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I knocked brusquely on the unit Marek claimed to live at, though I didn’t have high hopes.
Happily, a chain slid on the other side, followed by a series of locks turning.
“The fuck you want?” A guy, not much older than Marek, glared out at me through a crack in the door.
“Is Marek here?”
“You a cop?”
“Does it matter?”
“Fuck off, man.” He slammed the door closed. Before he could secure any of the locks, I kicked it open again. The man swore loudly and stumbled back.
I rushed inside and grabbed him by the back of his neck. Kicking his feet out beneath him, I slammed him face-first into the ground and bent one arm behind his back. Pushing upward, I put as much strain on his joints as I could, only stopping once he quit screaming and managed to spit out actual words.
“Fuck, man! What do you want?!” he yelled. Blood dripped from his nose and he squirmed beneath me, but I didn’t let go.
“Where is Marek?” I asked calmly.
“Bar about ten blocks that way,” he grunted, pointing wildly with his free hand. “Called the Cow Shed.”
“Thank you. That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” I released him and stood, straightening my vest as I took stock of the tiny apartment.
Much like the rest of the building, it was old and falling apart, held together with hardly more than a prayer. Someone had turned the couch into a bed. On the opposite side of the room, an actual mattress was shoved into one corner. A garment bag hung from a nail in the wall nearby while a stack of black and white clothes sat on top of a small table, a pile of books on the floor beneath it.
It was the books that caught my attention.
I made my way over to them and crouched, touching one of the bent covers. They were all curled, the same way Marek folded his books. The one on President Garfield was sitting right there, along with biographies of Abraham Lincoln, Dolly Parton, Oprah, and someone named Dave Thomas.
Rising slowly, I ran my hand over the black sweater on top of the small pile and studied the mattress on the floor. It was half the size of my bed, designed for a single person. He didn’t even have proper bedding. A wrinkled flat sheet covered the thing, but there was no blanket and only a thin lump that could barely be called a pillow. It was clearly where Marek slept, as his belongings were in close proximity. But… why?
I didn’t understand anything that I was seeing. Even though he hadn’t been at Delirium long, he was at Dalton’s long enough to not live in a place likethis. Plus, whatever he made dealing. Why did he live in such squalor when he had money?
“How long has he lived here?” I asked Marek’s bleeding roommate.
The man had pushed himself into a sitting position, holding his nose as blood gushed between his fingers. “I don’t know, man. Couple weeks? Said he got evicted from the last place. Had nowhere to go.”
“And this was all he brought?”
“Whatever fits in a backpack, in case he’s gotta make a run for it.”
“A run from what?”
“Ask him. I don’t fucking know.”
Shaking my head at his wealth of information, I took some cash out of my wallet and dropped it into his lap on the way out.
It wasn’t that hard to find the bar the man had been referring to. We were there within minutes. Spying Marek’s sport bike in one of the alleys, Anton circled the block and double-parked in front of the establishment.
“I’ll wait here,” he said, assuming his post outside the car and sizing up everyone who passed by.
Walking inside, I appraised the interior much the same way I had Marek’s apartment, comparing it to the man I’d come to know, however briefly. They didn’t suit one another. This place was utterly beneath him. Marek was rough around the edges in the same way an uncut diamond was. He needed someone who could look past that, someone who would take their time revealing each complicated facet and make them shine. As much as I appreciated the nod to history, he wouldneverget anything good from some dive bar named in honor of the cow wrongfully accused of starting the Great Chicago Fire.
Marek was behind the bar with his back turned to me as I approached, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the shelf. Studying him from behind, I noted he was in black jeans and a white long-sleeve t-shirt. They were a step down from the clothes I’d seen him in previously, the ones that were probably hanging in the garment bag, along with the suit jacket he wore to his interview with me. Given the lowbrow environment, the clothing choice wasn’t a surprise but it still seemed so… unlike him.
I leaned against the bar, propping one foot on the brass footrest. On closer inspection of the bar top, I regretted letting my emerald suit come in contact with it.
“Be with you in a—” Marek glanced up from the shot he was pouring and practically slammed the bottle down. “What the fuck doyouwant?”
