XWF’s next scheduled show being for Detroit was fortuitous; Chicago was directly en route.  I didn’t expect to find Derek holed up in Chicago, but that wasn’t the purpose of the detour anyway — sometimes it’s difficult to let a hunch go without giving it a compulsory scratch.  And as we’d spent the past several weeks combing databases throughout the country, vainly attempting to find something — anything — which could give us a thread to begin pulling towards that showdown, the thought of Azra Jusíc and her band of misfits remained firmly ingrained in my mind.

Chicago.  Two out of three voices on that night in Pennsylvania had been unmistakably from Chicago.  There was no question in my mind that I’d find Azra here, or at the least a clue.  There was nobody who’d been following my movements more closely than Azra or seemed to have a thumb on my pulse — she had to be involved.  All that mattered was sifting through a haystack of over nine million people to find that needle.

I hadn’t found myself in Bridgeport because I was hot on any trail; truth be told I was wholly unfamiliar with Chicago.  In these times, it’s important to keep good company and maintain regular friendships — in this instance, I had a friend who happened to be invested in a humble establishment, a small dive named Mitchell’s Tap.  It, like the rest of the neighborhood, was unassuming: working class, unpretentious.  I’d worn a pair of sunglasses and kept the hood of my sweater up to keep my profile as low as possible, but upon entering the bar and taking in the crowd, I doubted I’d have been recognized either way.  This wasn’t the sort of crowd who’d take stock of a figure such as myself, if they’d even heard of me — and if they had, it was unlikely they’d expect my type to have walked through the door.

But the two men standing towards the back of the room very much expected me — I’d called ahead to inform my friend that I could be identified by the California flag patch on my jacket sleeve.  And when I crossed the room, they shepherded me wordlessly through a door marked “Employees Only”, down a hall, and into a plain, if somewhat untidy, back office.  There she was, sitting behind an old worn desk. 

I’m not sure I’d have initially recognized her if merely glancing through a crowd: it seemed all too deliberate on her part.  The signature platinum locks had faded from a lack of upkeep, her roots growing out and revealing a natural dirty blonde; she wore it up in a messy bun.  The glow of her monitor reflected off the reading glasses perched upon her nose — I’m not sure if they were necessary or merely another layer of concealment.  Even the attire she wore seemed shockingly frumpy compared to the usual air of deadly grace that she’d carried so effortlessly.  But, after all, this is what she wanted.  And seeing the success of her transformation, no matter how simply accomplished, filled me with a sense of amusement and pride in Lauren Duke.

With a glance in my direction, she almost smiled but seemed to catch herself.  One of the men who’d escorted me into the room moved a hand to my hips, beginning the cursory security pat down, but she quickly waved a dismissive hand.

“Not necessary with this one.”

And without a word of protest, they stopped, stepped out of the room and closed the door behind me.

“I’m guessin’ if you were here to kill me, you wouldn’t be stupid enough to walk through my front door to give it a try,” she remarked before reaching over to pick something up from the shadows beyond her laptop.  

It was a gaudy handcannon — a big, fat Desert Eagle with gold tiger stripe plating.  She waved it casually in the air, as though partly making a threat and partly a child displaying something for Show-and-Tell.  She wanted me to see her hand — I’m not sure she meant me to notice it still bared a wedding band.

“Actually, I was wondering if you’d care to join me for a game of the Adult Jenga you have out on the patio,” I replied.  She gave a scoff and rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, come back in the spring.”

We were an odd friendship, but truth be told, it was hard not to feel an affection for Lauren Duke.  At the least, I found I got along with her better than I ever had her ex-husband — there was a wisdom behind her crassness, a humanity behind her world-weariness.  I trusted her; perhaps that was naively optimistic on my behalf, but I’d yet to be proven wrong.  

I was also under no false pretenses as to the legitimacy of Lauren’s operations here in Bridgeport; she was far from a simple bar owner.  I withdrew the picture from my jacket pocket.

“I’m looking for someone.  Someone I have reason to believe is in the city and you could know. Name’s Azra Jusíc.”

“I’m lookin’ for someone, too. Tall n’ handsome, preferably,” she remarked with a coy smile before motioning me forward and extending a hand, “Lemme see.”

“Last time I saw her, she was accompanied by two others,” I remarked as Lauren took the photo, “Don’t know their names but sounded straight out of The Bear.  Call it an education guess.”

With but one glance at the photo, she heaved a sigh, “Really, Johnny? Tell me, you lookin’ to buy some shitty art or to have someone killed?”


“Go on…” I urged gently.

“Never heard the name ‘Azra’, or whatever it was you said before,” she continued, that smile falling into a frown, “She goes by Sara. Fronts a shop in–” 

She paused suddenly, looking up at me.  Her eyes narrowed. “You know what? Why?”

“Am I not allowed to have my reasons?”

“You are,” she replied curtly, “And I’m allowed mine, too.”

“Why Lauren,” I remarked, “Is that consideration for my well being?”

“You go too far down this path, you’re not coming back.  This person you’re lookin’ for? She ain’t someone a person like you should be lookin’ for, so let’s leave it at that…”

‘Like me.’  I suppose she was correct — she didn’t know.  And I couldn’t say I’d blame her; was that not the purpose of the masquerade?  I should be thankful that Lauren had a protective impulse; aren’t that what friendships are for?

But friendships are also predicated on trust.  And judging from the look on her face — the sternness of her gaze, the unflinching frown upon her lips — I knew that we’d reached a standstill without a demonstration of trust.

I pointed to her gun.

“The Desert Eagle — first manufactured in the 80’s, refined in conjunction with the IDF in the 90’s,” I began, “The only pistol capable of firing a .50 Action, as made famous by Hollywood because it’s big and looks good on screen.  It’s cute — probably scary to the average joe, particularly when shoved in their face.” 

She raised an eyebrow in my direction.  I removed my jacket to bare her my soul — and the shoulder holster which had been concealed alongside it.

“But there’s a reason the IDF never actually went with the Deagle: it’s completely impractical,” I continued as I withdrew my own gun, making a point to eject the clip and rack the slide to eject the chambered bullet, “Kicks like a sonuvabitch, hurts like hell in the hand and wrist after repeated use — for a gun built to be used in and named for the desert, its a finicky little bastard that likes to malfunction if the weather is bad, whether that’s in rain or just dusty winds.  And maybe all that power would be impressive if it hit something, but it’s notoriously inaccurate.  Now compare that…”

I placed the gun down on the desk for emphasis.

“...to my Beretta M9.  Smaller — more easily concealed, yet still full metal rather than a carbon fiber frame like a Glock 19,” I remarked, looking her in the eyes, “This gives it power and reliability.  It’s accurate.  And it can take a beating. You can swim through a river with it in your holster, break someone’s face with a few whacks of the barrel, and still be able to fire it just fine — hence why it’s been the service weapon of the US Military for half a century.  It’s also easily concealed and easily drawn, both of which I find important because if I’m going to reveal to someone I have a gun, it’s likely just prior to using it.”

A silence fell between us.  Her expression was unreadable.

“One such instance would be against a seemingly humble priest named Father Angelo last month in Edmonton, Canada,” I said quietly, “Perhaps you read about it in the papers?”

A curious little smirk crept across her, which soon gave way to the flash of light in her eyes and a wide, wild smile. She let out a little laugh as if putting a cherry on top of her realization.

“You of all people!” she practically cackled, “Goddamn I never woulda guessed — you and all this.”

She picked up the two guns, one in each hand as though weighing them.  Her eyes darted back and forth.

“I like my Desert Eagle: one look at it, and I never actually gotta use it. Not to mention it’s something of a parting gift from my husband,” she remarked before setting the Desert Eagle down and turning her complete attention to the notches in the grip panel of the Beretta, stifling another incredulous chuckle, “You.  Never took you for one of us.”

“I’m not one of you,” I involuntarily hissed.

“Whatever you say, Kojak,” she scoffed, her smile still wide and wild before looking up to me, “Stop marking your kills.  If they ever find this shit—“

“I have bigger things to worry about than the fuckin’ feds, Lauren,” I shot back, my voice rising in my throat,  “I —”

The words stuck.  They burned.  Lauren canted her head in curiosity at me, her lips drawn tight and silent.

“Last month a man took Ruby during my fucking match,” I forced out  “I still haven’t found them.”

Lauren closed her eyes, melancholy setting in. She took a small breath and turned her head from me.  Her voice fell to a whisper — her words were unmistakable. 

“That’s how my son was taken… At a wrestling show.  During a wrestling match.”

The room remained silent, and she kept her eyes closed.  Her hands folded in front of her and she brought them up to her face, whether as a concealment or a prayer.  I remained patient — I wasn’t sure what war could be raging in the heart of Lauren Duke, the White Widow who’s platinum locks had begun to dull, whose finger was still adorned with that wedding ring, and who still stood in safety behind that magnum hand cannon totem to days since past.  But I allowed her to quietly fight that war, allowing her to face it alone, and allowing her the time it would take.  I knew I’d have my answer when she was ready.

“Her name is Sara Midnight,” she began, her eyes still closed, “Never heard the ‘Azra’ name before — one or even both could be fake, the woman’s a snake.”

She opened her eyes and looked back to me.  There was a steeled serenity behind her irises.  “She runs a front named ‘Midnight, Illinois’ or some shit out in Gage Park. It ain’t far from here,” she continues, “I’m not sure who the two goons with her are, probably hired hands. In either case, don’t believe a word she says, she’s almost as good of a liar as me.”

She reached down to pick up my Beretta, offering it out to me.

“By the way, she’s related to a business partner of mine. Him: I'd worry about if she’s involved in your little revenge plot.  And don’t connect this shit with me,” she finished firmly.

“I’d never,” I assured her, “Ever been to this spot yourself?”

“You think Bridgeport is seedy? Try Gage Park.”

“Noted,” I replied before taking the gun and reinserting the clip before sliding it into its holster, “Thank you, Lauren.”

“You ever need anything, you know how to find me,” she continued, watching as I picked up my jacket and pulled it back over my shoulders, “Watch your ass, Johnny; we don’t get to retire in this line of work.”

I stepped to the door, hand on the knob.  It was there in the moment I hesitated.  Looking back, she’d already returned her gaze to the laptop.

“And hey, Lauren,” I called out, causing her to look back up, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

She smiled a small smile — perhaps sad, perhaps amused.

“Let's just hope the next time that little fucker shoots me with an arrow, it's a real one.”

And with that I left her behind as I stepped once more into the cold winds of Chicago.  I’d have loved to stay and chat — but I had a date night in Gage Park to plan.