CHAPTER 1
I had just stepped out of the elevator when something bounced off
my head and jumped into my black suede bag.
I looked up. The October sun was blinding. Cascading waterfalls
of light fell across the marble walls of the Chicago Chronicle. I shielded
my eyes with my hand and scanned the lobby.
Nothing above but empty space, so I knew I was the target.
You can't get much clearer than a knock on the noggin, but what
message were the spirits sending me?
I fished through my bag and pulled out the penny. Flipped it over,
as I always did, and checked the date. 1975. The year I was born.
From my experience that could only mean one thing.
Trouble ahead.
It might seem strange to some people that I, Stacy Justice,
reporter for Chicago's north side paper, believed in silly things like
superstitions. Or pennies from heaven. After all, for the past five years I
had been exposing the truth, reporting the facts and fighting corruption
in the Windy City. But those people never met my Irish grandmother.
Grandma Geraghty insists everyone call her Birdie, short for
Brighid, Celtic goddess of fire and hearth. The name means 'one who
exalts herself' and, well, let's just say that it suits her.
I pocketed the penny and crossed the lobby floor, headed for the
revolving doors and a much-needed coffee break when Bruce
Springsteen started shouting out Thunder Road from my cell phone.
"Don't turn me home again I just can't face myself alone again..." I
fumbled through my bag and picked up the call.
"Stacy?" a faint voice asked.
"Hang on, I can barely hear you." I plugged a finger into my left
earlobe and said, "We have a horrible connection. I'm going outside."
I wiggled into my leather jacket, still balancing the phone, and
untucked my long hair. "Just a sec." The revolving doors were steps
away and I pushed through.
The door glided halfway around before the bag slipped from my
shoulder. Still holding the phone, I bent to retrieve the strap but a man
wearing tasseled loafers shoved his way through before I could reach it.
The glass met my head and I plunked around like a pinball, before I
landed on all fours, ass in the air. The leather strap of my bag got
wedged between that rubber flappy thing on the bottom of the door
and the wall. Then all motion ceased.
"Perfect," I said. If the Olympics had an event for klutziness, I
would be a gold medalist eight times over.
A loud thump came from behind and the man with the loafers
screamed as I untangled my narrow frame and adjusted my skirt. I
yanked on the strap, struggling to free it from the grip of the door.
Apparently, I wasn't moving fast enough.
"Hey lady," the guy behind me yelled. "I don't have all day, alright?
Hang up the phone and move your ass!"
Yeah, that should speed things along.
A glance back revealed who was shouting. Tall, crew cut, no
neck, Jay Leno chin and neon tie to round out the equation. He
reminded me of someone.
I took a deep breath. "Listen, Buzz Lightyear." That was it. "I am
trying to get us unstuck, which wouldn't have happened in the first place
had you paid attention to where you were going."
Beads of sweat trailed my forehead as I plopped on the floor. Skirt
hiked above my knees, feet anchored against the wall, I looked like I
was racing a go-cart.
Wrapping the strap around my wrist for leverage, I caught my
reflection in the glass. I'm not bad looking. My nose may be a little too
pointy, my green eyes a little far apart. I'm also 5'8", size six with
reddish blonde hair, so that helps camouflage the less attractive
features. However, right now a couple of buttons on my silk blouse had
abandoned ship, my forehead somehow picked up a grease streak and
the hair resembled Stevie Nicks circa 1987.
For some reason, the charmer behind me took my new look as an
invitation to flirt.
"So," he smiled, adjusting his tie, "you work here?"
Despite a six-month dating slump even I wasn't that desperate. I
rolled my eyes and tamed my hair.
"Stacy, are you okay?" the voice on the phone said. Damn. Still
connected.
"Call back." I snapped it shut.
Bracing my legs, I heaved at the door. It shifted, but before my
feet found the ground another guy forced his way through. In an instant,
bag, phone, Buzz and me were tossed onto the sidewalk where a small
crowd had gathered eating hot dogs and placing bets. Three people
applauded.
"Hey, you want to grab a cup of java?" asked Buzz.
I growled, shook my head and lifted myself up, limping to the
cement wall that bordered the Chicago River. My knee was bruised,
nylons shredded, Italian bag a mangled mess. I sat down and
contemplated if the spirits had a lively sense of humor or if that little trip
was a metaphor for my life. Caught in a revolving door sandwiched
between morons. It almost made me miss home.
My cell phone sang again. "Don't run back inside darlin' you know
just what I'm here for..."
"Justice," I answered.
"Stacy, are you alright?" a familiar voice asked.
"Cin, is that you? I'm glad to hear your voice, honey."
Cinnamon is my cousin and best friend in the world. She's a few
years younger and several inches shorter than me with a mouth as big
as her boobs.
The sound of clinking glasses indicated she was behind the bar. "I
thought you were getting attacked," she said to me. Then to someone
else, "What the- Scully! Don't you touch that tap! I'll slap you into next
Tuesday if you pull that crap on me again!"
Cinnamon owns The Black Opal Bar and Grill in my hometown.
She works constantly, partly because she needs the money and partly
because she enjoys throwing drinks at people.
"Sorry, sweetie, now what's going on?" she said, her attention
back on me.
"Nothing," I rubbed the bruise, "that isn't typical."
"So you weren't attacked? Thank God. I was about to hang up
and call the cops." Then she lowered her voice and said, "Listen, Stacy,
I have to talk to you."
No good news ever starts with those words. No one ever
whispers, "I have to talk to you," only to say, "you won the lottery!" It
just doesn't happen.
"Okaaayy." I fiddled with the penny in my pocket, wondering
what it was trying to tell me.
"Well, it's about Gramps. He's not doing so well." Cinnamon's
voice cracked.
My heart flip-flopped. Grandpa Oscar was my anchor. In the
circus act that was my family he was the guy standing near the ropes,
keeping the kids from running into the ring and getting eaten by a lion.
Gramps was also one of the only men left dangling from my family
tree. My father died when I was thirteen and Gramps picked up where
Dad left off, teaching me to throw a curve ball and bluff my way out of
a low pair. For some reason, men who married Geraghty girls didn't
reach their golden years. Gramps, however, was this side of seventy--
which most contribute to his thirty-year divorce from Birdie.
"What do you mean? What's wrong?" I asked.
Cinnamon sighed. "He's in the hospital, Stacy. The doctors won't
tell me a whole lot. They say they don't know what it is yet. He went in
last night around ten. At first they thought he was drunk. He was really
out of it and staggering around. But there wasn't any liquor on his
breath."
"Of course not." I shifted my weight. "Gramps hasn't had a drink
in thirty years." We both paused as we contemplated that little
coincidence.
"So then they thought it could be a stroke, but he showed no signs
of that either." The cash register jingled through the phone line as
someone settled a bar tab.
"Okay so what's the prognosis as of right now?" The clock on the
news building read 3:30. It was Thursday.
"Now they're saying it could be food poisoning. They pumped his
stomach and he has IVs pouring fluids into his arms."
"Wait, back up. They pumped his stomach? For food poisoning?"
I thought that usually just had to pass through a person's system. "What
is it? Salmonella?"
"I don't know, but I guess he was vomiting and they were afraid
he could dehydrate." My cousin paused and I could almost see her
bow her head. "They're worried because of his age." She sucked in
some air. "They think he could take a turn for the worse."
"Will he-"
"I don't know, hon," Cinnamon answered, reading my mind.
A thought occurred to me. "Um, Cin, where was Gramps last
night?"
"He was there," she sighed.
Sonofabitch.
"Please tell me you don't think-"
"What, that she finally followed through with it? Hell, I hope not."
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| "Amethyst is like the Twilight Zone on acid." -Stacy Justice |
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