BLAME IT ON THE BLUE LINE

J. Rohr


It’s my experience that the blue line is cursed. That particular branch of the Chicago train system never fails to frustrate with novel ways of ruining a day. When lengthy delays due to mechanical failure get old, people always reinvigorate the curse. I’ll certainly never forget the biblical scholar hollering erotic revisions to scripture or the parkour ballerina ricocheting off seats, windows, and passengers. Although a graceful pinball, she knocked herself out twirling into a handrail, and I won’t lie; I laughed. That said, the blue line is one of the few ways to extend a vacation. 

Returning from O’Hare airport, taking the train into the city is the last stretch before being available again. Nothing to do except ride the rails, no phone exchange can alter the trajectory along an immutable track. As such, returning from a terrible working vacation in Seattle, I rode the blue line discretely sipping whiskey from a brown paper bag. Despite a successful assignment, restoring a Portuguese pipeline smuggling cocaine in frozen tuna, I had discovered a certain outlaw ennui of late. 

At the Jefferson Park stop, a beefy fellow in grease-stained navy coveralls climbed aboard. He carried a dented toolbox along with the weight of the world. Falling heavily into a nearby seat aslant from me, he rocked the whole car. Spying my camouflaged adult beverage, he opened his toolbox to produce a plastic pint of vodka. 

“Here’s to the end of a lousy day,” he said.

“I’ll drink to that, Ed,” replying as if I needed an excuse. 

“I know you?” he furrowed his brow. I pointed to an embroidered name patch on his coveralls. He nodded saying, “Duh. I tell ya, man. Some days I can’t even see the world, ya know?”

“Don’t beat yourself up. The world doesn’t always want to be seen.”

For two stops we drank together in silence. Halfway to the next, the train came to a shuddering halt. Moments later the conductor got on the P.A. to announce an indefinite delay. 

“Sonuvabitch,” Ed said. “That felt like the brakes. We could be here a while.”

“Then we should pace ourselves,” I said. “We don’t wanna run dry.”

“I got a couple reloads,” Ed said patting his toolbox. 

“Good to know.”

Quality company is hard to find, especially on public transportation. That’s partly because folks are conditioned not to socialize in such situations. While public masturbators, flat earthers, and vegans make a good case for silence on the CTA, knowing we might be stuck for dull lifeless hours inclined me to risk conversation. 

“This is a sour cherry on a shit sundae, lemme tell ya,” I said. 

“Soft serve from a diseased anus,” Ed chuckled. 

“I’m on the way back from the worst vacation ever,” I said. “About to board the plane, my boss calls, turns the whole occasion into a working weekend.”

“Oh, that’s bullshit,” Ed said taking a swig. “I’m my own boss, but customers are a nightmare.”

“Do tell.”

“I’m a mechanic, so everybody thinks I’m trying to screw ‘em,” Ed chuckled. “Probably should. Maybe then I’d finally make some money.”
“Do it,” I said. “The secret to shady business is doing what you can live with.”

“Spoken like someone with experience,” Ed said.

I smirked. Depression, misery, and hellacious fun mixed three shades of black that painted a future I ran toward without looking back. Decades of outlaw living, I’ve bedded bandit queens who broke my heart for the bounty on my head and spent a century on a nickel stint in stir. Shot, stabbed, and almost blown up yet hardly a complaint until lately. 

“Lemme just say this,” I said. “Crime is like any other job. All the bullshit you got; I got, plus the occasional worry about prison.”

Testing the premise we got to swapping stories. Nothing bonds like bitter recollections of bad bosses, heartbreaking beauties, and all the gold that slipped through fingers over the years. Some might consider it reckless since Ed could be a cop, but the way he kept confusing jail with prison like they’re the same thing told me he didn’t know enough about the outlaw life to be a friend of Alice Blue Gown. Maybe I just didn’t give a fuck about my own skin anymore. All I know is that a priest told me confession is good for the soul. And I figured venting with a stranger is like talking to God:  someone you never seen before and may never see again. Plus, I’m not gonna lie, there was a look in his eyes that made me feel special for the first time in too long. 

“You ever?” Ed made a finger-gun.

“Like before they?” I made a similar bang-bang gesture.

“Yeah.”

“Nah,” I said. “I’ve never been as bad as the worst, but I’m as good as the best. Not that you’d know it from the way anybody treats me.”

“Taken for granted?”

“That is exactly how I would put it,” I said taking a long pull on the bottle. I felt the edge of the world going out of focus, but I didn’t care. Let the blackout come as I carried on, “I mean, Shit Fountain in East Village would fuck-all.”

“Do I wanna know what that means?” Ed said. 

Rather than quote my semi-coherent elaboration, suffice it to say I told him about the Shit Fountain in Chicago’s East Village. Once a month, a courier with a case full of cash met with another individual who accepted this, shall we say tribute, to the current king of the mountain. Paid properly, the almighty deigned to allow our little crew to persist. 

“It’s a couple hundred grand,” I said. “But if I tried to take it, they’d put my head in a bucket, fill it with concrete then plunk me in the Great Lake.”

“What if you didn’t take it?”

“Then how would I get to have it?”

“When I gave it to you.”

“How did you get it?”

“Like a bushranger pillaging Australia,” Ed grinned. “Just call me Captain Moonlite.”

“Well, cap’n,” I said. “That still sounds like I’m missing something.”

“Just one burning detail,” Ed chuckled.

“What’s all this now?” I said, finding my bottle loathsomely empty.

“Hang on,” Ed fetched a fresh pint of vodka from his toolbox. Tossing it to me he said, “We have much to discuss.”

***

Alcohol has a way of warping time, expediting travel at the cost of memory. One reel missing, I arrived at the El Dorado tavern on the corner of Sedgwick and Eugenie. Looking at the awning covered entrance, I couldn’t help thinking what a difference the decades make. That dark wooden door used to seem like the entrance to the Emerald City, the main man inside a wizard with the power to grant wishes. 

Finishing a cigarette out front, I remembered limping my way here as a teenager. Twenty-two years ago, I walked out of Bari Foods on Grand Avenue with a sandwich in hand. Before I could even take a bite a cloud of bullets mowed me down. I woke up in the hospital alone. My folks were nowhere to be found, Irish clichés adrift on the whiskey river. Police didn’t expect much, so they asked little, especially since they got more from the seven different calibers doctors pulled out of me. Most of the week passed in isolation then a gaunt fellow arrived looking like a goth Gatsby.

He wore a black and gold pinstriped suit. The yellow lines shimmered like real metal. I’d come to find, unlike Elvis’s gold lamé, this king’s clothes were sporting tela aurea, that’s to say a core yarn of silk wrapped with high content real gold. 

He introduced himself as Winston Finch. Standing at the foot of my bed, he expressed condolences for my misfortune. Then he promised to pay the hospital bill. 

“Why?” I croaked, knowing there’s no free money. 

“Sometimes virtues need overt expression.”

“To remind yourself you have any? Virtues I mean.”

Something flashed in his eyes that would curdle the milk of human kindness. Then his face tightened into the vaguest hint of a smile. The pencil moustache across his lip suddenly seemed like a line no grin ever crossed.

“Associates of mine were cruising along Grand Avenue when they saw a fellow who needed to be addressed coming out of Bari Foods,” he said. “By the time they hooked around, he was climbing into a car with some very unpleasant people.”

“And harsh words started flying everywhere,” I said. 

He nodded.

“I don’t like it when innocent kids get harsh words they shouldn’t,” he said. 

I started laughing. The harsh words that riddled my body quickly cut off the chuckle. Grimacing in pain, I still managed to smirk.
“I’m not exactly innocent mister.”

“Do tell,” he said raising an eyebrow.

We chit chatted until a nurse chased him out. Before that, however, I confessed to some of the sweeter seven deadly sins. Exiting, he handed me a card with the address for the El Dorado tavern. 

“Come around when they let you go,” he said. “I may have work for you.”

Thinking I was about to start an underworld undergrad program, I left the hospital before any doctor gave the okay. Twenty-two years later, I stood in the rain wondering where the time went. It flew by so quick I must’ve been having fun. Yet, that entrance to the Emerald City now seemed like a black hole.

Taking a deep breath, I fell through the doors. Inside was a classy place paneled with dark wood. The kind of joint that made a person feel required to dress nicely even if they only came for a beer. Collared shirts and skirts sipping suds among suits paying forty bucks for John Barleycorn. All the while, in a back booth, Winston Finch sat like a king on a red leather throne. 

Shaking off the rain, I maneuvered through the crowd. Familiar faces waved. I waved back. 

As I flopped into Winston’s booth, he rose. Without a word or gesture, his majesty marched for the back office expecting me to follow. Groaning, I got to my feet. By the time I caught up he was already sitting behind the pedestal desk that held the secrets of his kingdom. On the inlaid leather top, a ginger loaf sat purring, dozing on important papers. The one-eyed orange cat known as Vee-Vee the pirate duchess growled softly as I took a seat.

“So, she still only prefers your company,” I remarked.

“Indeed,” Winston replied. “Although, you should know better than anyone that’s been beneficial.”

“Yeah.”

Imagine my delight, back in the day, when shortly after my arrival rumors of a rat arose. It all kicked off when a full proof plan to rob Jewelers Row resulted in five of Winston’s best getting arrested. Some swine whisperer herded pigs, who clogged the escape route. Having the suspicions of outlaws aimed at you is a lot like being under a hydraulic press. It may not descend quickly but it’s coming with a crushing force. Then I noticed one guy, Vince Lahn, had cuts all over his hands. Shredded mitts as if he tried to hold the spinning blade of a blender, or maybe picked up a feisty feline to look at any important papers she was snoozy on. 

When I called him out as the wobblin’ jaw that spilled the beans, I was just a scared kid trying to shift suspicion. But Vince panicked, which is a bad thing to do around paranoid people. Rottweiler Rutkowski dragged him into the basement; cracked him down there I don’t care to know how. Afterward, Winston drowned him upside down in a bucket of concrete and when it hardened sunk Vince in Lake Michigan. 

That said, I didn’t get all the details until later. I was too busy being praised as the ratcatcher.

“So, Ruairí,” Winston asked. “How was Seattle?”

“Productive,” I said. “But tiring.”

“These consulting assignments do seem to take it out of you lately.”

“This was supposed to be my vacation.”

“You certainly smell like you’ve been enjoying yourself.”

“Look,” I said. “I am very tired from dealing with the vile humanity that composes Pike Place Market.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Winston said.

“That place is nothing but fish fondling perverts, cutthroat smugglers, and idiot tourists.”

“I’m sorry you couldn’t have fun,” Winston said. “But our work isn’t always a barrel of laughs.”

“Don’t I know it.”

***

Being a criminal is a lot like working for NASA. Only idiots fire wildly into the sky hoping to shoot the moon. Preparation eats up days waiting for a window of opportunity where, if all goes well, success is out of this world. However, patience plays its own part.

After Seattle, weeks disappeared waiting for a launch date. I spent most of the time out in Libertyville, about an hour outside the city, practicing the tactical end. Once a week I’d return to El Dorado to relate our progress. 

On one such occasion, my phone kept buzzing as I drove in. A slew of emojis appeared courtesy of an unknown number. The boot, peach, and clinking beer mugs meant nothing to me. Shortly after came a golden dollar sign, thumbs up, and a book of matches.

I frowned. No one who knew me would be communicating through internet ideograms. I set the phone from Parkinson’s to silent. 
When I arrived at the El Dorado I found Winston in the back with Dove Szarnych. Although seventy-years-old, the latter looked like he just stepped out of a boxing match with the heavy weight champ. He showed no signs of pain, yet his bloody bruised face carried the stoic anguish of defeat.

Saskia Hartley entered carrying Kentucky relief. She was proof the glamourous don’t decay, they ripen. No one knew the hostess’s age, yet she’d been a part of the El Dorado since Winston took over. Her kindness made the place peaceful. 

Saskia gave Dove the bourbon treat. He thanked her with a nod. She patted him on the shoulder tenderly.

“This isn’t right,” she said.

“Agreed,” Winston said. “And why the hell aren’t you answering your phone?”

“I got it on silent,” I said.

“Were you driving in from Libertyville?” Saskia asked.

“Yeah,” I said. 

“Then he shouldn’t be on the phone anyway,” she said. “It’s not safe.”

“Nevertheless,” Winston said. 

I heard a low feline growl. Glancing over, I saw the pirate duchess perched on a floating shelf. Her disdainful gaze matched Winston’s tone. 

Pulling my phone out, I spotted four missed calls among fifty-three missed texts. The ringers all came from Winston, but every text belonged to the anonymous annoyance. 

“What the hell happened?” I asked.

Like a lot of guys, the serenity of retirement struck Dove Szarnych as more boring than delightful. He didn’t spend his life coffin dodging just to lay around idly waiting for death. So, out of respect for years of service, he got tasked with a part-time job. As an emeritus goon, he delivered the cash to the Shit Fountain. 

“I’m doin’ the drop off, as usual,” Dove said. “When this fat bear comes outta nowhere. Big motherfucker in a ski mask grabs the case only I don’t give it up. I don’t know how many times he hit me, but I don’t give it up.”

He lifted his hand, showing busted fingers in popsicle splints. Even unconscious, he held on to the case. Saskia’s eyes got watery then a simmering rage boiled the tears away. She opened her mouth to speak. Winston held up a hand.

“Fine,” Saskia strode out elegantly. “I’ll mind the El Dorado while you deal with the animals.”

Looking at me, Winston gestured towards Dove. Recognizing the call to action, I pulled over a chair. Me and the old timer went over the details of his violent encounter. The only thing he could really add was that the bear who dropped him wore a weird T-shirt. 

“Had this picture of dancing mice,” Dove shrugged. “Maybe some words, I dunno. It was faded, real old.”

“How many mice?” I asked.

“Three or four,” Dove said. “It was hard to count.”

“Anything else?” I asked. “Anything at all. Don’t wonder if it matters because it all does.”

“Bad music,” Dove said. “I kept hearing bad music. It sounded like screaming assholes who don’t know how to play.”

“Any idea what they were screaming about?”

“The plague?”

“Where was it coming from?” 

“This old Buick I saw cruisin’.”

“Did you see the driver?” I asked.

“Nah, just the car. I used to have the same ‘83 Park Avenue,” Dove sighed. “You only see those around junk shops and mechanics, loaners with two hundred thousand miles and begging for death.”

The whole time I questioned Dove my phone kept buzzing. When I finally went to deal with it, Winston snatched the thing out of my hand. He glanced at the screen, shook his head, and started furiously typing. 

“There,” he said tossing the phone back to me. “That’ll be the end of whatever gutter mush you’ve been sticking your dick in.”

I glanced at my phone. Winston had texted, “Fuck off whore.” Most likely he assumed the emojis equated to playful sexts. His guess as good as mine, maybe some black out gash my oyster destroyer stumbled in who wanted another go—a reply arrived.

About to check it, I heard Winston clear his throat. Pocketing the phone, I thanked Dove for everything he remembered. He nodded, still stoic yet looking a little less defeated. I got up. 

“This is your only priority,” Winston said.

The pirate duchess hissed in agreement. Threading a cigarette between my lips, I hurried to leave the El Dorado pausing only to stop by the hostess stand. Saskia stood scratching at her reservation book with a pen. The page tore. Swearing, she spiked the dry pen into a small trash bin beside her feet. 

“Fresh quill, milady?” I said, producing a scrawler. It featured advertising for a mechanic shop called Tune & Lube. I couldn’t remember ever having been there, though it seemed vaguely familiar.

“Thanks,” Saskia said.

I gave her a one-armed hug.

“I’m gonna fix this,” I whispered in her ear.

“You better,” she said, squeezing me back. 

“Have faith,” I said backing out the door. “See how fast I fixed your pen problem?”

Outside I fired the gasper. I felt my phone shuddering like an epileptic. Pulling it out, I found several texts. Every angry emoji burned onscreen until the sender eventually used actual words. The last one encapsulated the gist of them all reading, “FINE YOU MICK SHITHEAD!!! I’M KEEPING IT ALL AND PUTTING THE BURN ON YOU!!!”

I started to worry that meant I needed an STD test. However, despite something stirring in the back of my mind, there was no time to dwell on these texts. Instead, I headed for Exit.

***

People have a hard time admitting the limits of their knowledge. Yet, no one will spend all day punching nails into a wall as if using a hammer makes you look weak. In other words, I’ve never had a problem asking someone to tell me what I don’t know. 

Nestled in the industrial area between Lincoln Park and Bucktown is Exit. Located on North Avenue, the marquee of this dive proudly proclaims it Chicago’s original punk bar. Open 365 days a year until 4 a.m. since 1981, it’s been shelter for a lot of misfits. Sadly, over time, it’s become a tourist trap as people come to see the scene rather than be a part of it. Regardless, bartenders in the know reward regulars, old and new, with reduced charges, while sightseers sip overpriced garbage juice.

Before the door even opened, I could hear O’Leary’s Cow scream-singing, “Bring the fire! Bring the noise!”

My inner teen grinned as I surfed inside on a wave of nostalgia. The dark interior looked like a burned-out building repurposed as a booze dispenser. Graffiti covered the walls. Tube TVs hung precariously above the bar on barbed wire. Some showed cheap music videos matching the songs blasting from speakers, while others displayed a very old lady in lingerie in the back of a car peeing on the seats. The predictable assortment of leather, tattered jeans, and various spikes – hairdos and metal impalers – adorned many patrons. Ink skinned maniacs chugged hard alcohol from plastic cups before hooting along to songs like boiled owls. Meanwhile, khaki clad suburbanite tourists snickered, pointing at the beasts in the zoo. 

“Well, slap the brown off my butthole,” the bartender bellowed. 

She clambered over the bar to give me a hug, kicking tourists and regulars out of the way. Her giantess arms crushed me like a vice as she lifted me off the ground for a wild spin. Tossing me into a chair, she hopped back behind the bar. 

Producing an unlabeled milk jug, she poured two large shots of dubious looking pale liquid.

“Here’s a fine how do you do,” she said. 

We clinked. We drank. She laughed, the wonderful rusty chuckle of an old witch, as I contorted from the hit of Chicago moonshine. The gasoline and yard waste flavor infused with hints of whiskey sipped from a used ashtray—I had lost the acquired taste. It burned through me like Sherman on his way to the sea. 

“Oh, little bitch,” the bottle jockey poured another round. “You’re out of practice.”

“You’re the devil Belinda,” I quirked.

“Well, I sure as shit ain’t the virgin Mary,” she cackled then clutched one of the meat pears in her tight denim vest. “Or would you prefer something from my milk mops?”

“Sláinte,” I said. 

We drank again. The second one went smoother. 

“You got a look about you,” Belinda said eyeing me up and down. “I hope you ain’t a broken heart looking for a glass of beer.”
“No,” I said. “But sadly, I’m here on business.”

“Hey now, don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Have you ever heard of any punk bands that got something to do with dancing mice?”

“That is a head scratcher,” she said. 

When it came to music nobody could beat the encyclopedia in Belinda’s brain. She knew it all, across every genre. Everything about her once revolved around music. It carried her out the door at fifteen and almost set her in the sky. However, like so many shooting stars she didn’t have a clue how to hang on to the heavens. As such, Belinda came crashing back to Earth, settling in Chicago serving suds and sharing road stories. 

“Maybe they had songs about the plague?”

“You don’t mean rats, do ya?” Belinda asked. “Cuz that is ringing a bell.”

Gesturing for me to follow, she led to a wall plastered floor to ceiling with Polaroid pics. Some faded, some scarred beyond recognition. All belonged to various bands who’d performed at Exit over the years—the famous alongside the forgotten. After a few seconds of scanning, Belinda tapped a picture of four people sneering at the camera.

“Plague Rats,” Belinda said. “They used to have T-shirts with rats dancing in a circle. Shirts were more popular than the band.”

“They that bad?”

“Worse,” Belinda said. “They were mediocre. Nothing feeds a delusion like maybe.”

“So, they didn’t have a following?”

“Hardly,” Belinda laughed. “If you’re looking for somebody wearing that shirt, it’s someone from the band.”

I asked if she knew where to find them. Johnny Glock drank himself stupid at Exit then jumped off the nearby North Avenue bridge. Folks doubted he meant to kill himself, but he still drowned in the Chicago River. Oatis Washington got shot by Chicago cops for rolling through a stop sign while African American. Kenau died of an overdose.

“That just leaves Przybyła,” Belinda said. “Sweet kid. He once fixed my car real nice. I tell ya, being a mechanic was Ed’s future not being a bass player.”

That last bit struck a spark which ignited some oily rags. Certain lost moments in my mind became illuminated. Things began to make sense in a very unsettling way.

***

Our crew used to have a guy named Joey Bag ‘O’ Doughnuts. He acquired the nickname by always having a sack of Berlin wreaths in hand. One time Joey went to the wrong address for a robbery, but theirs not to reason why, he followed orders, bringing back everything of value he found inside. Joey returned with every kitty in a cat café. I always thought of him as a dumbass, but I suddenly developed empathy for the honest fool. 

I cooked some spoiled bacon to get Ed Przybyła’s last known address. One less crooked cop to call for favors, but I needed to keep things quiet. He pointed me to an address on Courtland Street in Logan Square. It didn’t take much to realize the place was empty. Even less effort to pick the lock.

Inside I found depression incarnate. The wedding photo on the mantle looked beautiful, but implications of divorce came from a veritable Saturn’s ring of snack crumbs and crushed beer cans circling a recliner. Bills on the kitchen table told tales of impending financial ruin. On the fridge I found a pic of a pristine muscle car, but no sign of it on the street or garage around back. I guessed he sold it, otherwise why ride the El?

I called Saskia. She read me the address off the pen I gave her. I hung up before she could ask why. Then I raced to Jefferson Park. 
Tune & Lube resided on Higgins Ave. Parking up the street, I got a .45 out of the glove box. Hoping I wouldn’t need it, I headed for Ed’s shop. 

It’s easy to break into a place when the front door is wide open. The whole inside reeked of gasoline. Puddles of the stuff dotted the interior as did several fuel cans. Mediocre punk rock blared from a portable cassette stereo. Out on the shop floor, Ed was crooning along while slopping burn juice from a jerrycan. Streetlights spilling through windows caused a surreal chiaroscuro inside the shop. Ed looked like a person divided by the light and the dark. Laughing, he flung the empty container across the room. 

I pressed stop on the stereo. Turning sharply, Ed spread a crooked grin. He fished a pint of vodka out of his back pocket. 

“Welcome, welcome!” Ed said. “Wszystko złego, co się dzieje, dobrze się kończy!” 

“I think all this gasoline has got you high.”

“Nope, I got weed for that, although it’s not safe to spark up in here.”

“Probably not,” I said. “This is one sloppy arsonist job.”

“S’cuse me,” Ed’s face darkened. “But I thought I had a pro to do it for me.”

“Sorry. I forgot the deal.”

“I get the money,” Ed roared. “You burn my place down. Then neither of us are suspicious.”

“Hey,” I said. “I’m here now. Let’s just pause and reassess the situation. I’ll take the money then burn this place down later, properly. I promise.”

Ed snorted. Shaking his head, he went over to a wheeled tool cabinet. 

“You must think I’m really stupid,” he said, absentmindedly picking up tools. 

“Give me the money then we can do whatever floats your boat,” I said. “We’ll put you on a river and make you the mayor of titty city.”
“Sorry,” he shook his head. “I’m an ass man.”

Ed kicked the tool cabinet at me. I dove out of the way. Moving fast for a fellow his size, Ed came in swinging a wrench. He cracked me across the temple. The whole world went blurry as I fell into a puddle of gasoline. I felt him roughly pawing me, a moment later Ed stood aiming my pistol down at me. 

“Don’t,” I croaked. “You shoot. We burn.”

“That’s a myth,” he said. “Saw so on Myth Breakers.”

He fired the gun into the ceiling. 

“Now who’s the genius?” he smirked.

“Never said I was.”

“Yeah, well, you should’ve stuck to the plan,” Ed said. “All you had to do was what I said, but noooo.”

He went on hollering that no one ever listened to him. He started ranting about the rockstar life denied by bandmates ignoring his advice. The more worked up he got the less Ed kept an eye on me. When he went off about his wife, I stuck my hand in a pocket and pulled out the first thing I could think of, my flint-wheel lighter.  

Flicking the flame alive, I tossed it across the room. Ed watched it aghast as the diminutive comet fell towards a puddle. The fumes instantly ignited. Fire spread like mono at a make out party. Being laid out in a shallow pool of gasoline inspired me to world record sprinting. Meanwhile, in a flash that would’ve impressed any Bears’ recruiter, Ed was already out the backdoor.

I dashed through the front waiting room, diving out with flames licking my heels. A moment later I heard the squeal of tires as a Buick came racing out from behind the shop. Adrenaline can make a fellow feel sober, but not many people can handle pure panic. 

Flying out of the alley, Ed did several donuts in the street before rocketing forward at high speed into a light pole. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. As such, he went through the windshield. 

Not seeing any case in the car, I popped the trunk. Sure enough, there it was. Case in hand, I left Ed unconscious, bleeding badly on the sidewalk. 
​
I didn’t think he’d make it but leaving him like that allowed me to keep thinking I wasn’t quite a coldblooded killer. He could’ve lived. News the next day said firefighters found him dead on the scene. Police couldn’t explain what happened. I blame the blue line.



J. Rohr is a Chicago native with a taste for history and wandering the city at odd hours. To deal with the more corrosive aspects of everyday life he makes music in the band Beerfinger. His fiction has appeared in works such as Dead Letters: Episodes of Epistolary Horror, No Trouble at All, and Thicker Than Water. Currently, he writes articles and film reviews for Film Obsessive.