As the Wicked Watch(108)

“Wow, really? All that’s going on over there?” I asked her.

“It looks better on the inside,” she said. “Well, not by much. A friend of mine lives over there.”

“Oh, so people live there? It’s not a commercial building?” I asked.

“It’s kinda both,” she said. “That’s what it’s for. Most artists just starting out can’t afford to pay rent for a studio and an apartment.”

“Oh.”

“Can you excuse me for a minute? I’ve got to get something from the back,” she said.

“Sure.”

Now it made sense why Joey couldn’t find an apartment or house address for Terrence and Brent. They probably lived there, at least part time, and stayed with family or “girlfriends” the rest.

Joey would be furious with me if he knew I was this close.

Just as I began to reconsider the wisdom in coming here, a bluish-purplish car pulled up in front of the building. I hopped down off the barstool and stood by the window to get a better view. Two teenage girls and an older woman got out of the car. The driver, a man, repositioned the vehicle closer to the curb and was just getting out of the car when a CTA bus pulled up and stopped right in front of the Python.

“Damn it!” I said out loud.

“Everything okay?” the bartender asked.

“Yeah,” I said, “I just remembered I’m supposed to be somewhere. Let me take care of this,” reaching for my wallet to hand over my credit card.

Laughing at my credit card over cash, she said, “Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house. The fee for the credit card charge is more than the beer.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

By the time I’d turned back around, the bus had pulled away, but the occupants of the car were gone. I left the Python and walked down to the traffic light to cross Racine Avenue. My phone vibrated in my coat pocket.

“Joey.”

“Hey, I got your text. Who confirmed it?”

I had to think for a moment, I was so preoccupied with the reconnaissance.

“The driver. Yes. This kid at Masey’s school, a football player named Demetrius Turner,” I said.

“D-Turn?” he asked.

“You’ve heard of him?”

“Yeah, he’s a big deal in high school football right now,” Joey said.

Chicago is a big city, but the degree of separation between its residents made it socially the size of Mayberry.

“How did you—” he started to ask.

“It’s a long story, but check this out. I think Terrence is back.”

“Back where?”

“His office, or should I say his studio. I think they live there part time. A bartender across the street told me it was an artists’ loft.”

“Where are you right now? You sound out of breath.”

“I’m walking up Racine. Can you meet me over here? I think that was him that I just saw pull up in front of the building accompanied by three women. Hold on.”

I pulled the hood of my jacket over my head to conceal my face. “There’s a purplish car sitting out front.” I walked past the car discreetly and gazed down at the tires. “The car’s missing a rim! It’s him! I think it’s him, Joey!”

“All right. Stay put. I’m all the way out in Avondale. It’ll take me a half hour to get there even with my emergency lights on,” Joey said. “Wait for me. I’ll hit up the North Precinct to send a squad car.”

“Okay,” I said.

I was never good at waiting. What was Terrence going to do to me in front of three witnesses? I had to get in that studio. I couldn’t rely on the North Precinct or Joey to make it in time before Terrence left again.

I pulled out my cell phone and drafted a text to Joey, I’M GOING IN, but didn’t send it. I sized up the building. A scaffold snaked up the facade and a two-by-four hung conspicuously over the front entryway. I opened the door and walked into a small lobby with black-and-white-tiled flooring. To my left was a directory with long-ago varnished brass buttons and the names of studios and individuals handwritten on slips of paper crammed to fit into the narrow slats. Not one of them read Mad Cash Talent Management.

Like a lot of old buildings, this one had that putrid sewer stench, a combination of sour drains and rotten eggs. The building was eerily quiet, making my heels sound like firecrackers as I walked across the tiled floor.

Ding!

A narrow elevator opened up at the end of the hall. I put my head down and drew my neck back into the hoodie like a turtle retracting into its shell. Through my periphery I saw that a White man with a scraggly beard and matted dreadlocks that were holding on to his stringy hair for dear life had stepped out of the elevator. He paid me no mind and disappeared down a staircase at the other end of the hall. I turned around and followed him but went up instead. The steps creaked so loudly, they sounded like they were in pain, threatening to prematurely announce my arrival. By the time I got to the second floor and reached into my purse to find my keys to form a weapon, I could hear music and the immature musings of teenage girls, then footsteps that shook the ancient wooden floor like an earthquake. A woman who looked to be around my age emerged from around the corner. I apprehensively kept walking, and when we were about to pass each other, she said, “Hi.”