Wrong Neighborhood: Two Short Stories



  Wrong Neighborhood: Two Short Stories

  by Sarah Parker Wolf

  Copyright 2014 Sarah Parker Wolf

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  Table of Contents

  OnCamera

  Moving Day

  About Sarah Parker Wolf

  Connect with Sarah Parker Wolf

  On Camera

  I should have known better. I did know better. But I was taken, swept up, rapt from the very beginning. My instinct is to tell you that she was like a car crash – something I couldn’t keep my eyes off even though I knew it wasn’t a good idea to take a closer look. But that wouldn’t be giving you the whole picture. She was more than that. She was a motorcycle. Not a low, rumbling, ageless Harley. No, she was a crotchrocket, excuse the expression, all polished and lacquered on the outside, but inside, full of speed and ambition and completely irresistible to an average guy like me.

  Her name was Stacy Sterling, at least that’s what she told me. Now after replaying the whole ordeal in my mind, I’m inclined not to believe her. But three days ago, she could have introduced herself as Marilyn Monroe and I would have nodded and smiled, hoping she didn’t notice my crooked bottom teeth. It seems like stupid stuff like that would have mattered to her.

  We met on a Friday night at McIntyre’s Pub. I was out with my buddies after work, tossing back a few and I saw her come in. Thick blond hair, sun-kissed skin, a business suit that showed too much cleavage and way too much leg for 9 to 5. She allowed me to buy her a drink and she talked about her dreams. No, that word doesn’t cover it either. She talked to me about her relentless ambition to be a television reporter. “Major market,” she said, “The big time.” Between sips, she schooled me in the art of getting noticed by the powers that be and then confided in me that she’d just moved to Chicago from rural Indiana, assuring me several times that she was no hick.

  I honestly didn’t care. I also didn’t care that she didn’t ask my name for the first thirty minutes we were talking. I just listened. I was happy to listen like she was the only one in the room, because to see her, to hear her voice sparkle above the din of fifty other people complaining about their work and their lives, it was magic. She had magic in her. Her dream, unlike the hopes of the rest of us, was bound to come true. I could see it.

  Somehow I had talked her into seeing me the next day. Not my preference, but after she declined to come to my place for another drink, I was happy with a date. I met her by Lincoln Park Zoo. I wore jeans and a sweater, gym shoes, and felt remarkably underdressed. She wasn’t quite as done up as the night before but her hair was styled, her makeup in full effect. She wore beige dress pants, and a green sweater with a kind of fuzzy scarf around her neck that brought out the olive tones in her eyes. When I saw her, I walked toward her, all dry-mouthed and butterflies and she kissed me, right there in front of everyone. Right in front of parents hauling their children by the hand and old couples shuffling along the walking path. It surprised me, but not as much as her next move.

  She took my hand and placed a digital video camera in my palm.

  “Don’t worry, you just point and shoot,” she said. “The microphone is built in so you’ll have to stand relatively close to catch me. And stand out of the wind. We’ll be outside today so the light shouldn’t be too much of a problem. I can always edit when I get home.”

  I just stood there, with my mouth open I’d guess, but she walked past me and onto the bike path going north, away from the zoo. I trailed like a puppy needing a home. After about ten minutes, she finally broke from the path, slipped off her heels and jogged toward the water. It was late October and the wind was chilly to say the least, but I followed her, camera in hand, sand slipping into my chucks. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to shoot.

  She stopped a few yards from the shoreline near some pop cans and cigarette butts that had been left in the sand. “Perfect,” she said and arranged me a few feet north of her. I have to give her credit, the microphone was out of the wind, and her hair was blowing beautifully off her face like in a fashion magazine.

  “Roll camera” she said and looked seriously and thoughtfully into the lens. The magic returned. As I looked at the monitor screen, her eyes read me, looked into me, let me know that she knew me and that her story would be important to me. She was amazing. All her attention, the concern in her eyes, the perfect curve of her mouth, she was both professional and sexy at the same time. It took me a few seconds to register what she was even saying.

  She was giving a report of course, on the state of Chicago beaches, spouting off facts about hypodermic needles and e coli bacteria. I knew she was finished when she said, “Stacy Sterling, Chicago.”

  She sliced a finger across her throat and said, “cut.” I pushed stop and handed her the camera.

  “You’re good,” I said. “Are these audition tapes you’re making?”

  “Every time I get a chance. Usually Saturdays.”

  She walked back to the litter with the camera and took close-ups of the cigarettes and the cans then took my hand as we walked back to the bike path.

  That afternoon, as we lay twisted and naked in my bed, I combed my fingers through her hair. “Stacy, you’re going to be famous someday. That was extremely impressive – the video I mean.”

  “I know. And thank you. It’s just…” She propped herself up on her elbow and gave me those concerned green eyes. “I need a good story. I need to attract attention to my video. Environmental concerns are good, but it’s been done.” She collapsed back on the bed, tears rolling down her cheeks. The sight of her crying tore at me. I had met her only last night and I wanted more than anything in the world for her to get that story.

  “I’m just another schmuck who majored in business,” I said. “I wish I did something important. I wish I knew somebody important. I wish I could get you that story.”

  She sighed, sat up and pulled on her panties and started to fasten her bra – black with pink lace.

  I sat up. “Where are you going? It’s only 11.”

  She half-smiled, the concerned eyes sucking out my soul. “I have to get home. I have to edit and see if there is anything I can pull from what we shot today. You wouldn’t want me to give up my dream, would you?”

  She kissed me full out and I thought my heart would never slow down. “Please stay.”

  “Can’t. I have to find that story of a lifetime.” She slipped her sweater back on and kissed me again.

  When I came up for breath, dizzy from the encounter, I couldn’t think straight. “What if I could find that story for you?”

  She laughed and caressed by bare chest. “It’s okay. You just said you don’t do anything interesting. I know you would if you could. I had fun.” She got up but I caught her arm.

  “I think I know somebody who could help you find that story.”

  She turned and looked, her eyes intense, questioning, more than hopeful. I was stumped momentarily. I really am just a working schmuck. I did know one guy, if I could actually get away with saying that I knew him. He was on the slow-pitch softball team I played with during the summer. I filled in on the team four or five times when my buddy Brian was traveling. I didn’t even remember his first name, but right now that didn’t matter. I refocused my attention.

  “He’s a detective. Chicago PD on the west side. Hardcore stuff. I could get you a ri
de-along.” I nearly panicked from the outright lie, but she flung herself across the bed and my little nirvana replaced my Catholic guilt immediately. It wasn’t until about 3am when I got up to take a pee that I had remembered what I promised. Letting down a girl like Stacy was not an option or I’d be as gone to her as yesterday’s news.

  She kissed me goodbye early Sunday morning with the notion that we would meet for lunch on Monday to work out the details. As the door clicked shut, I immediately ran for my cell and called Brian, begging for information about the guy. Brian gave it up easily, but warned me that Detective Marcus Victor took his job seriously. I told him about Stacy and how her job was her life. He just wished me luck.

  I called Detective Victor first thing Monday morning. I wanted to avoid pissing him off by interrupting his weekend. When he answered, he sounded busy, but professional enough. He said he would be happy to get us set up with a patrol but not with him. The people he dealt with were too rough, too dangerous. He said he knew a guy from another ball team who was a cop out in Hinsdale. He gave me his name and I said I’d give him a call. So I did.

  Done. I did it. I got her the ride-along. Now, I just had to put my hands together and send a few words upstairs that a story, her story, would be out there waiting for us, in suburban Hinsdale.

  “No, no, no.” Stacy actually sobbed when I told her. And they were definitely not tears of joy. “You promised. I can’t get a story with a patrol cop in fucking Hinsdale.” The curse word sounded ugly coming from her perfect mouth. “I told the CBS affiliate I would be dropping something off in the morning. How can you do this to me?”

  It was not the reaction I had planned. Now she was gasping for air, hyperventilating – good god, right in the middle of Bennigan’s. “Stacy, Stacy.” I patted her hand. “Stacy, look, I know what station Detective Victor works out of. Maybe if we drive over there and you explain the situation... Maybe he’ll reconsider when he hears it from you. You’re much better in front of people than I am.” It was like someone else was talking but hell, I knew coming through for her was the only way she was going to walk out that door with me.

  She dabbed her eyes and caught her breath. “Excellent idea.” She shouldered her purse and headed for the door, not even waiting as I left money for the check. I jogged after her and we met at my car.

  I took the Eisenhower out of downtown and the midday traffic was slower than usual. The sky was grey with a heavy mist falling. The weather did nothing for the scenery. Looking around at run-down, grafittied buildings in the gloom, I began a mental tug of war with myself between the practicality of calling off this farce and the lingering memory of Stacy in her underthings. Stacy, practicing her intros and outros, fixed her lipstick in the visor mirror and gave directions from the GPS on her phone. Clearly, there was no hesitation on her part.

  We pulled in the parking area and she grabbed an umbrella from her purse and jumped out, smiling and winking at me. “Stay here. I’ll take care of this.” I was content with the order. I wanted to stay dry and I didn’t want to be there when he told her no to her face.

  Five short minutes later, the door opened and Stacy got back in the car, carefully laying the closed umbrella at her feet. She said nothing but turned the rearview in her direction and stared for a couple of minutes. Finally she turned it back and said, “Follow him.”

  “Follow who?”

  “Victor, you asshole. Follow him, but not too close.”

  Again, I should have known better. I like to think I was under some magic power. That she was a beautiful witch who had sucked my brain out with her kisses. So, I followed him, hanging back. Luckily my car is a 1998 Buick that I bought off my dad. It’s drab and old and no one paid any attention to it. We drove up a few blocks and my heart did a nosedive into my stomach. I didn’t know where we were and I was pretty sure I never wanted to find out.

  “Pull over here. He just pulled into that alley.”

  “He said this was okay?”

  “Just pull over here and don’t be a pussy.”

  I pulled over and before I could even shift into park, Stacy had gotten out of the car and was flat-backed against the building, her head craned slightly around the corner, her hair dampening and clinging to her cheeks. I crouched and ran around the back of the car like I’d seen Kiefer Sutherland do on 24. I was next to her, back to the wall.

  “He’s parked in there. Something must be up. There’s a dumpster about fifteen yards in. Stay low; stay quiet. Follow me.”

  I didn’t want to follow her, but I didn’t want to be alone in the car either. That sounds cowardly I know, but I was in way over my head here. I’m a finance guy for crissake. We crouched and crawled until we were beside the blue beast. There were piles of garbage bags on both sides. I figured they were good cover, mostly from the rain, but I know Stacy thought they were blocking her view. She carefully laid her purse on the ground and pulled out the camera I had used on Saturday. She handed it to me and then pulled out another one. It was small but looked expensive with a fancy longer lens and small microphone that she shielded temporarily with the scarf around her neck. She raised her palm to my face and mouthed, “Stay here and film me.” She pointed at herself. Then she crawled over the bags and into the small space between the brick side of the building and the dumpster. She was agile and small and moved silently. She placed her camera between two bags where apparently there was a view and began to whisper. I had never heard a whisper like that before. If I hadn’t known it was her commenting into her microphone, I would have sworn it was the wind or the rain tapping on the eaves.

  I moved as silently as I could and wedged myself amongst the piles of bags. It reminded me of the forts we made as kids and I huddled down trying to keep the rain off the lens. It reeked to high heaven, but it was cover. As best I could manage, I kept my camera on her, not that there was much to see. Just beautiful Stacy amongst the leaky, smelly trash of Chicago, but I did my part.

  The fine rain and the intermittent staccato of Stacy’s voice lulled me into a trance until I heard a door opening and then footsteps coming from the other side of the alley. The door shut and then a car door opened and shut, presumably that of Detective Victor.

  I nestled myself deeper between the garbage bags, my adrenalin pumping. I couldn’t see a damn thing but my fight or flight was telling me to hide. There was some fumbling then Victor’s voice as I remembered on the phone, medium tone, somewhat stuffy. “It’s all there,” he said. There was a rustle.

  The other guy had a deep voice. “You won’t mind then if I look.”

  “Just make it quick.”

  I could see Stacy tense up. She was excited. Something was happening – something I couldn’t see. She whispered more and I was happy for her. She was getting her story – so happy in fact that I didn’t see it until it had almost reached her foot. I had been busy burying myself in bags, letting just the lens of my camera peek out, smiling at the thought of my reward for all of this. But there it was. It wasn’t a huge rat – probably average for a city dumpster but my stomach turned. I didn’t want to startle Stacy. She was still; maybe it would pass her by, not take any notice. But it did take notice. Stacy, to her credit, didn’t call out, she just kicked out her foot, but the momentum pushed her forward just enough to topple the bags in front of her.

  I heard the shot. I heard her sharp inhalation. Both were loud and I huddled under those godawful bags like a baby. Then a second shot, further away. Footsteps came near and a few bags were kicked around. The rustling stopped and then someone was running away.

  After a minute or two, I opened my eyes and peeked through the lens of my camera. It was still filming, filming Stacy laying there, blood oozing from her chest. The shooter must have turned her over but it would all be on the camera. I considered checking for a pulse, or calling 911 but I just waited, ten minutes, fifteen minutes. When I heard no sound, I pushed out of my rotten womb. I walked around the dumpster, still partially hidden by the grey,
uninviting afternoon. In front of me was Victor’s body, lying in a puddle with a bullet in his head. I came around the corner of the dumpster and took a last look at Stacy. I knelt down on the wet, broken concrete and kissed her lips. Then, I reached under the garbage bag that lay beneath her, careful to not move her body and smiled when I felt what I was searching for. I pulled her camera out and put it in my coat pocket, my opposite pocket now holding my camera. Then I leaned in and whispered in a voice as soft as a drizzle of rain, “Stacy, you did it. You’re going to be on television. You will be on the nightly news.”

  My heart didn’t pound on the way to the car. I think it was shock or maybe I was relieved that Stacy was no longer occupying every thought I had. I drove home, showered, dressed and looked up the address of CBS in Chicago. I took the redline to a bike messenger service in the South loop, one I knew I’d seen deliver things to the office from time to time. I sent the cameras in a small box. No note. Then I went home and waited. There was nothing at five or six. That would have been too soon. But at ten, she was the lead story. Stacy was breaking news. Her beautiful features graced my television, her voice like a mist of rain. Stacy Sterling, Chicago.

  Moving Day

  “What the hell is that?” One, two, three shoves to her shoulder. “Marce, what the hell was that?”

  Life slowly erupted from the opposite side of the bed as Marcy Crawford rolled onto her back. She had heard it too, but it didn’t stop her from throwing a look of contempt at her husband Tom. “What time is it?”

  “4 o’clock. What the hell is that?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s rumbly. Go check it out, would ya?” she rolled back over. Damn neighbors. By the time she got back to sleep, she’d have forty-five minutes maybe an hour before they had to get up and start the day.

  Tom kicked the covers from his feet and tiptoed down the stairs as if he didn’t want whatever was outside to hear him coming.

  Marcy kept her eyes closed, in denial that she was indeed awake. About five minutes later, Tom came back into the room and went straight to the windows at the front of the house.