This was originally meant for the dS "Voyeur" flashfiction thing; I blew both the deadline and the word count, but thought I'd finish and post it anyway. Many many thanks to aerye and Laura Shapiro for superlative beta.
SLUSH
Kat Allison
It was amazing, the stuff you could forget. I mean, he knew—Chicago, early March, cold, right? So he'd bought himself a topcoat before he took off, a nice cashmere number that he picked up at the Versace down at Caesar's. He'd left behind the linen and silk jackets, packing instead a dozen wool suits (what the hell, he didn't have to hump the luggage). But what he'd forgotten about was the slush, the fucking Chicago slush that is death on fine Italian footwear.
So he'd had one of the boys go out to buy him a pair of — "Galoshes, boss? What, you mean with the buckles and all?" He'd smacked the guy one on the back of the head and sent him to Gucci. "Rubber. Smooth. No fucking buckles." Sure, he could always buy more shoes, but damned if he was going to sit around cutting a deal on a trunkful of nerve gas with wet feet.
There wasn't anywhere he had to go besides the meet-up, and for sure no place it would be smart for him to go. But once they'd made initial contact, it was the usual hurry up and wait while the other guy got his bucks in a row, and after a few hours he'd had it with lounging around the hotel room, with the room service and the pay-per-view and the "We could get you a girl, boss, say the word. Blonde? Redhead?"
He had an itch, but it wasn't in his pants. He kept pacing, looking out the window, staring at the familiar landmarks—the Hancock building, Buckingham fountain, the ferris wheel on Navy Pier—but the city still seemed so far away, on the other side of the glass, that he might've been watching it on TV. He put his face right up against the window, craning his neck, but he still couldn't see the things he was really looking for. And so—even though it was snowing, the usual early-March wet stuff, pretty as a dream until it hit the ground, where it turned into slop—even though it was a crappy day, and he knew how damned stupid it was to even think about showing his face on the street ....
He gave each of the boys a roll of bills and told them to go out and see the sights, and leave the guns behind for god's sake. He put on his cashmere coat, and his galoshes, ordered up the fine sleek black Lexus with the dark-tinted windows, and headed out, taking the familiar turns, cruising the familiar streets, feeling like a stranger.
When he'd gotten to the house, he took a cautious drive down the alley first, and ... OK, not only had some dumbfuck left the garage door wide open, but where the hell was the Riv? He could only hope that Frannie'd been bright enough to have it put it in storage, or maybe she'd taken it in for detailing... He'd swung around and made a quick pass down Octavia, and then a slower double-back, staring, and then he'd dodged onto the freeway and just cruised for a while, cursing. New paint, new siding, new roof ... son of a bitch, he'd bet anything Ma'd gotten snookered by some door-to-door con artist, that's what you get for leaving that worthless dickhead Tony in charge of the family, that roof should've been good for years yet, and where the hell was the money coming from? He was almost able to convince himself that it was the money that had him so pissed off, and not the fact that the place didn't look like home any more, not like the home he'd been carrying in the back of his mind all these months.
He turned off the freeway eventually and kept driving, down streets and past buildings he knew (although Christ almighty, when had Scarpelli's turned into a fucking Starbucks?). He paused a careful half-block from the station, and that at least seemed the same, although the few people he could see outside the building didn't look familiar. One guy, from a distance, who ... yeah, that was Huey, walking down the steps—but who the hell was that scrawny little guy, walking alongside him, bumping elbows, getting into the car with him? Huey's partner was dead, god damn it.
The station wasn't where he'd really wanted to go anyway. So—even though he told himself he should cut it out right now, that he'd already taken more risks than he should've—he kept driving, not back toward the Loop, but the other way, over to the seedy side of town, the dirty streets where his fine sleek black Lexus with the dark tinted windows got looks—nervous glances, envious stares—from the passersby. He disregarded them, piloting on auto, keeping a careful eye out for anything red moving down the sidewalk, and it wasn't until he was several blocks down Racine that he realized ... fuck, was he lost? Here he was at Western already, and he hadn't seen . . . He turned around, and drove back, scanning the buildings, and only on his second pass did it sink in—this wasn't a matter of new paint, new roof, this was a whole fucking building that was gone, just whoosh, vanished like it'd never been there, bricks and fire escapes and Mr. Mustafi and TV antennas and ... Nothing there at all but a pile of garbage and a passed-out drunk.
He drove faster then, pushing the yellow lights and jamming lanes, and when he got to the fine brick building that was, thank god, still there, looking just the same, he let out a breath of relief. Until he saw the bare flagpole, and the sign in front, the sign that said "Chicago Institute of Accountancy." He kept staring at the sign, waiting for it to change, waiting for the universe to just quit whatever fucking game it was running on his head, but it stayed the same, even when he recklessly rolled down the tinted window and stuck his whole head out to look straight at it, blinking and flinching as the fat wet clots of snow hit him in the face.
Then he stomped on the gas and jerked the wheel, and three minutes later he was at a gas station, demanding a phone book, which the sullen Hispanic kid behind the counter handed over immediately, not even pretending he didn't understand English. He flipped through the pages to the "C"'s, breathing hard, trying to keep his hands from shaking, and when he found the right page he ripped it out and shoved the book back, and the kid took it without a word.
It was snowing harder, huge wet wads of it, and as he walked back to the car his galoshes left footprints in the thick slush that held for a minute and then slumped away, dissolving back into nothingness, as if he'd never stepped there at all, like he was a ghost.
He drove fast, throwing arcs of spray up onto the sidewalks, clutching the phone-book page in his hand, and when he got to the different building, the one he'd never seen before in his fucking life, he only paused long enough to take in the flag with the big red maple leaf, and then he let out a breath. He drove right on by, spun a skidding one-eighty at the intersection, and found a curb spot half a block away that gave him a clear view of the building's facade. There was no one standing out in front, which rattled him a little, but he remembered the schedule (assuming that at least was still the same), and he by god still knew how to run a surveillance. He dug around in his pocket, pulled out the little binoculars, and settled in.
He waited, idly noting the people who went in and out—guy in a suit with a faggy-looking messenger bag (had to be either a yuppie-scum lawyer or a Canadian); couple of Chinese ladies in parkas (no doubt trying to bring their three hundred relatives over on the boat, like anyone needs them); scruffy-looking guy who parked his dopey muscle car illegally, in the "Official Vehicles Only" spot, and sprinted up the steps (probably a messenger service).
And then, about the seventeenth time he checked his watch, it was five o'clock at last, right on the nose, and bingo, right on time the front door opened, something red was coming through it, and ... yeah. He gripped the binoculars tighter. Thank you Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, and all the saints, it was Fraser, hat and all, looking just the same as ever, and finally, finally, the universe settled back into place and started making some kind of sense again. Fraser, coming down the steps with the snow swirling around him, Dief—hey, all right, Dief!—at his heels, Fraser in his shiny boots and his asinine pants, looking exactly like he remembered him ...
... except that coming out the door and down the steps right after him was the scruffy-looking guy, and he was talking to Fraser, coming right up next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Who the hell...? He fiddled with the focus knob on the binoculars, pulling his lips back from his teeth with a little hiss, and tried to get a better fix on the guy—the punk—who was dancing around now, playing some stupid-ass game with Dief, who was crouched in the snow, barking, tail waving, and Fraser watching the both of them.
Leather jacket, beat-up leather boots, a pair of ratty blue jeans, hair spiked up in a rat's nest—the guy looked like every worthless kid he'd had to roust outside the Metro, back when he wore a uniform, every hey-I'm-tough loser with the cigarette and the attitude. And he was with Fraser, talking to him like he had some right to, he was—he was bending down, scooping up a handful of snow, and holy shit he was throwing a fucking snowball at Fraser! Who, being Fraser, just did a little twist of the shoulders and it missed him completely—all right!—but Fraser didn't look pissed, not even a bit, instead he gave a little smile, tilted his head a little, and then suddenly Fraser was bending down, grabbing snow and packing it, and throwing his own snowball, which—being Fraser—hit the punk square in his stupid-ass leather jacket (at which he took one hand off the binoculars and pumped his fist, way to go, Fraser!). And the punk just tipped his head back and laughed like an idiot, brushing snow off himself, and he kept dancing around Fraser, yelling something and grinning, and Fraser—Fraser was pivoting slowly around in place, tall and red and clean, glowing in the dimming twilight, with the clean snow whirling and swirling around him. When they circled back around he could see Fraser's face clearly, and Fraser was ... he was smiling. Not the usual Fraser smile, the Ah, I understand you've said something meant to be amusing one, but ... this was his real smile, the one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle up, that made his eyes softer. The one (he thought, gripping the binoculars hard, digging them into his eye sockets), the one that's mine.
He threw the binoculars down, and put the heels of his hands against his eyes, rubbing them. "Ah, Benny," he said, and the voice didn't even sound like his own.
Armando spoke up quietly, from the back seat of the car. "The boys could take care of him for you, you know. The punk."
He jerked, and raised his head, trying not to look in the rear-view mirror. He'd gotten past being freaked by Armando, and almost gotten past being freaked by how Armando seemed to know everything that was going through his head, even before he did himself. "Fuck off," he said. "Get the hell out of here."
"Hey, that's no way to talk to the man," said the other voice, from the other side of the back seat. "This is a smart guy, you owe him some respect. Makin' you into someone your old man can be proud of, for once."
He couldn't help glancing into the mirror then, seeing the familiar face, the teeth flashing in a grin, the cigar that gave off no smoke as it burned down. "You fuck off too," he said.
"You mind your manners, Raimundo. Tough guy, huh?" There was a sneer in the voice. "Act like it. You're through with that loser."
Abruptly, he twisted the key in the ignition, gunned the engine, and slewed the car out of its spot and away, fishtailing down the street. He drove fast, punishing the cushy suspension with potholes and train tracks, and the only sound was the soft thwap-thwap of wet snow against his windshield, the soft swish of the wipers as they shoved it away. He drove through the city traffic like he owned it, like he'd push every other son of a bitch off the road, the way a Chicago guy should drive. When he pulled up in front of the hotel, he slammed the car into park, and the valet leapt to his door, but before he unlocked and opened it he reached down, tugged and yanked till he had both galoshes off, and then he threw them—splat, splat—one into each corner of the back seat, slopping onto the leather upholstery. Then he got out of the car, without a word to the valet, and walked around to the sidewalk, stepping with deliberation into the gutter, feeling the ugly Chicago slush soak through his fine Italian shoes, watching it swallow up each clean lovely flake that fell. He stood there just a moment, shivering, and then he walked on into the lobby, under the crystal chandelier, and every step he took left a mark of filth and ice on the plush red carpet.