Chapter 15
I wake up the next morning to one new text.
Claudia: It’s murder
Great, thanks, Claud. Super helpful.
I can’t tell if she’s being passive-aggressive about me doubting her or if she’d just had a little too much of her Chardonnay
and ice last night, but right now I can only think about how unfair it would be if I got murdered or arrested before I’ve
had any caffeine.
I roll over and discover a searing pain in my left arm. And that’s not all: My mouth is dry, my heart is racing, and my whole
body somehow feels both hot and cold at the same time. And my throat is definitely closing up. I put my hand on my chest as
my breath starts to come fast, and part of me just wants to stay in bed and wait to see if this massive heart attack passes
or kills me.
But then a velvety wet nose nudges my hand. Another one sniffs at my face. I weigh my options. I could get up and be a grown-up about this, or I could die and run the risk of being breakfast for three circus poodles.
I grit my teeth. “Ugh, fine.”
Jessie, the weekend receptionist at Lincoln Urgent Care, audibly groans when I sidle up to the counter. “Hope you brought
your punch card, Mo,” she says. “What’ll it be today? Tetanus? Skin infection? Ebola?”
“Very funny,” I say. “We both know Ebola never made it to Chicago. I’m having a heart attack.”
“Then go to the ER.”
She’s right, of course, but the idea of going to the ER is somehow scarier than a heart attack. “Can’t you just squeeze me in? My left arm really hurts,” I say, rubbing it and wincing to show her
I’m not lying.
“You’re not having a heart attack.”
“I could be,” I say, picturing my parents getting the call that I died in the lobby of an Urgent Care. That tracks, they’ll say. Bet she didn’t even try to get to the ER—if only she’d had some ambition. “This is medical malpractice.”
Jessie groans, pressing fingers into the bridge of her nose. “No, Mo, it’s triage. And I’m really busy today. With people who are actually sick.”
I look around the waiting room. There’s no one else here.
Jessie sighs and types something into her computer. “Just, you know, make an appointment online like everyone else.”
Two can play this game.
I head out to the sidewalk, pull out my phone, and make an appointment for fifteen minutes from now.
Busy, my ass. Once I get the confirmation, I shoot Jessie a cute look through the window just as Hannah texts me about hanging out.
I leave her on read—it’s just not a good time for me to sound like I have my shit together, what with my current heart attack—and then I go back to my thread with Claudia.
Me: If you’re mad at me for doubting, I will make it up to you. But until then, could use a little help? Figure out who the mastermind
is so I don’t get killed, etc??
I’ve just hit send when a voice startles me. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite crossing guard.”
If it’s possible to nearly jump out of your own body, that’s what I do. But it turns out the voice isn’t coming from a potential
murderer.
It’s coming from the hottest, nerdiest government employee I have ever met. And sure, the alderman’s office is like two doors
down, but also, this is a Sunday. What’s she doing here?
“Workaholic, much?” I joke, trying to pretend she didn’t just give me the jump scare of my life.
Tasha is wearing a short-sleeve button-down and, I’m sorry, a bow tie? Somehow she just got ten times cuter, which honestly seems illegal. I, meanwhile, am still braless in my ancient Cubs tank,
sporting a puffy face and bedhead.
She doesn’t seem to notice any of this though. Instead, she breaks into a huge grin and gives me a hug while I whisper to
my deodorant, Hold the line.
Tasha, meanwhile, smells kinda sweet, kinda spicy, and totally delicious. This is all very bad timing because it’s making
my heart race mid–heart attack.
“Don’t get too close,” I say, pulling away from her, and then accidentally blurting out the least sexy thing imaginable. “I
might be contagious.”
“Oh,” she says, concern flashing across her face. “Flu? Covid?”
Too late to backtrack. No way out but through.
“No, uh,” I say. “Heart attack.”
She laughs.
“I’m serious!” I say, smiling despite myself. “My left arm hurts!”
“Can I?” she asks, pointing at my shoulder.
“Yeah—O-o-okay,” I stammer.
She starts gently massaging my shoulder, and it feels amazing. “I bet I can guess why.”
Maybe this is about to be sexy after all.
“You’ve been walking a big dog,” she says.
The laugh dies in my throat, and the wave of paranoia that started yesterday at the funeral crashes over me.
How would she know that?
Has she been watching me?
Seriously, why is she working on a Sunday?
“What?” I ask, glancing up and down the street. Was I followed?
“A dog,” she says cheerfully.
I step out of the massage. “Why would you say that?”
“Sometimes I take Charlie out when the dog walker isn’t available, and that dog yanks so hard, my shoulder hurts for days.”
She cocks her head. “You okay?”
I cringe. “Sorry, it’s been a weird week.” Everything she said was, in fact, totally normal, because she’s a totally normal person who does not get herself embroiled in murderous conspiracies. “I am, indeed, doing some dogsitting,
and it’s a good theory. But the pain is,” I throw some air quotes, “ ‘radiating down my arm’ and WebMD says—”
“Dr. Google is a slippery slope, Mo,” says Tasha. “Trust me, I’ve been there. Better just to resist the urge.”
“Well . . .”
She peers at me through those dark-rimmed glasses, sees that I’m unconvinced, and smiles. “You have had a stressful week. How about this: I’ve got to get back to the office—elections are around the corner, projects are really
stacking up, and I want to get ahead of the week. But after I’m done, let’s grab a drink? Unwind a little?”
“Oh,” I say, and my entire vocabulary abandons me. “Oh.”
“Is that a yes?”
“That sounds—” My voice cracks. Oh god, I am an eleven-year-old boy. In so many ways. “That sounds definitely. Very great.”
Good lord.
“Cool,” she says. “How about Dickie’s?”
Dickie’s Tavern. The matchbook!
“My fave,” I say, rubbing my stomach like a cartoon. Seriously, I need flirting lessons or something. Do they have those at
the park district?
Tasha takes off, and I watch her walk away until I realize it’ll be weird if she turns around and catches me ogling, so I
go back inside, waving my phone triumphantly at Jessie. “Checking in for my appointment, right on time.”
She sighs. “Have a seat.”
One $25 co-pay later, and I am officially heart-attack-free. Tasha was right: strained muscle with a side order of spasms.
I tell the doc that Advil’s not going to cut it this time, but when he suggests the alternative would be several very expensive
rounds of some kind of off-brand Botox injections at a real hospital, I decide that Advil will be fine.
On the walk home, I obsess over tonight. Is this going to be a date, or are we just new friends unwinding over a beer? A couple
of days ago, I would have been fully committed to the friend camp, but now that Chris is seeing somebody else, why can’t I?
Maybe this whole life explosion won’t turn out so terribly after all?
I’m rolling this revelation around in my head as I get home, check the mail, and then head into the stairwell. Roy’s door
opens and for a second, I’m surprised that he’s already home—until I see that it’s not him.
It’s sort of like an alternate universe version of him.
Essentially Roy, but with faded orangish hair from a bad dye job.
“Sheila, I presume?” I ask the wizened old lady standing in front of me.
“Hello, dear,” she coos. “You must be No.”
“Mo,” I correct her.
She frowns and pats the pockets of her flowered apron in distress, like she’s trying to remember where she put something.
“I was so sure Roy’s note said that your name was No.”
“It’s okay,” I say reassuringly. She’s so cute and grandmotherly, I already want to hug her and make her proud of me. “You
call me whatever you want.”
She beams up at me, her eyes twinkling. “You’re such a dear. Just a moment, I have some fresh cookies.”
With that, she disappears into the apartment, presumably to get me some fresh cookies. Why can’t this lady be my landlord?
She returns a minute later with a bunch of cookies on a massive cooling rack. “Take as many as you like,” she says cheerily.
“Oh, Sheila, you shouldn’t have,” I say, as I grab two cookies and take a big bite of one. It’s amazing—oatmeal and warm chocolate,
and the slight hint of spices I can’t place. “Wowzers.”
She winks at me. “That’s my mother’s recipe.”
“Mmmm,” I groan. “It’s just incredible. Thank you. My weekend started off so badly, but between hot civil servants and delicious
cookies, things are looking up.”
“Was it because of the dogs?”
I promptly choke, cookie crumbs suddenly clawing at the inside of my throat.
“What?” I manage to croak.
“Your bad weekend. But never mind that! Sounds like that cookie went right down your Sunday pipe,” she says, nothing but sweetness.
“Let me get you something.”
She disappears again as I keep coughing.
Sheila knows about the dogs?
When she reappears, the oven mitts are gone, and she holds a shot glass of what looks like whiskey.
“Go on,” she says encouragingly.
I shoot it, and it is, in fact, whiskey. Cheap, brutal, and very definitely whiskey.
“There you go,” she says, patting my back as the coughing subsides, instantly replaced by the burn of the alcohol. “I thought
you might need it.”
“For the cookie?”
“Oh, no, dear. For the blackmail.” She winks again.
“I’m sorry,” I say weakly. “I think I’ve lost track of what’s happening.”
“Oh, that’s because I haven’t told you yet.” She takes the shot glass back and dries it out with the edge of her apron.
Note to self: no more shots with Sheila.
Then she smiles at me again. “I know you have dogs up there. Now see, my Roy can be a little naive, like most men, but I wasn’t
born yesterday. I know about the dogs and I know you aren’t allowed to have dogs as per your lease.” She puts on a pair of readers and pulls my literal lease out of
her apron pocket, perusing it with her lips pursed.
“I . . . I . . .”
“Don’t try to deny it. Buuuut . . .” She draws the word out, as she flaps the lease in front of my face. “I don’t have to tell Roy about them.”
“You don’t?”
“Thing is, he’s got me on a pretty strict allowance, and I could use some going-out money. Mama needs some horizontal refreshment.”
I squint at her. “I’m sorry, some—”
She rolls her eyes. “Nookie. Whoopie. Oh, what is it you kids say—hot beef injection?”
A small squeak escapes my throat.
“So I’ll need forty-five a week to keep your little secret. You can Venmo me.”
“Forty-five . . . dollars?”
She just smiles pleasantly.
I’m suddenly grateful for that whiskey. Between horny ol’ Sheila and the bull penises, these dogs are going to bankrupt me.
I have no choice but to agree to her terms. It’s already clear: You don’t haggle with Sheila.
And as I trudge upstairs, eating the other cookie, which somehow doesn’t taste nearly as delicious as the first cookie, I
make a resolution.
The poodles have got to go. ASAP.