Chicago Stories: West of Western by Hamer Eileen

Author:Hamer, Eileen [Hamer, Eileen]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: illegal immigrant, dead body, Lobos, gangs, Ukrainian, Duques, death threat, agent, on the verge of change, cappuccino, murder mystery, artists, AIDS, architect, actors, Marine, gunfire
Publisher: Eileen Robertson Hamer
Published: 2012-01-11T04:30:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Bronko arrived at the break of dawn. Seraphy ignored the door bell as long as she could, dragging her duvet over her head and praying that whoever it was would go away. When the annoying buzz didn't stop and she was awake enough to remember that Mischa had promised to send Bronko early that morning, she dragged herself to the intercom to say she'd be down in a minute.

Which she was. Clothed, sort of, and awake, sort of.

Bronko, a slightly smaller and darker version of Mischa, smoked while he waited. When she fanned the cigarette smoke away from her face, he threw the cigarette stub down and stepped on it. He glanced up and saw her expression, picked up the butt and stowed it in his pocket.

A flurry of charades later, she realized the Ukrainian was trying to tell her the red pigment smeared over the image on the garage door was blood, not paint, and that he needed water to clean it off. She opened the garage door halfway so he could duck in and out, showed him the workshop sink, and ran upstairs to shower and dress.

When she came down again, Bronko had the door cleaned off and dry and was applying a primer whose sharp smell cancelled out the usual alley odors. Seraphy watched as he obliterated all traces of the naked figure. When the last bit of blood-smeared body was gone under rusty brown primer, she felt the tension go from her shoulders, realized a chill breeze had eaten through her sweatshirt while she watched, and turned to take her freezing body inside.

“All gone. Is good?” Bronko asked without looking away from the door.

“Is very good.”

Bronko nodded.“Today, make ready. Tonight, dry. Tomorrow I fin-ish.”

Back inside, refusing to think about Maria, Tito, Mario or any of the other problems that had landed on her lap since she moved in, Seraphy prowled around her kitchen. In three days her mother was coming for lunch, a lunch she had to prepare. In the hour before she had to leave for work, Seraphy flipped through cookbooks she had bought for occasions like this and never opened, but the things that looked doable weren't good enough, and the others too complicated. She had splurged on a gas stove, new Emeril pans, a Cuisinart food processor, and a Kitchen Aid mixer, but lacked any idea how to use them. The only skill she had was with her Italian espresso machine.

Grocery stores were no good. Eleanor could spot a frozen entrée a mile away. Same with delis. Late November was the wrong time for farmer's markets. Her refrigerator was nearly empty, no inspiration there. She slammed the door for the fourth time. Her mother would happily eat canned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, she knew that, but that wasn't good enough. Nothing she could think of was good enough.

Maybe she could make one of those Italian things her mom loved, a toss-together pasta primavera or something. On second thought, probably not. She suspected they weren't as easy as they looked on cooking shows.

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