Trial Junkies

— 55 -

"Keep them coming," Hutch said. "I'm gonna be here a while."

The bartender splashed single malt into the glass, and as Hutch went to pick it up, a hand reached out from behind him and touched his wrist.

"Easy, Brando. You sure you want to go this route?"

It was Matt. Andy standing next to him. The Monkey House was fairly crowded, but it didn't look as if they'd broken a sweat finding him.

Hutch caught their gazes in the mirror behind the bar, then grabbed the shot glass. "What do I have to lose?"

"Oh, I don't know," Andy said as he slid onto the stool to Hutch's left. "Ten months sobriety?"

"Too little, too late," Hutch told him, then knocked the liquid back and felt its warmth, like the embrace of an old friend.

Matt took the stool to his right. "Don't do this, man. We're all hurting right now, but it doesn't have to come to this."

"What do you know about it?"

Matt tossed an AA coin to the bar. An ancient RIDE CLEAN, RIDE FREE medallion that had spent a lot of time in someone's pocket.

Hutch looked at him in surprise and Matt shook his head. "Not mine, my old man's. He was twenty years sober, then spent his last one at the bottom of a bottle until he plowed into a tree and killed himself and his two passengers. My niece and nephew."

"Jesus," Hutch said. "You're really cheering me up." He set the glass on the bar and signaled to the bartender to hit him again. "How come you never told me about this?"

"I'm sure there a lot of things we don't know about each other, Hutch. We spent all that time in that house, we had a lot of laughs, but how often did we bear our souls? We were too young, dumb and full of cum for any of that nonsense."

Hutch smiled. "Isn't that the truth."

"Hey," Andy said, "I'm not all that old, and I've got the other two covered on a pretty regular basis-so what's your point?"

Hutch laughed now, shaking his head. "I really missed you two idiots, you know that? I missed all of you. I didn't even realize it until I came back. And I sure as hell didn't think I'd wind up falling for one of America's most wanted."

"What happened with the police?" Matt asked. "Do they still think you helped her?"

"Who gives a shit? They hammered me with a bunch of questions, but they didn't have anything to hold me on so they finally let me go. I'm sure the tabloids will say I'm the mastermind and the money behind the whole thing. And the truth is, the way I've been feeling lately, I probably would have been if Ronnie had really pressed it."

"I'm surprised they aren't all over you right now. The tabloids, that is."

Hutch downed another shot, ignoring Matt's look of disapproval. "I've become an expert at subterfuge and misdirection."

"They'll show up here sooner or later. You know they will."

Hutch shrugged. "So be it. I'll be too drunk to care."

He signaled to the bartender again and Matt said, "How's Ronnie's mother doing?"

"Waverly says she wasn't seriously hurt. But she's pissed. Pretty much volunteered to testify against Ronnie when they catch her."

"You think they will?" Andy asked.

Hutch chuckled. "Is that a serious question?"

Lola Baldacci had only suffered a minor head bruise when she tried to stop Ronnie from taking Christopher out of Hutch's apartment. She had been treated at Chicago Memorial and released, then went back home to her house in Roscoe Village-which was undoubtedly under siege right now by the aforementioned tabloids.

As much as he hated the circumstances, Hutch was glad to see Lola gone. He was pretty sure she considered him the spawn of Lucifer and he was relieved he wouldn't have to put up with any cold, judgmental stares. He got enough of that when he looked in the mirror.

He did, however, regret that he'd never again taste that amazing pasta.

"So with Ronnie out of the picture," Matt asked, "what happens to the trial?"

"Waverly says O'Donnell will probably declare a mistrial. Then Abernathy'll tack some additional charges onto the indictment and be able to start clean with the murder weapon as his centerpiece." He shook his head in disgust as he reached for the glass of whiskey. "A murder weapon that was planted," he added, then looked at Matt. "Did Langer ever show up to admire his handiwork?"

"No sign of him all day."

Hutch knocked the scotch back. "So no matter how you slice it, Ronnie's fucked."

"No pun intended, right?"

No pun intended.

Hutch was five shots in when Matt finally convinced him to call it a night and go home. He had assumed the taste of the whisky would destroy every bit of willpower he possessed, but the truth was, all he really wanted was to get some sleep.

What he probably should have done was find the nearest AA meeting, but the desire to abuse himself had abandoned him somewhere around shot number three-point-five, and he didn't think he was in danger of a binge. Not tonight, at least.

What surprised him was that even when he got to his feet, he didn't feel drunk. He had assumed that so many months on the wagon would weaken his resistance. But it hadn't.

Or maybe he was deluding himself.

It was a little after ten when he stumbled past the night man, rode the elevator to his apartment, then fell across the still unmade bed, the faint but unmistakable scent of Ronnie's lavender cologne rising up at him from the sheets. He pictured her in his mind, rolling on top of him, her body slick with sweat as she moved her hips, pressing and pulling, pressing and pulling, bringing them both to the brink.

Then later, clinging to the side of the bed like a lost child.

He thought he had talked her out of running, but he couldn't really blame her for ignoring his advice. He couldn't blame her for much of anything, really. She was caught up in circumstances that were beyond her control and her impulse to flee was understandable.

Foolish, but understandable.

He imagined her scared and vulnerable, clutching little Christopher's hand as they boarded a plane or a train or a bus. Or maybe even a boat. She would need false identification, and he wondered if she had been working on it since the moment he'd posted her bond.

He didn't know when she would have made the arrangements, or who she would have made them with, but there was no reason he should. It could very well have been through someone she'd met in jail. An emailed photograph and a small transfer of funds would likely yield all the identification she needed.

Or maybe one of their friends had helped her.

Andy perhaps? He and Ronnie had taken enough car rides together over the last few days.

Or what about Matt, her closest friend and former lover?

When it came down to it, did it really matter? She was gone and Hutch missed having her in his bed, feeling her pressed up against him as he stroked her hair and tried to reassure her that everything would be fine. That he would somehow fix things.

What a joke that had turned out to be.

And a sad, sorry, unfunny one at that.

Hutch rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, thinking that maybe he was a little drunk after all. He had nearly drifted to sleep when his cell phone bleeped and he jerked awake, fumbling to retrieve it from his pants pocket.

He squinted at the screen but didn't recognize the number. Putting the phone to his ear, he murmured a groggy hello, and was surprised to hear Gus's voice on the line. "You awake, kid? You sound like you're half asleep."

"I just crawled into bed," Hutch said.

"Rough day, I know, but you'd better crawl back out. You're gonna want to meet me as soon as possible."

Gus was a good old guy, but the last thing Hutch wanted was company right now. He could barely keep his eyes open. "Why?" he said wearily. "What's going on?"

"Just ran into a friend of ours out here in the River District."

"Friend of ours?"

"Come on, buddy boy-wake the hell up. I'm talking about Freddy Langer. He's standing outside that little waitress's apartment as we speak."

Hutch sat up, his heart starting to pound. "Where can I find you?"

"I thought you'd never ask."