Ames had given Lew a book to read, A Confederacy of Dunces. It lay in his lap unopened.
The young man next to Lew scratched his cheek as he looked at the screen of his laptop computer and tapped in something. He was wearing headphones and humming a song Lew didn’t recognize. The image on his screen was the Warner Brothers black-and-white shield. Then came the words, Joan Crawford in Mildred Pierce. Lew closed his eyes, trying not to watch, trying not to say the words as the characters spoke.
He didn’t concentrate. He drifted through a dark sky. Lew was floating, tumbling in nothingness. Then sudden panic. He tried to open his eyes. Couldn’t.
“You okay?” the young man with the laptop said with concern.
Lew’s eyes opened. He was panting. The man was about thirty, with dark curly hair. He was looking at Lew with concern. His left eye was green. His right eye was too, but a darker, lifeless green. The right eye, he could see now, was definitely glass.
“Yes,” Lew said, sitting up. “Bad dream.”
“Sure?”
“I’m sure,” he said, but he wasn’t.
When Catherine was alive, he had dreaded flying, had held her hand tightly when they took off and landed, had silently cursed the madness of the other passengers who didn’t realize that the odds of their dying were higher than they thought, that they were in a machine, a very heavy machine, that could lose an engine, a single bolt, a stretch of wire, and they would all be dead.
When Catherine died, that had all changed. Flying presented no problems, no fears. The worst that could happen was that the plane would crash. He could live with that. He could die with that.
He must have slept, because the captain was announcing the beginning of the plane’s descent into Chicago’s Midway Airport. The young man closed his laptop, looked at Lew with his bad and good eye, and smiled. Lew nodded.
When the plane landed, Lew went to the exit, duffel-shaped carry-on in hand, between baggage claim 3 and 4. Outside Lew saw his sister’s husband, Franco, in his white Ford tow truck at the curb, looking across at Lew and holding up his hand.
Lew knew why he had panicked on the plane. He was going back to Chicago. Now that he was here, the panic threatened to return.
He climbed up into the passenger seat and put his bag on the floor. The interior of the truck smelled of grease and oil.
“Lewie,” Franco said, reaching over to hug him. “Lewie.”
“Franco,” Lew responded.
Lew had known Franco Massaccio since childhood. A barrel of a man with an easy grin. Genius didn’t run in Franco’s family, but hard work and loyalty did. Franco was loyal and a good husband to Lew’s sister Angela. He liked talking religion. He was a reasonably good Catholic. Lew considered himself a reasonably bad Episcopalian.
“You never get used to the smell, huh?” asked Franco. “‘I like the smell of the streets. It clears my lungs.’ You know who said that?”
“No.”
“Bobby De Niro in Once Upon a Time in America, ” said Franco. “An Italian playing a Jew. Well, listen, what are you gonna do? Right?”
“Right.”
“You have it?” Lew asked as Franco looked over his left shoulder and eased into the traffic.
“It’s at home,” Franco said.
Lew nodded and looked out the window. Standing at the curb was the one-eyed young man with the laptop. He was looking back at Lew.
“Friend or something?” asked Franco. “That guy back there?”
“Something, maybe,” Lew said, looking back.
The young man with one eye focused on the back of the tow truck. He was looking at the license plate number.
“Want to know about what’s going on in the family, Lewie?”
“Later,” Lew said, looking over his shoulder at the one-eyed man who got into a green Buick that pulled up to the curb.
“Want the radio?”
“No,” Lew said.
“Want to go into outer space in a Russian shuttle?”
He was looking ahead and grinning. Franco had a strange sense of humor, but at least he had one.
“Would I be alone?” Lew asked, looking at the familiar brick bungalows on Cicero Avenue.
“No, you’d have to go up with the national baton-twirling champion and an abusive long-retired astronaut.”
“I think I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself,” Franco said with a shrug. “Like a miniature Snickers bar left over from Halloween?”
“Yes.”
“Glove compartment,” he said.
Lew opened the glove compartment and small wrapped bars of Twix, Snickers, Milky Ways, and Twizzlers tumbled out. He leaned over to scoop them up and put them back.
“I’ll take a Twix,” Franco said.
Lew handed him one and took a Snickers for himself.
“Two things I gotta tell you,” Franco said, opening the candy wrapper and popping the mini-Twix bar in his mouth while Lew carefully tore the Snickers bag and took a bite.
“First,” he said. “Terri, Teresa, is a freshman at Northern Illinois. Doing great. You know that?”
“No.”
Teresa was Angela and Franco’s daughter.
“Political science,” he said.
The entrance to the Dan Ryan Expressway was right in front of the truck.
“Second, a car is following us,” Franco said calmly.
Lew didn’t turn around to look.
“Driver’s young, big, buzz cut,” said Franco. “Passenger is the one who was looking at you at the curb.”
Southwest had open seating. The one-eyed man had chosen to sit next to Lew.
They were on the expressway now.
“Want me to push them to the rail?” Franco said. “I’ll get out, yank ’em out of the car and find out what the hell they’re doing.”
“No,” Lew said. “But if you can get behind them I’ll get their license plate number.”
“This have something to do with Catherine?”
“I don’t know.”
Franco slowed and when the other car was no more than fifteen feet behind them, Franco pulled suddenly into the next lane cutting off an SUV. The driver of the Buick didn’t have Franco’s skill or experience. Franco cut across lanes, dropped back and then scooted right behind the Buick. Lew wrote the license plate number in his notebook.
“Okay,” said Lew.
Franco was grinning and shaking his head.
“I can’t believe this, Lewie. You’ve been here what, five, ten minutes and people are following you. Beneath that beat-down exterior, you are one piece of cake.”
“Thanks,” said Lew.
Franco picked up the cell phone from the charger on his dashboard and punched in two numbers.
“Rick,” Franco said into the phone. “How’s with you? Me too. Say, listen, can you run a plate for me and the driver’s license? Great.”
Franco looked at Lew who read the plate numbers. Franco repeated them to Rick.
“Got that?” Franco said. “Great. What you say we go for beef sandwiches at Fiocca’s for lunch next week? Name the day… okay. Wednesday at one. Make it fast on those numbers.”
He pushed a button on the phone and put it back on the dashboard.
“Now do we stop ’em?” asked Franco.
“Yes,” said Lew.
Franco grinned.
“Great to have you back, Lewie.”
Franco moved into the lane next to the Buick. Lew could see both the driver and the one-eyed man. They didn’t look back at Lew.
Franco checked the traffic behind him and moved the tow truck to within inches of the other car. The driver tried to move forward, but there was another slow-moving car in front of him. Franco gently eased the truck against the Buick at forty miles an hour. The other car started to lose control, regained it, and came to a stop against the rail. Franco parked ahead of the car, looked at Lew and said, “What do you want to know besides why they’re following us?”
“They’re following me, Franco.”
“Same difference. You, me. I’m fuckin’ offended.”
Franco was staring at the rearview mirror. The car parked behind him didn’t move. No doors opened.