Page 61 of Liquids

“You have a smartphone?” What the hell? “Since when?”

“Since I told my son I was going to a fight in Chicago, and that he wasn’t persuading me out of it. I said if I died on the way there or the way back and it was the last thing I did, then at least I’d die a happy woman. Although I’d prefer to die on the way back after seeing all those half-naked men fighting.”

“Or get stabbed by a crazy mafia wife,” I mutter.

Marni holds up her hand. “No talk about dying on my watch, please! We are all getting back home in one piece.”

“Yeah, but maybe as cremated ashes in an urn,” mutters Marge. “I want to go out with a bang!” She adds, waving her fist unsteadily in the air. Jesus. It’s like having a geriatric Che Guevara in the back seat.

“Anyway,” Agnes carries on, ignoring her, “my son said he’d buy me a phone and I was to use it if there was any trouble or if I got sick, and then at least we’d get to say goodbye.”

June tuts. “Anyone would think we’re going on a polar expedition! It’s Chicago, ladies! I’m sure they have hospitals and doctors.”

“There’s far too much talk about death for my liking on this road trip,” Marni says in a loud whisper.

“Welcome to my world,” I say. “And at least we’re talking about their deaths and not Rig’s.”

June leans forward and pats my arm. “He’ll be fine. They’re not allowed to kill each other, or so I’ve been told.”

“Maybe just a bit of maiming,” Marge says, rubbing her hands together, and Marni rolls her eyes.

“Like on that MMA Fighting!” Agnes exclaims. “I’ve been watching it all week. Mr. Dillard from next door plugged a doohickey into the back of my TV. That’s how you do it now, apparently. Anyway, it’s way more exciting than the cop shows I usually watch. Better bodies, too. I have no clue why I didn’t do it years ago. They pin each other to the floor!” She winks in the mirror at me.

“Jesus Christ,” Marni says. “If we survive this without one of these old broads having a coronary, I’ll be a happy woman.”

“This was your idea,” I say.

She tuts. “The old biddies were all you.”

“Not like I had much choice,” I mutter.

“When are we stopping for a cup of tea?” Marge pipes up.

“We’re literally just out of town,” I say. “I’m not stopping for another hour.”

“I’ve got a thermos,” June whispers, rummaging around in the tote bag on her lap that she insisted couldn’t go in the trunk.

Soon we’re all munching on June’s homemade cookies and sipping hot tea. Why do little old ladies like tea so much? I keep thinking I’ll get into it someday.

Marni grins at me as she takes another cookie from June’s outstretched hand. “Now this is living, hon,” she says.

The old ladies have their eyes closed by the time we’re driving through the suburbs of South Chicago. Marni took over driving a while ago, and I’ve spent the last couple of hours watching the sun set. Who told me sunsets were caused by pollution? As the light fades, the city’s lights appear like scattered jewels outside the window. I catch my reflection in the glass. Is Rig okay? Is he warming up or sitting somewhere, wondering how bad it’s going to be tonight? The thought makes me feel queasy. I turn to look at the little old ladies.

“They’re fast asleep,” I say.

“Just as well,” Marni says, looking out at the neighborhood we’re heading into. “Hon, we live in a hole of a town, but this is worse. Everything’s boarded up and covered in graffiti.” She huffs and waves a hand at me. “Anyway, look at my phone. Apparently, someone named Karl will meet us close to Kensington Station on the corner of East 115th Street and South Cottage Grove Avenue.”

“Ooo! This is like an episode of Chicago P.D.,” Marge pipes up from the back, and I glance in the mirror at her. She nudges Agnes, who wakes with a start. “Those cop shows are gonna come in handy, after all.”

Sure enough, when we drive under the underpass near the station, it does look like a scene from a cop show. Two derelict buildings loom over the intersection as Marni pulls up to the curb. We peer out the windows, but the dark streets are poorly lit. No one is hanging around waiting to pass on a message. A shiver runs down my spine.

“I don’t like sitting in the dark with three little old ladies in a car. It’s like I’ve got a big white target painted on my roof,” Marni says like she read my mind.

As the last word exits her mouth, a man appears from nowhere at her window and raps on it, and we all jump.

“Jesus Christ,” June says, pressing her hand into her chest.

Marni starts to wind her window down, and I’m just wondering whether that’s a safe thing to do, when I feel a hand on my elbow and something presses into my palm. When I look down, Marge has pushed a pepper spray into my hand. The man says: