Chapter Thirteen
Thirteen
I don’t care what Miguel says about cities; I love Chicago.
So many things to see and smell, so many people and pets!
Even an old dog can have a good time in a place like this.
Sure, I’m here to help Miguel find JMB—and, of course, love.
And yes, I do wish the girl were here with me right now.
Still, who am I to protest when Dane convinces Miguel that we should shake off our disappointment by exploring his friend’s neighborhood?
Dane’s yapping like a coyote at dusk as he guides us from this block to the next.
“The area’s way different from when I lived here.
I was over on North Wolcott, just off Division,” he tells Miguel, pointing down the street.
“Used to be able to score drugs on all four corners of that intersection. Not that I did—but, you know, the vibe was way different.”
“And that’s how you ended up in West Haven?” Miguel asks. “I know I should know this, but it occurs to me I’ve never asked.”
“Nah, but it’s okay. I showed up for a buddy’s wedding and liked that I could see the water from almost everywhere I looked. Two months later, I packed up my truck and made my way to the other side of Lake Michigan.”
We’ve stopped at another intersection. “Chief, this is your show,” Dane says to Miguel. “What are you in the mood for?”
Miguel squints. “You have that list you showed me at home?”
“Sure do.” Dane rifles around in his backpack for a moment, then pulls it out.
Miguel takes it from him, then steps under an awning to get out of the sun. I stand next to him, but it’s not much help. My paws are sweating like crazy, and no amount of panting seems to cool me down. Miguel must realize this, because he looks at me and says, “Harold, should we take you back?”
I close my eyes and pretend I didn’t hear him.
“Okay,” he says, though it’s not clear if he’s speaking to me or Dane. “I say we try the sports bar, since it’s within walking distance.”
“Solid plan,” says Dane. “But, uh, what are we going to do when we get there?”
“I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out.”
When we reach the bar, I half expect that I’ll have to continue to barbecue myself on the sidewalk, but Dane ducks inside, then quickly returns to say I can come with them.
The space is narrow and deep, with a long counter in the center and some small tables with metal chairs hugging the walls.
It doesn’t look like a great spot to get writing done, but maybe JMB comes here to meet his writer friends.
Miguel and Dane sidle up to the bar and order a couple of beers. The man helping them is about Dane’s age, with dark hair and thick lines drawn over his lashes that make his eyes look like they have stingers.
“Thanks,” Miguel says when the man sets a couple of tall glasses in front of them. He’s using his bookshop voice, the one that’s calm and confident and in charge. That used to be how he spoke all the time. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Enrique,” says the man. “You?”
“Miguel. My friend Dane and I are in from West Haven, just around the bottom of the lake in Michigan. You ever been there?”
Enrique’s lips twist to one side. “That near New Buffalo?”
“Yeah, about twenty minutes north. We run a bookstore over there—Lakeside Books. You should check it out if you’re in the area.”
“I’m more of a city mouse, but if that changes, I’ll definitely swing by,” says Enrique.
“We’ll remember you if you do.” Enrique’s about to leave when Miguel adds, “Hey, I’m wondering if you happen to know someone named Jonathan Middleton-Biggs—he’s said to be a regular here?
Mid-thirties, white guy, probably six foot or so, sandy hair that kind of falls into his eyes?
He’s an author, so I’m guessing he typically has a notebook with him. ”
Dane leans on the bar. “Or, you know, his computer.”
“Right.” Miguel lifts his pint glass and mutters, “To technology, the downfall of civilization.”
Enrique’s smile has just upended, but I don’t think it’s because of Miguel’s commentary. “Why do you ask?”
“Then you do know JMB?” says Dane.
“I know most of our regulars,” says Enrique, looking them both up and down. “And I know they like their privacy.”
Dane takes a long swig of his beer. “We totally get that.”
Beside him, Miguel’s shaking his head. “We’re not asking for his Social Security number or anything. But are you aware that Jonathan may be missing?”
Enrique’s eyes go buggy. “Missing? I thought he was on vacation or something.”
“He didn’t show up for an event at our store a couple days ago,” says Dane. “And nobody seems to know where he is.”
Miguel gives Dane a look, which probably means he’s revealed too much. “Does he ever talk about his writing with you?” he asks Enrique.
“Um, I’m not sure how much I should say.”
“I promise, we’re here to help,” Miguel tells him.
Enrique sighs, then says, “Jon never said anything about his books, and none of our regulars ever bugged him about that stuff. He liked that. Mostly we talk about the White Sox, sometimes the Bulls during the offseason. But usually baseball.”
Dane and Miguel immediately turn to each other. “I thought Jonathan didn’t like sports,” says Miguel.
“Trust me, he’s into the game—big-time. The guy knows more stats than anyone I’ve ever met.
You can be like, ‘Hey, how many strikeouts did Loaiza have last season?,’ and he’ll just rattle the numbers right off.
” Enrique looks over his shoulder. “Let me grab her a drink,” he says, nodding toward a woman on the other side of the bar. “I’ll be back.”
“What do you think?” Dane whispers to Miguel.
“What I think is that that’s super strange. Sports? Baseball stats? I’ve never once heard him mention that in an interview.”
“Well, like that Fiona chick said, he’s pretty private.”
“Chicks are prepubescent fowl, Dane. Fiona’s a woman,” Miguel says.
“Yeah, she is,” says Dane, wiggling his eyebrows. Miguel’s just opened his mouth to respond when Enrique reappears.
“You good on beer?” he asks.
“Great, thanks,” says Miguel.
“But while we have you…” Dane pulls a book out of his backpack and passes it to Enrique. “You sure this is the same dude you’re talking about?” he says, pointing to the photo on the back cover.
“Where’d you get that?” Miguel asks him.
“Uh, there’s this super cool little shop in a town called West Haven that sells books? You heard of it?”
Miguel shakes his head, but Enrique’s peering at the paperback.
He looks up. “Unless he’s got a diabolical twin who also goes by Jon, that’s him.
I know people recognize him sometimes—but in here, he’s just a guy who likes to watch the game and have a beer, and that’s really all I know.
I guess you could ask Vik, but I haven’t seen him in a while, either. ”
“Who’s Vik?” Dane and Miguel say in unison.
“Jon’s friend. They come in here together a lot, or at least they did. Hey, sorry, but I’ve got to help these people,” he says, referring to the group that just streamed in from outside. “Nice to meet you both.”
“Of course. Thanks for your time,” says Miguel.
Dane’s just scribbled something on a napkin, which he hands to Enrique. “Do us a solid and call us if you hear anything about JMB—uh, Jonathan.”
Enrique shoves it into his back pocket. “If I do and he’s okay with my calling you, sure. But Jon’s a great guy. If he didn’t show up to your store, he had a good reason.”
“I hope you’re right,” says Miguel, standing from his barstool. Just under his breath, he adds, “But I’d like to be the judge of that.”