The Undertaker

This line of reasoning wasn't getting me anywhere, besides, she was right, so was Gino. I got her into this and it was my responsibility to get her out. So, I settled down in the seat and drove. I remembered some of the map, so I doubled back the same way we came, driving down Canal until I found Archer, a busy diagonal that bisected Chinatown. I figured it should take me back to Cermack. That might take me east to State Street and the Dan Ryan. Once I found it, I could get my bearings. Hopefully, I could talk her out of the car at a bus stop and I could find the Dan Ryan and get the hell out of town.

At the red light at Archer and Cermack, I reached for the buttons on Parini's car radio. Unfortunately, all I found were jazz and easy listening stations. I was surprised the Chicago Mafia didn't have their own twenty-four hour all-Sinatra station or, “The Best of the Sopranos.” Sandy didn't wait. Her hand reached out and she punched Seek. This time, the radio stopped on a country and western station and I heard the mournful twang of a guitar. “Touch that button again and I'll break your finger,” she warned.

“Oh, come on. What's that? Billy-Bob singing about his pick-up truck?” I shook my head thinking State Street couldn't come fast enough. “Okay, but if I hear Achy-Breaky Heart, all bets are off.”

She tried to keep a straight face, but I saw it crack. “I suppose you can't line dance, either, can you?” she asked.

“Line dancing? What's an Italian almost-Polish girl from Chicago doing line dancing?”

“Trolling.”

I started to smile, but it quickly faded as I looked across Cermack Road and saw two gray sedans and a blue Ford LTD parked right in front of us in the parking lot of a Chinese import-export shop. Bent over a map spread across the hood of the LTD, was none other than Ralph McKinley Tinkerton and four of his goons. He didn't look very happy. The side of his face was badly bruised and his left hand was wrapped in a thick, white bandage. Jacket off, tie down, he waved his arms in the air as he chewed them out. He slammed his fist on the hood and I'm sure he left a dent.

“Get down!” I grabbed her neck and shoved her down on the car seat, her head landing in my lap.

“Talbott, I don't do that on a first date,” I heard her mumble.

“That guy Tinkerton? The one you think I'm paranoid about. Well, he's standing across the street,” I said as I slid lower, trying to hide behind the steering wheel.

“I want to see.” She pushed my hand away and raised her head enough to peek over the dashboard. “That's him?”

“Yeah, and Gino was right. Your smart mouth's going to get us both killed.”

I sat there holding my breath waiting for the light to change, hoping I might melt into the upholstery and vanish before Tinkerton looked our way, but that was wishful thinking. I watched him talking and yelling at the other men, but his cold gray eyes never stopped moving. They swept across the white Lincoln and moved on. Then, they stopped and tracked back. Tinkerton squinted in the bright sunlight. He frowned as he focused on the white Lincoln and I knew that was trouble. His eyes opened wide. Even from across the street, I felt the wave of hatred and anger wash over me like heat pouring out of the open door of a blast furnace. His arm shot up and he pointed a long accusing finger at me, mouth open wide, as he shouted to his men.

I didn't wait for the light to change. I pushed the accelerator to the floor, spun the steering wheel to the right, and laid rubber through the intersection. The Lincoln fishtailed out onto Cermack Road, but what the heck. They weren't my tires. I cut between two cars and got ahead of a delivery truck, putting as much distance as I could between Tinkerton and the Lincoln. With its big engine, it could outrun most things on the open road, including police cars and Tinkerton's LTD. In city traffic, it wallowed like an old barge. Still, if I could loose them before they even got started, then the size of the engine wouldn't matter.

“You said you know the city,” I shouted to her over the engine roar. “The Dan Ryan, it's up ahead, right?”

“Yeah, keep going straight, to State, then turn south, I guess.”

We raced across Wentworth Avenue. The road dropped away and the big car soared into a railroad underpass beyond. The Lincoln bottomed out on its axles and roared up the other side without skipping a beat. The traffic soon thickened again and I cut left, crossing the double yellow lines, using the westbound lanes to pass a pokey bus and a delivery van. I looked in the rear-view mirror and still couldn't see Tinkerton's cars, so I eased off the accelerator a tad. There was no reason to commit vehicular suicide, not yet anyway. Up ahead I saw a busy intersection with people walking around. The sign read State Street, so I swung the steering wheel and took the turn on two wheels. The car leveled out and we were on a broad, six-lane boulevard, racing south.