High Chicago

CHAPTER 42

I must have slept with my hands clenched into fists. I could barely get them open far enough to pry the top off the vial of Tylenol 3s Nola had left. I did, though, and took two. Struggled to make a pot of coffee without burning myself, then limped down the hall wrapped in a complimentary bathrobe and refilled the bucket with ice.

The bruises were ugly. Like someone had rubbed my forearm and knee with blueberries. I couldn't see the one on my shoulder without a mirror and didn't see the point in trying. I lay naked in the tub with ice on my arm and my knee, waiting for the codeine to hit. Pondered the wisdom of taking two more.

One codeine, two codeine, three codeine, four

If that doesn't do it, take a few more.

I wondered if Jenn had been able to find Ryan and, if so, where they were. Still in Ontario? On I-94 by now?

When the ice had melted, I got out of the bath and started filling it with hot water. Nola had said alternating between cold and hot would help reduce inflammation and relax "the insulted areas." I towelled off and slipped back into the robe and managed to open the door locks and retrieve my courtesy copy of the Chicago Tribune. I sat on the bed while the bath filled. The news section had nothing about a man in a hockey mask being assaulted in Daley Plaza the previous night; nothing about a man being forced to walk the plank eighty-five storeys above the city; no mention of a corrupt cop throwing his weight around in Grant Park.

I closed the paper and walked stiffly to the bathroom. Didn't take much longer than a bear going over a mountain. I turned off the water, tested it, found it below scalding and steadied myself with my elbows as I lowered my sore self down. Waited for its relaxing properties to take hold.

Yeah, that's me-Jonah the waiter. Waiting for relief from heat and codeine. Waiting for Jenn and Ryan. Waiting for a bright idea that would take me off the hot seat and plant Simon Birk on it.

I was lying flat in the tub in water up to my jaw, my hands up around my ears to keep the gauze wrappings dry, raising and lowering my knee, when I heard a click sound at the door. An entry card going in and out, the lock disengaging, the handle turning.

I used my elbows to get into a sitting position. The bathroom door was halfway open. I must have forgotten to relock the door and set the chain. I could see a tall black woman in a wine-coloured uniform holding a stack of towels. Her skin was coffee-coloured and she was heavily freckled, especially around the eyes, and she was about to see more than she'd bargained for. I called out, "Hello."

"Oh, sorry. Housekeeping."

"I'm a little indisposed," I called. "Can you leave those on the bed, please?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "I thought you were out."

I was sinking back into the water when I realized I hadn't heard a knock. Heard the card whisper into the lock. Heard the electronic click of the lock release. Heard the handle turn, the door brush open against the grain of the carpet.

No knock.

If she hadn't knocked, or called out a greeting, why would she think I was out? I kept my eyes on the mirror as she passed out of view on the way to the bed. Waited. Saw her come back toward the bathroom, holding one towel flat in one hand, the other hand hidden within its fold.

I was on my way out of the tub when she burst through the door, slashing down at my torso with a long, thin blade. Nothing rubber about this one. It was a good old-fashioned knife meant for gutting. I landed on my back and used my legs to push left and away from the thrust. Her hand plunged into the hot water. I grabbed her wrist but couldn't hold it in my injured hand. She pulled it away and slashed down again. I blocked it. She stuck her other hand in my face and tried to push me under water. I kicked out at her and caught her a glancing blow against the head, just enough to stun her a bit. I wrapped my arm around her knife hand and pinned it there and kicked again, this time catching her a good one, the ball of my foot against her chin. Her head snapped back against the tiled wall. As it bounced forward, I wrapped both ankles around her neck and twisted downward. She lost her footing and fell toward me. When she hit the water, a wave of bathwater coursed into my mouth. I coughed it up, planting my elbows on the bottom of the bath, squeezing my legs together until her face went below the surface. Her free hand clawed at my face. I bit her fingers. She tried to bring her knife hand up. I kept it pinned. The water bubbled furiously around her face, as if piranha were stripping an animal of its flesh. I kept squeezing. My quad muscles shuddered. She tried to gain purchase, to back away from the tub, but water had splashed onto the floor and her feet slipped sideways. One knee gave way beneath her with a sickening crack. Her hands stopped trying to attack and tried to push off against the sides of the bath. I kept the knife hand pinned where it was.

Then the bubbles stopped.

I kept the pressure on for another minute. And one more. When I knew she'd been under water too long to be faking it, I let go. She slumped into the tub, sloshing more water out onto the floor. I scrambled back, looked under me to locate the knife and plucked it gingerly out of the water. My bandaged hands were wet but I didn't care. I dropped the knife on the floor. My chest was heaving, my head pounding from the effort. I wanted to stay in the bath but didn't care for the company. I got out, almost wiping out on the slick floor, and stumbled to the bed and fell on it, wet as a seal. I reached for a towel and was drying off when I heard a loud knock on the door.

"Yes?" I called out.

A woman's voice said, "Housekeeping!"

Now that's the way it's done, I thought, not knowing whether to laugh, cry or limp back into the bathroom and get the knife off the floor.

"I'm sick," I said. "Come back tomorrow."

"You don't need towels?"

"I've got enough for today, thanks."

When she was gone I locked every lock there was-deadbolt, security bar, chain-and stuck a chair under the door handle.