Using the cellular, I informed my shadow that I was awake and well. The Vicodin in my system almost prompted me into song. I felt good. Very good. The drug even seemed to cure my sniffles.
Later, I blamed the drugs for my decision to skip work that morning and reschedule my appointment with Lunch Mates.
The bruises on my face from the bar fight were yellowing, but I opted for the natural look rather than concealer. Clad in loose-fitting chinos, my L.L.Bean sweater, and a pair of drugstore sunglasses, I left my building sans cane and hailed a cab, informing my tail I was following a lead to a dating service. Let them snicker. I felt too high to care.
The taxi driver, a young Jamaican with a hemp beret, initiated a conversation about the Bulls, a topic that I'm normally lukewarm about but today happened to be bursting with opinion. I tipped him five bucks when he spit me out on Michigan and Balbo a dozen minutes later.
The building that housed Lunch Mates had recently been made over. I remembered it years back to be a hotel for men, complete with dirty brown bricks and tiny yellow windows. Now it was all chrome and polish, replete with green plants and a fountain in the lobby. Chicago, like all big cities, was a cannibal. Something must die for something else to grow.
I limped up to the information desk and was directed to the third floor. The elevator was mirrored, and I checked myself from every angle. Not bad for a forty-something cop who'd just been shot.
But that might have been the meds talking.
Two thick glass doors allowed me entrance to Lunch Mates, where a handsome man with perfect hair flashed me a smile from his reception desk. I smiled back, though not as electrically.
"Good morning."
"Good morning. I'm Jack Daniels. I have an appointment."
"Nice to meet you, Jack. I'm Frank. Coffee?"
I declined, thinking about coffee breath. He bade me take a seat, and motioned to the leather couch on my left. I sunk into it, extending out my bad leg in a way that I hoped looked demure. A windsurfing magazine caught my eye on the coffee table. Since I windsurf on practically a daily basis, I picked up the mag and perused an article about getting more hang time when it's choppy.
"Jack? I'm Matthew. I'll be your Lunch Mates agent."
He was even cuter than Frank. Blond, baby blue eyes, a model's square jaw. I wondered if the Gingerbread Man had actually killed me, and I'd died and gone to hunk heaven.
I stood and took his hand. It was soft and dry, making me even more aware of how unkempt my hands were. I'd never broken the habit of biting my nails. It seemed so much easier than clipping them.
"Pleased to meet you."
"I love that sweater. It brings out your eyes."
"A recent purchase. The sweater, not the eyes."
Chuckles on both our parts. He led me through the carpeted hallways of Lunch Mates. It resembled any other office, with generic artwork on the walls and the obligatory Habitrail of cubicles where employees pecked away on computers between coffee breaks. It could have even been my workplace, except it was brighter and everyone looked happy.
We made small talk about the weather and current news events, and then I was led into a corner office complete with view, fireplace, and a decor that made it look like a cozy den. We sat across from each other in two deep suede chairs, our knees almost touching. He reached over on the table next to us and picked up a leather binder.
"What we're going to do, Jack, is have you answer a few questions about yourself and make a data sheet like this one."
Matthew held up a glossy piece of paper with a picture of a woman in the upper right-hand corner. It almost looked like a resume.
"This data sheet will be given to men who would be a likely match for you. I'll also give you data sheets of men...it is a man you'd like to meet, correct?"
"Yes. I've decided to give heterosexuality one more shot."
He gave me a million-dollar smile, and I flashed my five-buck grin right back. The Vicodin guide to better living through chemistry.
"So...if you and a man choose each other, we pick a place and set the date. If you'd prefer, you can fill out the data sheet yourself, but I like asking the questions because then I have a better idea of personality and compatibility."
"Ask away."
I leaned back and crossed my arms, held the pose until I realized I looked too defensive, then set my hands in my lap and crossed my legs. That was awkward as well, but I stayed that way rather than shift again so soon.
"You mentioned you were a police officer. For how long?"
"Twenty-three years. I'm a lieutenant. Violent Crimes."
"Tell me about your job. Do you enjoy it?"
I took a moment too long to answer. Did I enjoy it? How could I enjoy Violent Crimes? I dealt with the worst element of society, I witnessed atrocities that regular people couldn't even comprehend, I was overworked, under-paid, and socially retarded. But I still kept plugging away. Did I actually enjoy it?
"I like getting the job done." I crossed my arms in the defensive position again.
"Have you ever been married?"
"Yes. I was divorced fifteen years ago."
"Children?"
"Not that I know of."
Pleasant laugh. "Education?"
"Northwestern. Bachelor of Arts."
"What was your major?"
What the hell was my major? "Political science."
"Do you have any hobbies?"
Was insomnia a hobby? "I play pool. I like to read, when I have the time."
He paused frequently to write things down. I reviewed in my mind what I'd said so far and was less than impressed. I was coming off like the most boring person to ever walk the earth. Unless I wanted to get hooked up with someone who was comatose, I needed to spice up my answers.
"I got into a fight the other day. Bar fight. See the bruises?"
I pointed to my face and grinned. My painkiller high had overtaken my better judgment.
"And the other day I got shot. A maniac broke into my apartment."
"My goodness. Where were you shot?"
"My leg. It goes with the job. Maybe you saw me on the news yesterday."
And from there it went downhill. I talked about my acts of heroism. I talked about being a great kisser. The interview ended after I let him feel my muscle.
Then he led me to another room where he took my picture and my money; a chunk large enough to knock me out of my good mood. Before I had a chance to reconsider, I was handed a sheaf of men's data sheets, patted on the shoulder, and walked to the door.
I was silent during the cab ride home. Gradually the painkiller wore off and my leg began to throb again. Even worse than the pain was the growing sense of humiliation. I felt like I'd won the Kentucky Derby for horses' asses. I'm sure that when I left, Matthew had a firm opinion on why I needed a dating service in the first place. To add injury to insult, I was out almost eight hundred bucks, and all I had to show for it was a list of men who Matthew thought would be compatible with the idiot I'd become.
I put the Vicodin in the medicine cabinet and took four aspirin. My cell phone rang, and I flipped it to my face, half hoping it was my surveillance team calling to say the Gingerbread Man was standing behind me with a gun. I would have let him shoot me.
"Jack? Herb. I know you're resting, but you'll want to hear this. We've got a positive ID on the second girl. Her roommate called in. Are you up to move on it?"
"I'm up. I'll see you in ten."
I called my team and told them the news. Much as the job was wearing me down, it did help me to forget my life, which was what I needed at that moment.
Clearheaded, I managed to start my car on the third try. During the drive I tried to shake the image of being the last kid picked for a backyard football game.
I couldn't.
Chapter 23
HE KNOWS WHAT JACK IS DOING. All those lies. All those insults. She's trying to flush him out. Force him to make a mistake. It's a clever move on Jack's part, and even helps her save face after the pain she suffered the other night.