Chapter 4.1
November 14th 1996
Narrowing her eyes and lifting her arm Tiffany reached forward and yanked on the sun visor of the Plymouth, quickly shielding herself from the piercing rays as she swung the car away from the mid afternoon traffic and into the litter strewn parking area of Gorman's Bar. The gravel parting beneath the thick, heavy duty tyres, Tiffany cast her eyes from left to right and noticed the rows of motorcycles. Harleys, Yamahas, Nortons and various other classics lined either side of the parking lot, the angle at which they sat seeming to invite the faintest breeze, the domino effect easily imagined as Tiffany came to a stop. Killing the engine and turning her attention to the rear view mirror, she reached into her bag, perched on the passenger seat, and removed her lipstick. Applying only the faintest of touches she admired her reflection and allowed a smile to gather, jerking suddenly as one of the bars windows suddenly exploded before her, the hood of the car showered in shards of broken glass as the offending item, a bar stool no less, hit the floor of the parking lot and splintered into pieces. Thick wooden chunks fracturing and finding themselves catapulted in a myriad of directions. Noise spilled from within the bar. A small crowd of revellers no doubt urging the ongoing fight along as the battered, beaten and leather clad figure of a biker suddenly appeared, the last punch knocking the final gust of wind from his sails as he lay face down, the window frame supporting him beneath his arm pits as, with one final flicker of energy, he curled his lips together and spat. As his blood splattered on the gravel of the parking lot, the biker turned in Tiffany's direction, his greasy shoulder length hair soaked with either sweat or beer and gave a toothless, drunken grin before he found himself jerked violently from the window and back into the chaos, a roar of delight as the patrons of Gorman's witnessed one of two things. Either a continuation of the assault, or an end to the hostilities as the two bikers embraced and quickly called an end to their confrontation, the beers on ice now paid for by the losing participant. Hard to believe, but Tiffany had witnessed it first hand and it was an act that to this day still left her ever so bemused. Twisting the bottom of the lipstick, the deep red stick of wax retreating back into its housing, Tiffany returned it to her bag and snapped the clasp shut before withdrawing the keys from the cars ignition and grabbing the lever, the heavy door swinging open as she swung her legs over the soft leather of the drivers seat and stepped into the cool afternoon breeze that Chicago had to offer. Feeling the glass crunch beneath her feet, Tiffany shook her head in disbelief and walked to the front of the vehicle, snapping and cracking underfoot as her heels made short work of the glass. Then, with her bag held carefully in one hand, she bent over the hood of the Plymouth and swept the remnants of what was previously a pretty solid window to the floor, the paint of the car only barely scratched as she inspected the damage with a sigh. Recalling the events of the previous evening her eyes dropped to the chrome fender. Dented, mangled and twisted out of shape the once gleaming fixture now hung loose. Not completely free of the Plymouths chassis, the craftsmanship of the mid-fifties had seen to that. But loose. Wobbling slightly as Tiffany sunk to a squatting position and gripped the fender, her only regret being that she had allowed arguably her most prized possession to be damaged, even slightly, in the execution of a well laid plan. Still, it was in a much better condition than Sarah Pirce and her car, which wasn't hard. Turning her attention to the bar stool, laying in several pieces across the parking lot floor, Tiffany rested her bag on the cars hood and approached the biggest piece, the carcass laying tattered and broken as she dropped to her knees and grabbed it with both hands, the denim of her jeans providing just enough protection against the smaller fragments of glass.
"Some good you're going to be." She said, raising the shattered furniture and running her eyes over it, the voice from the doorway of the bar suddenly catching her unaware.
"Valentine!" The voice boomed, Tiffany turning on her knees in shock as she dropped the bar stool and stood. Standing in the doorway, arms folded and with a rag slung over one olive skinned shoulder, the tattooed figure of Selena Thomas awaited. The jet black locks of hair held up in a ponytail revealing a scar running from the underside of her left ear and downwards, stopping at the collar bone as the same thought travelled through Tiffany's mind once more. That thought being to question the acquisition of said scar or not. Deciding against it, as always, Tiffany strode towards the parked up Plymouth and grabbed her bag from the hood, Selena's eyes following her every step. "Where the fuck you been? You seen how busy we are?"
Turning and surveying the plethora of cars and motorcycles, Tiffany gave an apologetic look as she approached Selena and squeezed herself through the doorway of Gorman's bar, the two women's faces inches from each other as they passed, a wry smile emerging from Tiffany's lips.
"Sorry boss." She whispered, pausing only slightly as she stepped inside, the rowdy atmosphere fully engulfing her as the jukebox worked overtime, the Thin Lzzy number a soundtrack to all manner of debauchery as the regular clientele of Gorman's Bar reveled along in the background. Booth after booth to Tiffany's left ran the length of the bare, red brick wall, the now shattered window taking pride of place at the very end, the gaping hole resting waist height beyond the far booth. The tattered leather of the once proud seating bore the marks of decades of abuse, each booths table featuring heavily carved names and images, some explicit, some amusing, all misspelt. In the centre of the enormous establishment sat the bar. Not that it was visible. The crowds of bodies, men, women and staff creating a wall of chaotic enjoyment as voice after voice yelled out across the heaving floor. Turning her head to scan for any familiar faces, Tiffany's eyes fell on the stairs gracing the wall to her right, one set leading up, the other down, and towards the basement. As usual they were manned by the short, stocky frame of Lenny, Gorman's resident 'security advisor'. Hands folded across his stomach, eyes peering from behind the thin, narrow shades, Lenny allowed himself to browse the crowd, his sixth sense for trouble impeccable as ever as he quickly reached out and stopped a tattooed biker by his arm, the conversation that followed ending as quickly as it began as Lenny explained the house rules regarding what went on upstairs. Glancing up to the makeshift gantry above the bar, Tiffany strained her eyes. The long row of thrown together rooms stood side by side. Almost on top of each other as every now and then a door would open, the girl inside offering one last smile and a sickly wave of farewell to her latest customer before retreating back into the darkness and pressing a switch, the window of the room illuminated in a candy red glow, the signal to the bar floor loud and clear. Send up the next one. Although well monitored and kept safe, this was no life for the young girls kept within. Seemingly happy as they welcomed the next man, the smiles were simply painted on. The stark, depressing reality of life buried deep beneath the layer of foundation and blusher. Right now as she surveyed the poorly built rooms, the cobbled together accommodation looking on the verge of collapse, Tiffany could see each and every window blacked out. Every door closed, but never locked as Selena Thomas's girls worked overtime. Through the day, through the night and more often than not into the morning as patrons of Gorman's Bar would ask the bar staff about the 'specials' on offer that day, Selena instantly picking up the conversation and taking it from there. Like in any business there were the regulars, some of which Tiffany had gotten to know as they passed their time at the bar. Ordering a beer, taking their place in the queue, then regaling Tiffany and whoever else happened to be serving with tales of their lives. Funny, sad, some straight up embarrassing, it was these imperfections that allowed her to see past the sleazy behavior and appreciate the human behind it. Fair enough they were far from the ideal role model that Tiffany believed men should set out to be, but they treated Selena's girls with the utmost respect. Their attitude to it all was that they'd rather the girl be in there with them, than some stranger that could turn at any moment. They also happened to tip. Little did Selena know. But they tipped as much as they could, whenever they could. Tiffany came to the conclusion a long time ago that these were good people. They just happened to have made some very bad decisions. At the other end of the scale however, were inevitably the first time callers. Sheepishly asking after downing enough Dutch courage. In the past six months Tiffany had come to realise these were the ones to watch for. That nine times out of ten any trouble could be attributed to the idiots drinking enough alcohol to enquire about having a good time, only to find that said alcohol had stripped them of the ability to have anything but. Usually when this happened, the result would be anger, directed at whichever pool girl just happened to find herself in the middle of the embarrassing situation. Luckily enough the girls had a panic button, which meant things never got too out of hand. In her short amount of time working the bar at Gorman's Tiffany had once seen a black eye, but that was as far as it got. Lenny was on the scene in seconds, a crowd of whichever biker gang had happened to be in that day backing him up as the perpetrator swiftly had his ass handed to him in the parking lot. His face never gracing the establishment again. Whether that was his decision or genuinely couldn't be helped was anybody's guess.
"Come on Valentine!" Selena's voice barked again, jerking Tiffany from her thoughts as the Hispanic snarl came from behind, Selena noticing Tiffany's attention trained on the upper floor of the bar as she leaned in with a whisper. "Say the word honey. I could still use a girl like you."
"I think I'll pass." Her reply was short and sweet, the very thought turning her stomach as she began to make her way through the crowd and towards the payphone, prime location at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the gantry. Reaching the phone and grabbing the White Pages stowed on the shelf beneath Tiffany flipped open the book and started flicking through the pages, soon enough coming to a stop as she reached the page she required. Running her finger down the list of names she soon came to a stop. Before her, seven identical listings sat one stacked on top of the other, each one giving the name and address for 'S. Pirce', the one at the very top crossed out as Tiffany retrieved a pen from her handbag and removed the tip, carefully drawing a line through the second name, the listing now matching the one above.
"Two down, five to go." She whispered to herself as she returned the pen to her bag and snapped the White Pages closed before placing it back on the shelf. Turning to begin her journey to the bar, she was surprised to find Selena once again in her way, arms folded and a scornful look fully etched across her face. Hands up in an gesture of apology Tiffany squeezed past and made her way to the bar, Selena hot on her heels as the two girls reached their destination almost at once.
"It would be better money than this." Selena sympathised as Tiffany threw her bag beneath the bar and grabbed an apron, orders already flying her way as she grabbed a handful of bottles from the cooler and snapped the tops off before slamming them on the bar and taking the money.
"That wouldn't be hard would it?" She said, turning to Selena, another order incoming as she grabbed a pair of shot glasses and reached for one of the many bottles gracing the shelf behind her, quickly filling the glasses and serving whichever customer had just thrust money in her face.
"You knew the rules." Selena replied as she grabbed the rag from her shoulder. "I help you, you help me. That was the agreement. A fucking good one for you I might add."
"You think?" Tiffany laughed.
"Hey, you watch your fucking mouth Valentine. I've been fucking good to you!"
"I know. I didn't mean..."
"Everything you have right now is because of how nice I've been to you." Selena snapped, interrupting Tiffany. "Accommodation, ID, new name..."
"Which it would be nice if you'd use from time to time." Tiffany's turn to interrupt.
"Whatever! Just don't give me the hard up attitude." Selena fired back, a venom in her tone. "If it weren't for me where would you be?
"…"
"I'll tell you where. Either locked up or fucking dead. Which was what I half expected last night. Where the fuck did you go? 2am is a damned funny time to be making social calls."
"Just an errand I had to run." Tiffany replied, lying nonchalantly.
"At 2am?" Selena quizzed her, astounded. "You wanna be careful out there."
"Oh yeah?" Tiffany asked, puzzled as she reached into the cooler for another handful of beers. "Why's that?"
"Let me guess. You don't watch the news? Now why doesn't that surprise me?" Selena laughed. "There's a fucking killer out there girl!"
"I didn't know you cared." Tiffany said, rolling her eyes as she handed the beers over. "You're like a boss and mother, all rolled into one."
"You just remember what I said Valentine." Selena grabbed a tray from the end of the bar, ready for heading back into the heaving throng of people. "And don't you be bringing any trouble back here. My place, my rules. You understand?"
Like it or not Tiffany had to agree as she took another order, the swarm of people crowded round the bar hollering and pushing money in the faces of each and every member of staff. Tiffany had never seen the place this busy before, packed from wall to wall with faces both new and familiar, the patrons all behaving for the time being as the jukebox kicked up some Stevie Ray Vaughn and whipped a large part of the crowd into a frenzy.
Half an hour and one incredible effort later the bar began to clear, the customers thinning as they returned to their booths and, luckily enough, some of the lights shone from the gantry above Lenny wasting no time and sending the next paying customer up, the two men passing on the staircase and exchanging smirks, the odd joke about warming the girl up for the next lucky guy. Although seemingly heartless in the manner he conducted himself, Lenny found it hard to participate in the revolving door policy of Selena's. Seeing one man march back towards the bar and another heading straight up the stairs didn't sit right with him and he was often caught and berated for giving the girls just a brief respite, Selena's voice cutting him down with threats of unemployment should it happen again. It was in this brief moment as the two men exchanged places, Lenny giving the interaction a shake of the head, that the doors of Gorman's bars were practically thrown from their hinges, the ambient hum of the customers disturbed by the explosion as Chicago Police Departments finest filtered in without warning, the clientele of Gorman's suddenly faced with two options. Should they stay, or should they go? Not being the most respectful people the city of Chicago had to offer, it didn't surprise Tiffany one bit that the majority of customers reacted quickly. The screech of hundreds chairs on the filthy wooden floor grating as they stood as one and surged to the fire escape out back the officers giving chase as one by one engines fired up in the smaller, less conspicuous parking lot hidden round the back of the building. The people that remained now found their attention turned on the front doors, heavily damaged from the dramatic entry as the police continued to charge in, flanking either side of the huge bar area, one small team snaking past Lenny and upstairs towards the gantry as the commanding officer finally entered the building and hollered to what remained of his audience.
"Nobody move." His voice carried across the now silent bar, all six feet plus of his lean figure continuing to stroll and observe the small crowd before him and the team of officers now stationery in their assumed positions.
"What the fuck?" Selena approached him, a solitary arm flung in the direction of the front door now hanging from its hinge. "Have you seen my door?"
"Ma'am, please." The officer replied, palms held out in a calming gesture as Selena batted them away.
"Don't you fucking ma'am me." She spat, searching his protective clothing for a name badge and finding the name Jameson adorning the pocket adorning the officer's left breast. "Who's going to pay for my fucking door Officer Jameson?"
"I appreciate your concern." The Jameson started, his efforts once again proving futile.
"Appreciate my concern?" Selena continued. "Next time, try turning the handle. It's a lot fucking easier."
"Sir!" The voice came from above, the row of Jameson's underlings lining the gantry in their riot gear as everybody turned their attention to the officer.
"What is it Franks?" Jameson replied.
"We got girls up here." The officer Franks said, indicating over his shoulder with a curled fist and an extended thumb, a general snigger from the remaining crowd of customers.
"So what?" Selena shrugged her shoulders as the superior's face turned to her. "I'm not allowed to let people take a nap?"
"Anything else?" Jameson hollered back up to the gantry, his eyes not once leaving Selena, who in turn could do nothing but bite her tongue and stare out the floor.
"Yes sir," Franks' response was immediate. "We've got men too."
Another roar of laughter erupted, the men and women still sat enjoying their beers and the impromptu cabaret as Officer Franks felt his face grow red in embarrassment.
"My, my." Jameson smiled, his face leaving Selena and taking in the staff behind the bar before spinning on the spot and surveying the remaining customers of Gorman's Bar. A silence filled the air as the tension grew, the only noise coming from the rooms above as men and women hurriedly left the rooms, only to end up half naked on the gantry above Tiffany and her fellow bar workers.
"You are all," Jameson beamed as he paused, arms wide as he graced his audience. "Under arrest."
It had been a long day. Probably one of the longest Tiffany had been forced to endure in years, the clock refusing to tick by as she willed time on. After the ride down from Gorman's, the women segregated from the men, Selena Thomas kept away from everybody else, she figured they must have taken statements from over a hundred people. Everybody but Tiffany and some random biker, too inebriated to stand up, let alone talk as he slept in the chair beside Tiffany. She tried to remain positive. Remain calm and keep a clear head. After all, she had gone to great lengths to ensure any immediate recognition was out of the question. She had to stifle laughter as she let her hands wander to her hair, the dark brown locks falling over her shoulders as she twirled a few strands around her index finger and examined it more thoroughly as the well built, leather clad wrecking ball of a man slept off the booze in the chair next to her. Although she had never seen so much as an article in the local paper, she was pretty sure that the police would have some interest in her following the events in Mount Carroll. Mrs Appleby's house exploding and burning the old goat alive as she stood, the frail old witch she had grown into, and watched Tiffany leave. Then there was the small matter of Will Hunter. The irony of his situation had never ceased to amaze Tiffany. Visiting her with ambition to avenge his recently deceased colleague, Rita Hernandez, he had unwittingly become the master of his own demise, dispatched rather effortlessly by the aforementioned Mrs Appleby. Tiffany could see her now. Her face contorted in rage, as she lay her cards on the table, her plans for both her and Tiffany getting more disturbing by the second. It had been over two years since that fateful evening and Tiffany had forgotten not one tiny little detail. The rain lashing at the window despite the heat of the summer upon them. The garden left half pruned, half overgrown as the two women raced to confront their mystery caller. Everything had seemed so much simpler then. She could actually pin point that moment, the arrival of Jack Fuller and his precious research, as the exact moment her life once again nose dived into the pits of despair. Even now she still had the same little matter nagging her, the same question rearing its ugly head. Just who was Jack Fuller's mystery client? The person actually paying him to investigate Chucky, not just at the time, but from the beginning. 1988 onwards. She had her ideas, in fact she was certain, but during the last two years she'd had very little opportunity to delve into her queries. The events of June 1994 demanding she constantly keep moving, never staying in the same place and only working as and when opportunity provided itself, keeping a low profile until a time she deemed it safe enough to return to Chicago under the cover of night. She could remember that night pretty vividly also. All she had known of Selena following their time together at Logan was the few areas of Chicago's south side she had the odd friend and acquaintance in. So logic dictated that she start looking in those places. It hadn't taken long. Following their last conversation on the way out of Logan Tiffany knew the kind of business Selena was into and crawled the kerbs, not just finding a girl that knew Selena, but, as luck would have it, finding a girl that actually worked for her. Following a brief chat, a meeting was hastily arranged and within a day Tiffany had been summoned to an abandoned warehouse three blocks west of Gorman's. She could see it now. The crumbling brickwork almost lost beneath years of illegible graffiti and gang tags, the fire damaged roof letting the rain water cascade all around as she opened the fire exit door and stepped into the darkness, not a soul as Tiffany let the door close with a deafening bang. Looking round, the sight of rats had made her stomach turn slightly as they scarpered in different directions, the sound of the door echoing across the empty structure. Taking a few steps, her eyes slowly scanning the area around her, eyes slowly wandering left to right, she had proceeded further into the warehouse, fearing the worst as a noise suddenly erupted from the darkness, the silence broken as Tiffany spun on her heels. Emerging from the shadows of the warehouse, cigarette in hand, Selena Thomas's face had carried a look Tiffany could only describe as a smug excitement. Exhaling, a cloud of second and smoke, Selena's eyes never left her former inmate as she examined her from top to bottom. The tattered clothes, the sopping wet hair, the look of desperation. Tiffany needed her. That was a fact, no doubts about it. How much? Selena intended to find out.
"Well, well, well." Said Selena, quickly taking another drag from her cigarette. "Look what the cat dragged in... Literally by the looks of you."
A silence as Tiffany raised her hand, partly trembling from the cold, also from the fear now anxiety now rippling through her spine, and swept her hair from her face, the drenched locks of blonde until now obscuring her view.
"You look like shit Valentine." Selena allowed her eyes to drop, quickly raising them again as she let loose another cloud of nicotine infused.
"Yeah..." Tiffany stammered, the moment getting to her as she struggled to find the words, suddenly giving a small giggle as she spoke. "I feel it."
"So what?" Selena asked, the rain pouring in through the battered structure around them, cascading from the broken tiles above as a clap of thunder exploded above.
"Well..." Tiffany stuttered again.
"Let me guess." Selena took one final drag before dropping her burned out butt to the floor, lifting a boot and extinguishing the remaining ashes."Rehab program didn't work out?"
"It was doing..." Tiffany tried to explain.
"But?" Selena asked, prompting a response.
"Look I need help. You said, you remember? When we were dropped off... After Logan."
"Woah, woah..." Selena held her hands up, Tiffany stopping as quickly as she had begun. "What exactly did I say?"
"That if I ever made a break. Needed help. You could help me. Give me work."
"I said that?" Selena feigned confusion.
"Yes!" Tiffany cried.
"So what happened exactly? You make a break for it?" Selena asked.
"Something like that."
"Details." Selena smiled, her hand reaching into the pocket of her jeans and pulling free a packet, removing a lone cigarette as she flicked the flint of her lighter and watched the tip ignite in a warm glow.
And so began Tiffany's epic tale. Selena demanding to know the details, not a thing left out as she laughed and clapped throughout, a warped and sadistic pleasure in every question, every reaction. Keeping her wits about her, Tiffany decided it best that some details were omitted. Obviously the less she mentioned killer dolls, murderous old women and elaborate plans to inhabit her 'youthful if impure body', the better. Instead she had simply told Selena of the Rita Hernandez incident, the visit from Will Hunter and his subsequent disappearance and finally ended with a dramatic, if mainly concocted, story of her escape from Mount Carroll and the resulting incineration of the aforementioned Mrs. Appleby. Needless to Say Selena was hooked from beginning to end, pulling a crate from one of the many piles of rubble and taking a seat as she listened intently. The delight she seemed to garner from the pain and misery of others actually left Tiffany feeling a little disturbed and unsettled as Selena finally finished laughing and gave a cheerful sigh. Her previously cold exterior now giving way to a warm smile and a friendlier tone of voice.
"Now that is some story Valentine." Selena laughed as she lit up another smoke, offering one to Tiffany as she calmly took one and accepted a light.
"Tell me about it." Tiffany drew a lungful of smoke. "But as you can see... This leaves me in quite a predicament."
"No kidding Valentine, it's a fucking miracle they didn't pick you up already." Selena stood, the warehouse around them echoing as she began to pace, the clunk of her boots on the concrete floor. "You never got picked up once? No close calls?"
"Like I said," Tiffany began, another drag from her cigarette. "I've kept moving. Stayed quiet."
"And where are you stopping now?" Selena asked.
"Well that's where I need help." Tiffany knew the time was upon her. Would Selena help her? The signs were good. But only time would tell.
"You need somewhere?" Selena asked once more, Tiffany giving a silent nod of her head. "Shit Valentine I don't know what to say."
"It's okay." Resignation in her voice as she dropped her half smoked cigarette to the floor and extinguished it. "Thanks for nothing."
"Hey." Selena's hand shot out, grabbing Tiffany by the forearm as she began to march past. Tiffany stopped dead in her tracks, snapping her head to focus on her former friend. "I got a room. Hell, I even got a job if you want it. Straight up too. Nothing dangerous either."
"Really?" Tiffany couldn't believe her luck. Jackpot.
"Well, nothing too dangerous to be exact." Selena laughed. "But if you can keep pulling the beers and pouring the shots then the regulars shouldn't give you any trouble."
"Bar work?" Tiffany asked.
"That not good enough?" Selena's thick accent suddenly kicked up a gear as she seemed taken aback at Tiffany's reaction.
"No, no..." Tiffany stammered once more. "It's perfect."
"Because I could offer you alternative employment." This was what Tiffany had been afraid of. Exactly the kind of thing she knew she couldn't do. "Maybe I let you slip between the sheets with a few of my friends. Really earn your keep. That sound better?"
"Hell no." Tiffany pleaded. "I didn't mean anything by it, I was just surprised. I never expected anything like this. Thank you, I mean it."
"Well don't thank me just yet." Selena scolded her, her attitude turning like a switch as she reached into her back pocket and retrieved a card, handing it to Tiffany. "You fuck me about, you don't pull your weight, you're out."
Taking the card, Tiffany examined it before pushing it into the pocket of her leather jacket. The address of the bar wasn't far at all.
"I really do appreciate this." Tiffany beamed once more. "I don't mean to push but, you said there was a room?"
"Yeah," Selena replied, zipping up her coat as she prepared to leave. "Don't get too excited though. Unless you got a thing for cellar's beneath twenty four hour drinking establishments, then the chances are you're in for one hell of a fucking disappointment."
"It sounds great to me." Tiffany could barely conceal her relief as she ran her fingers through her hair, still soaking wet as she felt a shiver across her shoulders once more.
"Oh, and call me a little paranoid." Selena began. "But I don't want you attracting any unwanted attention. You understand?"
Tiffany nodded.
"I know it's been a while, but the chances are the Chicago P.D still have their eye out for you. From this moment on, Tiffany Valentine doesn't exist. You understand?"
"I don't think I..." Tiffany started.
"My guy will sort you some new papers." Selena interrupted. "Identification. Driving license, passport, he'll even do you a fucking library card."
"Jesus Selena, that would be great." Tiffany couldn't believe her luck.
"Don't get all mushy on me just yet." Selena snapped as she reached the warehouse door, puling it open and allowing the moonlight to filter in through the opening. "This kind of thing takes time. Time and money. You think I'm paying you a dime, then you must be crazy. You get the room, the job and the fake papers. For that, you work for me. Pay it off that way."
Tiffany nodded.
"I'm also thinking we need to do something about your fucking hair." Selena added. "It looks like shit. Not to mention the fact that any record you have will have you down as a blonde."
"Sure." Tiffany nodded frivolously. "Seems more than fair to me."
"Well in that case, go get your things." Selena held the door open, allowing Tiffany to exit the warehouse before her. "And Valentine..."
She stopped and turned back to face Selena, the rain hammering down and beginning to soak her through all over again.
"You behave yourself. You hear me?"
And up until now she had. But of course, up until now she'd been able to keep herself to herself. Plot her next move. Pin point a strategy and a time to execute her well laid plan, choosing this coming week to move quickly, unleash hell across Chicago and hopefully cause the police enough trouble to keep them busy whilst she evaded detection and carried her plan through to the very end. It was at this point as she sat in the waiting room of Chicago Police Department, waiting to give a testimony that she realised the irony of it all. This was nothing other than an occupational hazard though. A couple of hiccups like this were to be expected. It was natural. She had nothing to fear. Just stick to the story and she'd be fine. They'd stuck with the name Tiffany, as people tended to respond to their own name naturally, no bedding in period as people constantly call you by your new name only to go ignored as it still hasn't sunk in that you are the person being called upon. Yes indeed, she was to spin the police a story about being Tiffany Hendricks from New Jersey. Working at Gorman's as she travelled around the country, the bar work basically a means to end, financing a bus ticket to her next port of call. Her head had began to pound, going over the story in her head, recycling the same lines over and over as the drunken biker beside her began to stir, snapping Tiffany from her train of thought and presenting a more immediate problem. The biker seemed to be able to take it no more, an ever growing impatience in his voice as he examined his surroundings and growled at the officer behind the desk, demanding information and, of course, his phone call. The negative, but polite response was met with disdain, a barrage of insults as the biker stood, his gargantuan frame an imposing figure as he ran his hands through his long, long greasy hair and once again demanded his phone call, two more officers behind the desk suddenly alerted to the hostility of the waiting room. Once again the young officer sat behind the desk remained calm. Explained the situation, that things took time, and even offered the biker a coffee to help him sober up. This served only to engage the man even more. The very assumption that he may be intoxicated not going down well at all. Placing the sole of a dirty, oversized boot on the back of the chair in front of him, the biker kicked, the plastic seat skidding across the almost deserted waiting room and slamming into the reception desk with a loud crack. As though a touch paper had been lit, Tiffany lifted her head and observed two officers behind the desk immediately stand, night sticks drawn, and make their way to the secure door of the office. The biker noticed this too, seemingly oblivious to Tiffany's presence as he watched the officers through a haze of alcohol induced anger. Approaching the biker, the two officers appealed for him to calm down, another warning ignored as he gritted his teeth and swore at them once more, taking a step forward and aiming a curled fist in their general direction. The officers ducked as one, the bikers swing hitting nothing but fresh air as the two men charged, catching the biker off balance as they wrestled him to the ground, the trio of men landing almost on top of Tiffany as she leapt from her seat, arms and legs a blur in the ensuing melee. Seats flew everywhere as the men landed, the biker by no means finished as he swung again, a fist connecting with one of the officers, his legs almost buckling as he fought to remain conscious. Before Tiffany knew what was happening, the door behind her burst open, more officers arriving as they raced past and towards the drama unfolding. As a team, the officers now worked to restrain the brute of a man they had before them. Night sticks arced through the air as ribs cracked under force, the man letting out a roar of pain as he finally sunk to his knees, another officer taking advantage of the situation and unleashing a canister of pepper spray into the biker's eyes as he hollered again. Police brutality. That his lawyers would love be hearing about this. Looking out across the waiting room as the officers now lifted the man and carried him towards a free cell, Tiffany took in the scene of broken chairs, tables and magazines strewn across the floor. A sigh had just started to leave her tired and weary lips as the door behind her gently opened once more, the friendlier tone of Officer Lawrence Jameson breaking the silence that now fell upon the waiting room.
"Miss Hendricks," He stood to one side and gestured through the doorway with an outstretched arm, a smile hanging from ear to ear. "Shall we?"
Two hours. Two fucking hours they had kept her locked in that room. No charge, just questions. Who was she? Where was she from? What was her business in Chicago? How long had she worked at Gorman's? How could she not have any idea of the illegal activities taking place in the thrown together rooms just meters above her head? Naturally Tiffany had her answers. Reeling them off efficiently as she lumbered from one lie to another. Hell, they may as well have been written on a script. And now as she returned to Gorman's, the bar completely empty, the silence eerily uncomfortable, all Tiffany wanted to do was sleep as she flicked on the lights and headed to the bar. Stooping and grabbing a bottle of tequila, Tiffany turned and let her eyes wander. The busted door, the shattered window. The cold of the misty November night had long since started to seep into the property, a chill making Tiffany shudder as she twisted the lid from the bottle and took a mouthful of the tequila. She considered returning the bottle to the shelf. What would Selena say? But fuck it. She'd done her bit. Kept quiet and given Selena a glowing reference. Those rooms upstairs? Staff quarters. Was it Selena's fault that her staff chose to carry on with whichever stray men they came across? As for the mention of any drugs. How on earth was that Selena's fault? She stood to lose a lot of good girls through this, and a hell of a lot of business, but Selena knew this day would come. It wasn't ideal, but it was inevitable. Anybody could see that. Keeping her trembling hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle of tequila, Tiffany began to move. From behind the bar and across the heavily soiled floor of Gorman's bar, she reached the stairs and headed down, the basement awaiting her as she flicked off the lights and headed into the darkness. The door to her room, her own private space, lay no more than a matter of feet away as she reached out a hand and fumbled along the wall, eventually feeling the door handle. Thrusting her hand into her pocket, Tiffany grabbed her key and slid it into the lock, twisting it as the door quietly swung open, the darkness stretching on. Reaching around the frame of the door and hitting the light switch, the room was suddenly cast into a glow of light, the décor not to everybody's taste, but suiting Tiffany down to the ground.
"Home, sweet home." She sighed as she lifted the bottle and took another hit of tequila, turning and pushing the door closed behind her. Crossing the floor, the dusty concrete scuffing beneath her heels, Tiffany grabbed the remote control and pointed it at her TV set, the screen firing up instantly. As she slumped to a sitting position on the end of her bed, bottle still clasped securely in her hand. Tiffany was just about to change the channel when she paused, the events on screen proving to be more entertaining than she could have possibly hoped. The assembled press conference bringing together the police and media for a special broadcast. As Tiffany sat, eyes fixed on the screen, she watched as a tall, portly police officer appeared from a doorway and approached a table, notes clutched to his chest and a look of grave concern etched on his face. By the looks of it, he was of Caribbean or African descent, his voice a well to do air about it as he thanked the media for joining him for this special announcement and casually wiped his brow before running his hand through his incredibly short hair and taking a seat. Whatever this was, it looked interesting.
The corridor stretching on before him, his assistant by his side, Captain Reginald Senior quickly strode on. The sooner this was over, the better. The closer the door became, the slower time seemed to pass. Each stride of his well polished shoes seeming to become smaller as the long, nicotine stained corridor, lined with pictures of the police officers of yesterday, became a marathon of a challenge, the contrast of the white and navy blue harsh on the eyes to say the least. As he walked, mind racing, his assistant handed him a handful of notes, the press conference ahead of him reduced to this. Thrown together notes, written by somebody with very little knowledge of what it was the police department were actually dealing with here.
"Is this all we have?" He asked, marching in unison as the young female assistant answered from behind her thickly rimmed spectacles.
"Yes sir." She replied.
"There's not much for me to go on here Sandra." Captain Senior replied, his voice stern.
"With all due respect Captain, there's not much for us to go on at all."
"I know." He said with a sigh. "I'll just be glad when this damn thing is over."
"Just be calm sir." Sandra answered as they approached the door to the media room. "Worst case scenario, you improvise. Wing it."
"Easy for you to say." He smiled as he reached out and opened the door, allowing Sandra to pass. He'd had very little rest today, which had thrown his preparation for this press conference into complete disarray, the phone constantly ringing as reporters, tabloids and news stations from across Chicago tried valiantly to acquire further information regarding the events of that morning, pushing and pushing for any inside information as the Captain demanded to know how his number had been obtained, his only option to unplug his office phone and allow the silence of his office to slowly comfort him as his brain raced. Now, as he strode though the door to the media room and stepped inside, he felt a wave of nausea wash over him. The heat of the lighting, the flashes from the dozens of cameras and the volume of various paparazzi crying out made him consider turning and marching straight back down the corridor. Question after question floated from the mob of journalists, Captain Senior ignoring each and everyone as he slowly stepped onto the small raised platform and approached the desk, microphones littering the surface, a glass of water looking more refreshing with every second that passed. Pulling out the chair buried beneath the navy blue throw hanging across the desk, Captain Senior proceeded to sit and make himself comfortable, the crowd before him gradually falling quiet and taking their seats in a staggered unison as the he took a drink of his water and waited for order to restore itself. As the last of the assembled media took their places, and a silence prevailed over the room full of people, Captain Senior lay his notes on the desk and clasped his hands together, his eyes wandering from left to right. Once satisfied that he had the full attention of his now seated audience he began to speak, the words struggling to come at first, but eventually breaking the silence as the cameras rolled.
"I'd like to start by thanking you all for coming," He began. "And also for your continued patience in what has proven to be an incredibly difficult day."
Another drink of water, his throat feeling drier than ever as the rows of journalists before him seemed to lean forward in anticipation, notepads and microphones at the ready.
"As you are no doubt aware, a couple of nights ago, a couple of my officers responded to a call from a member of the public regarding the sound of gunfire at a property in Cicero. Upon arrival the officers searched the scene and discovered a body. The victim, female, had been shot twice in the chest and once more in the head before being hung from a nearby tree."
Another drink.
"I think we all agree, this was an extremely shocking event. The victim was eventually identified and named as forty four year old Sarah Pirce. She left behind a loving husband and a sixteen year old son. Of course, you don't need me to tell you that this event has left them shattered and broken. Now we know the kind of area Cicero is. Gang violence is at an all time high, as is drug abuse and prostitution. We do however believe none of this to have had any bearing on Mrs Pirce's fate. A loving woman, with a good job and a healthy relationship with all around her, we see no reason for this attack to have happened, other than simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. To put it to you simply, we have no motive. No witnesses. Nothing. Needless to say, a community is in shock that such a thing could happen. Naturally they want answers. Ouur investigation will continue."
The press were silent as the Captain paused to take another drink. He'd still not picked up the notes handed to him moments ago, choosing instead to shoot from the hip. Wing it, as it were. Swallowing, and hoping the gulp had not been as audible to his audience as it had been to himself, he placed his glass back on the desk and continued.
"Now we move on." He said, a tremble in his voice as his eyes surveyed the crowd, each and every one of them perched on the edge of their plastic, molded seats. "You probably all know about the disturbance that took place in the early hours of this morning over on the south side of Chicago. Two units were dispatched to investigate a call from a member of the public. Again, the sound of gunfire was reported. As the officers arrived on the scene, they were greeted by yet another sickening sight. Once again, the body of a female victim left lying in the street. Although all signs point to her car being run from the road, a collision of some force rendering her incapacitated, the cause of death was again ruled to be gunshot wounds. This time two in the chest, one in the neck and one final shot to the face."
Pausing once again the Captain looked up and fixed his eyes on the lense of a video camera, speaking as if somebody were on the other side of the glass.
"I would like to take this opportunity to ask the members of the public. Anybody with any information whatsoever, to come forward. Whatever you think you know, no matter how big or small. Even if you feel it to be irrelevant. Let us be the judges of that."
Suddenly hand shot out of the crowd. A microphone thrust toward the ceiling as an unidentified voice rang out of the tense silence of the media room.
"Do we have a name for the second victim?" The reporter asked, her question immediately bringing a murmur from the crowd. Hands still clasped together, Captain Senior took a deep breath and pursed his lips, nodding as he dropped the bombshell he knew would cause the crowd before him to surge forward as one.
"Yes ma'am." He took another breath. "Victim number two, was also called, Sarah Pirce."
That did it. His tongue had barely finished letting her name roll through his teeth before the entire lot of them were on their feet and charging the stage. Questions flying from every conceivable angle as the cameras snapped and flashed, camera men moved in for a better shot, the space around the small raised platform disappearing in a matter of seconds as the heaving throng of journalists pushed and pulled to get into a better position.
"Are you treating the murders as connected?" One voice yelled.
"Surely you're not putting this down as a coincidence." Another screamed to be heard.
"Do the two events follow any particular pattern?" A loud, prominent voice calmly spoke, not a shout, but his voice carrying as he locked eyes with the Captain. Raising his hands, waiting for the furor to die down, Captain Senior remained sat, eyes never leaving the journalist as he answered honestly.
"The only pattern we have is that the two women were executed in the order that they appear in the phone book. Other than that, we have nothing."
"So what about the next Sarah Pirce?" Asked another reporter, her microphone shoved in Captain Senior's face.
"It's only natural that any of the Sarah Pirce's, in the book or not, may want to talk to us. Maybe get some reassurances regarding their own safety. All I can do is tell them we are here. We've already tried contacting the remaining women in the phone book but have had very little success. So if anybody knows one of them, then we implore you to tell them to get in touch. My men are waiting and we have a team dedicated just to them."
"Captain." Another voice from the other side of the room. "Is there seriously nothing to link these women?"
"Well we're still pursuing all lines of investigation. Naturally." The Captain replied. "But at this point we have nothing to tie these two women together."
"What else do you plan to do?" Another voice hollered out from the wall of noise. "How can people expect to feel safe with this 'Phone Book Killer' on the loose?"
"I'd like to steer clear of giving this person such a nickname. I also think the important thing to focus on here is the level of awareness we're gaining with this very press conference. Now people know, they're quite rightly going to be extra vigilant, which is why I would stress again, no matter how little, if you feel you have any information that we down here at Chicago Police Department would be interested in, then get in touch."
"And what do you plan to do in the meantime?" The voice asked again.
"In the meantime, we're increasing the number of patrols, whether by squad car or on foot. Rest assured, if you need us, we won't be far away." The Captain firmly responded, a defiant look of determination gracing the crowd still jostling for position. "I would like to take the opportunity however, to say one thing. Let's not give this savage the satisfaction."
"How do you mean?" One of the reporters to the Captain's right hand side asked.
"Well the very last thing I want him, or her, thinking is that they've got us running scared. Because be under no false pretense," The Chief stared into one of the cameras, a deep breath before he continued. "We are not afraid of you. The good people of this city will not succumb to your foul acts."
"Do you have anything else to say to the killer? If they're watching I mean." Another journalist asked.
"The only thing I have left to say on this matter is this." Captain Senior stood, his chair scraping along the wooden platform as he did so, snatching his notes from the desk. "I don't want this sick son of a bitch to become some macabre celebrity. These acts. What they've done. They don't deserve the infamy they desire. That they crave. Make no mistake. We'll get our man."
And with that, the Captain turned on the spot and marched back towards the door, Sandra pulling it open as he breezed through and down the long corridor, disappearing from view as the cameras stopped rolling and cut back to the news desk, the anchor looking quite alarmed at proceedings as he stammered, welcoming his viewers back from the live broadcast. Throughout the broadcast, one person had sat in silence. Sat watching. Not moving a muscle as the circus happening on screen ignited into a free for all of information, news crews and journalists pushing and pulling as the Captain of Chicago Police Department dropped the mother of all bombshells. And now, as she sat on the edge of her bed, the events on screen finally sinking in, Tiffany allowed her lips to curl into a sly smile.
"Looks like we'll have to mix things up a little." She said to herself, an involuntary giggle coming from within, uncontrollable as her infectious laughter grew louder and louder, echoing up the stairs and into the vast, empty vacuum of Gorman's Bar.
If Tiffany thought today had been bad.
Then tomorrow, would be murder.