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Her lips thin and she spits out, “I don’t need your help. I can take care of myself.”
Cress grabs Micki’s arm and makes her look into her eyes. “That’s what I thought last year and look what happened. JL can arrange this. If nothing happens, great. But if something goes down, you’ll be glad to have someone around.”
She hisses. “I need to make the right impression at work. Not just to make partner. How will it look if I come in every day with my bodyguard? Like a liability, that’s what. So, no.”
“We can have guys outside the building.” I fold my arms and shoot some visual arrows.
“You think he couldn’t elude them around the Aon Building?” Her mocking expression is like a red cape to a bull.
I open my mouth to argue when a guitar riff warns the band has come in. They warm up. We hustle to grab our stuff and find seats in the main room. We snag some stools right under the noses of a group of wannabe tough guys. They try to move in, but one bouncer makes an appearance, and they back off.
People shoulder to shoulder press in. Max and I fight through, waving to the emcee to add our names on the list while Cress and Micki guard our seats. He nods at our choices and notes that we will do duets. Numbers six and seven. Not too bad. The earlier songs should warm up the crowd, but not to where the audience is jaded by a long evening of singing.
“Anyone famous coming in?” I ask. “My girlfriend is hoping for a celeb or two.”
“Maybe. It’s not like they call and tell us. But I heard Bill Murray might be in town. He’s known to drop in.”
The owner’s been threading his way around through the crowd and is now standing near us. I point him out. “Too bad the Blackhawks are playing away. I heard Coach Q sang here a couple of years ago,” Cress says.
“Quenneville? Yeah, he was a hit singing ‘Sweet Caroline.’ But the Hawks don’t hang out here much anymore. All high-end steak houses these days.”
“That’s too bad. These ladies are big hockey fans.” I clap a hand on his shoulder. “If someone should come in, could you give us a high sign?”
He looks over at Micki’s and Cress’ eager faces.
“I’ll see what I can do. No one calls to tell us they’re dropping by. Unless it’s the President. We don’t clear the room, but we limit the numbers.”
With a riff on the snare and crashing cymbals, the band plays Guns ’n Roses “Welcome to the Jungle,” and even shouting would be useless. By now, the crowd presses together with no space to fit in anyone else. At least that’s what we think until two enormous guys push in. Somehow, they squeeze into the crowd and belly up to the bar.
Once everyone has settled down, the emcee introduces the band members. Then the first performer is called up. The crowd is quiet as he sings The Proclaimers hit and I punch Max in the shoulder. He laughs as I hear Cress tell him he does it better.
Finally, Max and Cress sing “Chelsea Dagger,” the crowd sings along, and it’s our turn. The band plays the intro, and we start. The crowd claps as we make a few dance moves. As we near the end, a commotion starts near the door.
A monster in green stomps in. Can’t help but notice his lack of shoes. His feet leave wet blobs on the floor. Big body, in a coverall, potbelly hanging down. The hood covers the head. Features obscured by a full-face gas mask, goggles, and thick gloves. One gigantic hand pushes people out of the way as if they’re foam blocks.
“Hey, guy. It’s not Halloween,” someone in the crowd yells.
Seconds later, the guy is on the floor; the monster stepping on him as it moves forward.
Micki’s strained whisper sends icy trickles down my spine.
“It’s Sam.” Her eyes are wide, and she trembles against me.
“How can you tell? With that getup, it could be anyone.”
She crosses her eyes in disgust. “It was his Halloween costume last year.”
I’m convinced. But how did he find us? He should be in the hospital or in jail.
All the hubbub stops as the band tails off. In the sudden silence, we hear a high-pitched scream. “Tole you to move, din’t I?” sounds like “twww uh tah muv.” The swollen jaw makes him almost impossible to understand, and I’m not sure how he can even keep his tongue in the space.
A guy collapses to the floor, whimpering. Sam stomps up toward the stage and I try to head him off. He stops, his eyes moving toward Micki. Before I can react, he pulls something out of his pocket and throws it over his shoulder into the crowd. A blinding flash and unbearable noise, then smoke fills the space.
Calisse. Should have guessed from the ‘costume.’ My eyes sting and water from the chemical compound. I can’t see or hear anything, but I feel a big body rush past, dragging something…or someone.
Blindly, I reach out and feel cloth that reminds me of Micki’s outfit, but it slips through my fingers. Cursing, I stumble after, but I’ve no idea where I am in the room.
All hell breaks loose as cops swarm in. I’m wiping my streaming eyes and looking desperately for Micki. Max grabs me and pulls me toward the back room, where Cress hugs her. We’re all coughing from the smoke, but in here the air is clearer. Sound filters in.
