Chicago Stories: West of Western Read Online Free PDF Page A

and she could see him gloat. Hell. He was way too happy about this. What was he up to?
    “The address of the manufacturer is on the requisition. They'll have the frames ready to go as soon as they get the Maalon. Uhh, Amex all right?”
    “No problem, my friend, for you all is possible. Monday it is,” Mason purred, then paused. “Mmm, how about this? We'll cover it for you and you can owe me.” He chuckled, she heard his chair squeak and imagined him tilting back, his big feet thudding on the desk. “I don't want to think of you being homeless. Ah . . . hmm. You do know Maalon is good for anything up to and including rocket fire? Like I said, isn't this a bit of overkill?”
    “It's my home and I need to feel safe.” He'd understand that. Shit. Mason was actually gloating. He probably had tabs on her, probably knew she was broke, too. She hated to owe the old fox, but how could she turn this down? Indentured servitude, worse than a juice loan. He must have something nasty coming up, hopefully not soon. Not Albania, she prayed. She hated Albania.
    “Um. I don't suppose you'd consider coming back to work for us full time for a while?”
    “Can't. I'm not strong enough, muscle damage, too much shrapnel from the bomb. Medical said no way, and besides, I took that disability bonus. Can't afford to give it back.” She stroked her arm and thought this was the first time she'd ever been thankful for her wounds.
    “Fuck Medical, it's your brains I want. Who said anything about giving back? I need you. I got plans.”
    “Sorry, sir, I've got a job and I'm supporting a building. But I mean it when I say I owe you one. Just not yet and not a long-term contract . . . please.” Mason had plans? She didn't want to know, not now.
    “Yeah, yeah. Forget the ‘sir’ stuff, never worked with me anyway. You got stuff, I hear you. Consulting, all right? Hmm. Maybe some Homeland Security stuff? You'll hear when I figure it out.” A phone rang, a door slammed in the background. “You need anything, or you change your mind, you call, okay?”
    “I will, and thanks, my friend,” she said, laughing as she disconnected. Old friends were the best friends. At least she'd be able to sleep tonight.
    The Maalon came as promised and Seraphy moved in the day the windows were installed, spreading her sleeping bag over a mattress on the floor. She had a roof over head, water in the bathroom, and the glossy black Egyptian Revival radiators along the outside walls were nicely warm. Bare walls and floor, piles of boxes, bits of furniture and unassembled bed, at last she was home.
    With her shelter in place, her stomach growled for attention. Ten p.m., she'd forgotten to eat since morning, and there was nothing in the loft but a couple bottles of water and three empty taco chip bags. Pizza, then, she'd call one of the places on Western.
    “Sorry, no deliveries west of Western. You want carry-out?”
    “You're kidding.” Rockwell was only two blocks west of Western.
    “No. Look, lady, you want the pizza or not?”
    “Yeah. I'll be there in, what? About forty-five minutes, okay?”
    Bummer. She'd never lived in a neighborhood without pizza delivery. Where the hell were her clean jeans?
    On the way home with the pizza, sausage and oregano scented the Jeep with promises she could taste and she was trying not to drool as she swung into the alley. Her headlights washed across the garage door, an unfamiliar splash of color jumped out at her, and instinct brought her foot down on the brake. The brakes grabbed, the Jeep dipped and snapped her forward. Peering through the windshield, she took a moment to understand what the unexpected color meant.
    “What the hell?”
    Gleaming black when she left to get the pizza an hour ago, the garage door now flaunted a crude mural. A woman's naked body, the paint still wet, sprawled across the bottom of the garage door. Huge, crudely rendered, glaring white, obscene. Crimson splotches marked her breasts and