DASH CAM

by m.s.wardrip

The wind swept through the canyon and a solitary piece of paper blew from one building to the next, stopping, flapping in the wind, until dislodged again, visiting building to building, fluttering on. Finally, it arrived at a bus stop shelter and stuck to the wall. Annalou Trevegas said she should have taken the subway because she missed her appointment at the hairdresser by thirty minutes. On the piece of paper, it reads, “Hair Today Walk-ins Welcome”. Annalou read the number, put the paper in her pocket. Her cellphone came out and she pleasantly said. “Hi, I was wondering if you could take me in today.” The voice came back and said, “No waiting.” She smiled and hung up. Standing now, as the next bus arrives. Annalou got her hair highlighted and was delighted.

Next comes the guy who works at the petroleum company as a high-end marketer for foreign fuels. With all his fast talk and knowledge base, he settles in a booth next to the Chicago River and orders from the waitress,

“ Just bring me the regular, a bowl of chili, a San Miguel beer and plenty of crackers. Oh, and some Red Hot sauce. Thanks! “ , The man quietly orders his lunch.

In a car nearby, I hear the conversation between the large dark haired man inside to a small man on a bicycle near the curb. All I hear from the conversation are these words from the man in the car.

“Hey, big guy, you are a capable man I know and I’ve got the best porno in Chicago. I got DVD’s, VHS, Magazines, toys…. the best porn videos ever of everybody in the business. Who you want?”

The man on the bike leans over to look in the car, then shakes his head and in disgust, rides off in the opposite direction up the street. The man in the car flips him the bird and yells something inaudible.

I walk on down through the Loop, under the tracks and near the Federal Reserve building, I get hungry from listening to the guy order chili. I walk across the street and head down to “Big Al’s Roast Beef — Italian style”

I order from behind a bunch of working stiffs. They are loud mouths ranting something about barriers and concrete. Who knows? I yell past them when prompted by the cashier lady, “I want a roast beef sandwich with everything, hot peppers and dipped with some chips and a Coke.

She hollers back across the room, “That’s eleven dollars even. To go or to stay?”

“To stay.” , I yell back.

“You’re number 72”

“Okay.”

The sandwich, chips and coke were too much for me to eat all at once, so I roll up what’s left in a big napkin and shuffle it into my backpack. Now, I shuffle myself out the door and down to Union Station nearby to look at the scrolling digital arrive and depart sign. My train leaves in one hour and twenty minutes. I decide to go walk around some more and just as I walk out the front door, I enter a police chase scene. One guy runs down the sidewalk with an officer on foot in pursuit, while squad cars race in dilligence. Somehow around the corner, they apprehended him and came back with him in handcuffs. The man looked defeated. Head down and sobbing. Who knows?

I went to the bookstore and killed some time, bought a couple of cheap paperback murder mysteries. I also got the racing form for the dog track in Hialeah, Florida, because it was my next most important stop on this trip.

As a new travel writer, this assignment meant everything to me. I’m just a fledgling reporter with a nose for the underworld. I can sniff a crooked deal a mile away and the dog tracks were the breeding grounds for conspiracy. I wanted the low down, so I threw myself into the fire. I wanted a hot story and I got one.

Once in Florida at the dog track, I watched the steel bunny race around the track as the Greyhounds galloped to try to catch it. They never did, but one dog did win. That dog belonged to “Muscles McGregor” and Muscles did not jump up and down, yell, or shout, or do anything but look me right in the eye and say, “What do you want? A fiction story or the real deal?”

I looked him right in the eye and said, “This is your turf, You tell me.”

He spat on the floor, grinned and said, “You get it my way and it ain’t truth or fiction. It’s just my way, that’s all.”

I said, “Okay, this interview is up to you. I’ll ask questions but you don’t have to answer. I’ll just use your answers in the article.”

He said, “Let’s go.”

“What got you into the dog racing business in the first place?”, I inquired.

Muscles, lead forward, took his cigarette out of his mouth and softly said, “Well, it pays better than Go-Kart racing which is what I wanted to do to start with. You can’t make no money in karts, but give me a good dog and I can clean up here.”

“How do you know what is what?”, I requested.

“You gotta use your noggin’ dumbass. Sorry for the insult, but if you don’t know how to make a buck, I feel sorry for ya. Capeeche?”

“Capiche.”, I stumble. “Well, i know you make a lot because you own a lot of dogs too.”

“So, you don’t like it that I am an entrepreneur? Let me tell you something. I’ve been to Corfu, Greece twelve times in the last year, staying two weeks each month. You think I could do that on chicken feed? Huh, well, do yas?”

“I don’t doubt you. I’m sure you are successful. Otherwise there would be no point in the interview.”, I stammer.

This guy is a capon in the family. I just want to get paid for a little interview, that’s all. Muscles has other ideas.

“So, you're a “Yes Man?”, He starts out. Then he challenges me, “So you’re from Chicago and you are a yes man… hmmm. I think I can use you.”

“What do you mean?”, I reply.

“What I mean is you're going to write some fantastic articles about my race track and my business talking about how successful and great we are, that’s what. I’ll make sure you get paid and I’ll tighten you up to get started. Here’s five-hundred to get you back to Chicago. You make up the rest of the article, just don’t put me down or say anything stupid… or… if I gotta come to chicago and get you, you ain’t gonna like me. Capeeche?”

“Capiche.”, What else could I say? I was under the gun… maybe literally.

Two months later the article came out. The publisher was happy, I was happy with my $800 and plus the $500, I was able to make bank these two months.

Two days later a black car pulls up in front of me as I leave my apartment. I hear pop, pop, pop and feel something tear through my leg. My boot fills up with blood and a car speeds off, leaving me hopping to the apartment and to the phone where I call 911. I get out of the emergency room and back home in a cast on my leg, there is a note on the door that reads, “See this red rose on your doorstep? It symbolizes the love between members of our family. This rose is for you because you are the newest member of the family. Take it and read the instructions inside. If you choose not to do it, you are a dead man.Do it and you will be compensated richly. Try to hide and I will chase you down and eliminate you myself. So, are you in? Yes, I think you are. Go do the hit and be proud of it because you helped a lot of people. Who needs crooked, lying, dirty mouthed magazine publishers anyway? Capeeche?”

The note said kill my publisher. My mind said run. I took the subway to the train station and headed for Michigan to my cousins house to hide out.

There was a shooting on the subway. There was blood all over the wall. There was my backpack, full of automatic weapon round holes and there was blood running across the floor, in a steady flowing stream, making it’s way to the door, and out and down… dripping on the tracks below… pure deep, dark blood. My blood. My life fades into the clouds and the track announcer says before the race, “Hat’s off to a fallen family member. He is now working for himself in the sky.”

Skywriting indeed! The dashcam of a stopped metro police officer caught the shooting on tape and identified Muscles as the shooter.

I’ve got to go now. There’s some guy up here talking about dog tracks and getting it right. I’m headed to another cloud where they have karaoke.

Hair today, gone tomorrow.