The only man I'd ever loved was my ex-husband, Alan. When he left me, the pain was physical. Fifteen years later, I'm still wary about giving another person that much control over my heart again.
I eyed the half-finished drink in my hand. When Jacqueline Streng married Alan Daniels, she became Jack Daniels. Ever since, people have given me bottles of the stuff as gifts, each probably thinking they were being clever. I was forced to develop a taste for it, or else open up my own liquor store.
I gulped down the rest of the cocktail and was about to pour another, when I noticed my reflection in the door of the microwave. Seeing myself, sitting at my cheap dinette set with my sleepy red eyes and my limp hair, I looked like a finalist in the Miss Pathetic America Pageant.
Lots of cops I knew drank. They drank alone, drank on the job, drank when they woke up, and drank themselves to sleep. Law enforcement officers had a higher rate of alcoholism than any other profession. They also had the most divorces and the most suicides.
Divorce was the only statistic I cared to add to.
So I took off my blazer and my shoulder holster, replaced my skirt and blouse with a pair of jeans and a sweater, and went out to explore Chicago.
I lived on Addison and Racine, in a part of town called Wrigleyville. Rent was reasonable because it was impossible to park anywhere, especially since the Cubs started hosting night games. But I had a badge, so any fireplug or no-parking zone was fair game.
The neighborhood was loud and active, as expected. At any given time there were at least ten drinking-age college students per square foot, barhopping among the area's forty-plus watering holes. Great if you were in your twenties. But a mature woman like me was out of place in these trendy clubs, where techno music shook the foundations and drinks like "Screaming Orgasms" and "Blow Jobs" were the house specials.
Don had once dragged me into a bar called Egypto, where the only lighting in the place came from several hundred Lava lamps lining the walls. He bought me a drink called a "Slippery Dick." I told him the drink wasn't stiff enough. He didn't laugh. I should have known then.
So for a woman of my advanced years, Wrigleyville gave me only two real choices: the bar at the Westminster Hotel, or Joe's Pool Hall.
I'd only been at the Westminster once, out of curiosity. It turned out to be the kind of place where old people gather to die. The entertainment that night had been Dario, a small hairy man in suspenders with an electric accordion. He did a disco version of "When the Saints Go Marching In" while geriatrics polkaed furiously. I felt old, but not that old.
So I wound up at Joe's. They had good beer priced cheap and a dinginess that yuppies avoided. When I pushed open the door, I wasn't assaulted by industrial dance music. Just the clackety-clack of pool balls and an occasional laugh or swearword.
My kind of place.
I went up to the bar, resting my forearms on the cigarette-scarred counter and propping a foot on the brass railing. A fat bartender took my beer order, which set me back a whopping two bucks, with tip.
I pulled off the bottle and took in the surroundings, searching for an open table through the dim lighting and the cigar smoke.
All twelve were occupied, all but two with doubles action.
Of the singles, one was being worked by an elderly black man who was having a heated discussion with himself. At the other table was a bald guy in jeans and a white T-shirt. He was a few years my junior and looked vaguely familiar.
I picked up a cue from a nearby rack and walked over.
He was hunched over the table, his stick gliding on the solid bridge of his thumb and forefinger, eyeing the cue ball with intense concentration.
"This may sound like a come-on, but haven't I seen you somewhere before?"
He took the shot without looking up, banking the three ball into a side pocket. Then he righted himself and squinted at me, and I suddenly knew who he was.
"You arrested me six years ago."
That's one of the dangers of being a cop. People you think you remember from high school turn out to be felons.
"Phineas Troutt, right? Tough to forget a name like that."
He nodded.
"And your name had something to do with booze. Detective Jose Cuervo?"
His face was blank, and I couldn't tell if he was joking or not.
"Jack Daniels. I'm a lieutenant now."
I noted his body language. His blue eyes were steady, and he held himself in a relaxed stance. I didn't feel threatened by him, but at the same time I was aware I'd left my gun at home.
"You had brown hair before," I said. "Long, in a ponytail."
"Chemo. Pancreatic cancer." He pointed his chin at my cue. "Can you use that thing, or do you hold it for some Freudian reason?"
That seemed like a challenge to me, and I was feeling a bit reckless. I recalled the bust vividly, because it had been the easiest arrest of my career. It had been an 818 -- gang fight in progress. When we arrived on the scene, Phineas dropped to his knees and laced his hands behind his head without even being asked. Strewn around him were four unconscious gang-bangers in need of medical attention. Phin claimed they jumped him, but since he was the only one without anything broken, we had to bring him in.
"Loser racks and buys the beers."
"Fair enough."
We played eight ball, calling shots, putting the eight in the last pocket called. He beat me an average of two games to one, so I wound up paying for most of the games and buying most of the drinks. We hardly talked, but the silence was companionable, and the competition was good-natured.
By the eighth game, the alcohol was starting to affect me, so I switched to diet cola. Phin, as he preferred to be called, stuck with beer, and it didn't seem to affect him at all. Even after I'd sobered up, he continued to whup my butt.
I liked it that way; it made me play better.
Day became night, and Joe's began to fill up. Lines formed at all the tables, forcing us to relinquish ours.
I thought about asking Phin if he wanted to get a cup of coffee, but it sounded too much like a date, and I didn't want to give the wrong impression. Instead, I offered my hand.
"Thanks for the games."
His grip was warm, dry.
"Thank you, Lieutenant. It's nice to have some quality competition. Maybe we'll have a chance to do this again?"
I smiled. "Damn right. Bring your wallet, because next time you'll be buying most of the beers."
He smiled, briefly, and we went our separate ways. I made a mental note to check outstanding warrants on him. If he was wanted for something, I wasn't quite sure what I would do. I liked the guy, even if he did have a rap sheet. These days it was rare for me to like anything. Could I arrest a pool buddy, especially one dying of cancer?
Unfortunately, yes.
Once home, my bed was uncomfortable, my mind refused to relax, and the clock mocked me with each passing minute.
I was tired, exhausted actually, but thoughts kept flashing through my skull and wouldn't let me be. They weren't even profound thoughts; just random flotsam.
I tried counting backward from ten thousand. I tried deep breathing and relaxation exercises. I tried to imagine myself asleep. Nothing worked.
Time marched forward, taking me with it.
By the time I was feeling the slightest bit drowsy, the sun peeked in through the blinds and I had to get up to go to work.
I sat up and stretched my tired bones, and then went into my morning exercise routine. A hundred sit-ups, with a promise to do two hundred tomorrow. Twenty push-ups, with a similar promise. Thinking about doing some barbell curls and rejecting the idea because the barbell was hidden in the closet. And then off to the shower.
I'd survived my first night without Don, and it wasn't nearly as bad as it might have been. It could only get easier with time.
Then I saw his toothbrush on the bathroom sink and was depressed the rest of the day.