR numbers. I turn on the cell and punch Stella’s number before checking messages.
    Stella clears her throat, then says she’s been up for an hour watching HSN and drinking the hot chocolate I bought her. I ask her to feed Jezebel and Bathsheba. She already has and says no locksmith has been by, then wants to know why I don’t think it’s important to fix things. It should be a matter of pride, at the very least. We make a deal—I promise to try harder and she promises to make sure that I do.
    Now to the messages. The one that matters is the superintendent’s. He wants to talk at breakfast and
in person,
before I report to 6. That won’t be easy since I’m not at home where he thinks I am; north-to-south rush hour separates us. I only have time to take the aerosol shower and a handful of Altoids, hoping the combination makes me presentable. A TAC officer does not keep the superintendent waiting. I leave Julie a note saying I’ll explain after work, positive I won’t.
    The early traffic into downtown is on the way to awful but not quite there yet. I run the summons possibilities—this is