Sometimes a Cigar Isn't Just a Cigar

What’s with the cigars in Raul’s Cigar Bar and Grille? They turn people into monsters, but when they’re stolen, Tom Jurgen has to get them back—as he tries to repair his damaged relationship with Rachel.

Sometimes a Cigar Isn't Just a Cigar, Part One

I didn’t really want a cheating spouse case right now, but I didn’t want to run out of cereal for breakfast either.

So here I was, sitting in Raul’s Cigar Bar and Grille in Chicago’s Uptown neighborhood, watching Rose Egan, my client’s wife, smoking Kool menthols and drinking a gin and tonic.

She didn’t have the vibe of a woman waiting for a date. She smoked methodically, one cigarette after another, never looking up when the door opened. She’d gone through half a pack of menthol Kools at her table and was still on her first drink.

I nursed a soda water with a lime and pretended to check messages on my phone at the bar. A cigar smoldered in an ashtray next to my glass. I’d had to order it so I wouldn’t look out of place.

At least this case looked like it would have a happy ending. The wife wasn’t cheating, just apparently sneaking cigarettes where her husband wouldn’t see her.

Raul’s—named for Fidel’s brother?—had walls paneled with cherry wood, original paintings and sculptures, high-backed chairs at the bar, and a bartender in a tuxedo. A set of stairs in the corner led to an upstairs room.

People talked quietly at tables, some playing cards, others working their phones. Some ate dinner—the kitchen served steaks and seafood. Fans in the ceiling swirled the cigar smoke around the air toward vents that sucked it up and sent it away.

The lighting was dim, the music was classical, and the ashtrays were emptied often.

A security camera in one corner watched everything.

I picked up my cigar and puffed without inhaling. The balding bartender freshened up my soda water and added a fresh lime.

I pointed the cigar at a set of stairs in the back. “What’s up there?”

“Private club.” The bartender dumped my ashtray.

“How private?”

He smiled. “Ten thousand dollars to join.”

My eyebrows rose. “They must have some good cigars.”

“The best.”

After an hour Rose Egan finished her pack of cigarettes. I wondered if she had more in her purse, but she waved down a waiter and asked for her check. I placed some money of my own on the bar and got ready to leave.

Then a monster came rampaging down the stairs.

Seven feet tall, it had a stubby crocodile snout and beady yellow eyes, but a short black ponytail hung down the back of its neck. The beast wore a ripped suit jacket and a shredded shirt, its pants bursting at the seams like the Incredible Hulk.

A half-smoked cigar dangled from its claws.

Surprised and confused, customers around the room abandoned their cigars, drinks, and meal and scattered in terror. Still, some sat stunned, staring at the creature as if trying to decide whether it was some kind of macabre joke. Most headed for the restrooms or the kitchen. Pushing against each other, panicking, they shouted and kicked in their attempts to get away from whatever was stalking down the steps.

Rose Egan lurched up, knocking her gin and tonic over, staring at the monster. Maybe the drink had gotten her drunk. Maybe she was too terrified to move

But for whatever reason, the monster stalked toward her, knocking chairs and tables over with each step.

My instincts told me to run behind the bar and cower until the beast went away. My bladder urged me to head for the restroom. My pounding heart wanted me to lie down and take a nap.

But my conscience reminded me that Rose Egan was my client’s wife. I could hardly call him to report: “Well, the good news is your wife isn’t cheating. The bad news . . .”

I had to do something. Distract the thing before it got to her. And then run, as fast as I could.

So I used the closest thing to a weapon I had. I threw my half-filled glass.

It hit the monster between the eyes. Damn it. Usually my aim isn’t that good.

The beast turned to face me. Maybe ten feet away. Oops. No way I could hop over the bar—I’m in my forties and I haven’t worked out in years, unless you count running for my life from vampires and other assorted creatures.

So I lifted up my chair like a lion tamer years past his prime, and prepared to defend myself to the death, pondering my life choices in the back of my mind while the rest of my brain screamed, “RUN YOU IDIOT.”

Then two men ran down the stairs. One was African American, and he was carrying a Taser. The other guy, white, held a small tube of pepper spray in his fist.

The stun gun guy fired his Taser. The darts hit it in the back of the neck.

The creature leaned back, howling, and then the white guy blasted its face with pepper. The thing collapsed, rolling on the ground and shrieking in pain.

I dropped my chair and leaned against the bar, my heart pounding.

Rose Egan glanced at me. Then she ran for the door.

I jumped when the bartender patted my shoulder. “You okay?”

I wasn’t sure. “Does this happen often?”

He wiped the sweat off his scalp and shook his head. “Sorry.”

Rose Egan was gone. I slid my money across the bar and followed her out the door.

            But as the two men from upstairs were struggling to drag the beast away, I leaned down and snagged its cigar on my way out.

The next morning I called my client. “Mr. Egan? Tom Jurgen here.”

            “Uh, hello.” Wayne Egan was a semi-retired lawyer in his fifties who worked from an office in his home. He was 15 years older than Rose, which was probably a factor in his suspicions.

“What—uh, what can you tell me?” He kept his voice low, even though his wife was at her job at an advertising firm downtown.

“Good news.” I was sitting at my dining room table, my laptop open, looking at the report I’d been typing up. “I don’t think your wife is having an affair.”

“Huh.” He sounded skeptical. “Then what’s she doing?”

“Smoking. She went to an cigar bar in Uptown last night and smoked a pack of Kool menthols.”

“What?” His voice rose. “She told me she quit!”

“Apparently not.” Wait—this was good news, wasn’t it? But you never know how a client’s going to react. I’ve had wives breathe a sigh of relief when they learned their husbands were seeing hookers instead of cheating with their secretaries. Breaking a promise to stop smoking might be more important to Egan than a meaningless affair. People are funny that way.

I hit “save” on my report. “So I can keep following her if you want—”

“No. Wait—yes, tomorrow night.” He ground his teeth. “Rose goes out Tuesdays and Thursdays most weeks lately. Some kind of volunteer work, she says. If she does the same thing tomorrow, then I’ll consider it closed.”

He was the boss. “Fair enough.”

I was about to hang up when Egan said, “She seemed—a little shaken up when she got home last night. Did anything happen?”

I hesitated. Would he believe me if I told him about the monster? Some clients hire me because I have experience with the supernatural. Egan wasn’t necessarily one of them. “There was a—disturbance at the bar last night.”

“What kind of disturbance?”

Honesty was the best policy. It hadn’t always worked out for me, but it helped me sleep at night. “It looked like . . . some kind of monster.”

Two slow seconds passed. “A monster.”

“That’s right.” I leaned back and waited to be fired.

“Then I definitely want you to follow Rose tomorrow night.” He didn’t sound worried about her smoking now. “Keep her safe.”

I’m not a bodyguard. Just an ex-reporter trying to make a living as a private detective. But at least I’d get paid for one more night’s work. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Good.” He hung up.

I set my phone down, closed the Egan file, and sipped some coffee. I had other cases I would work on before tomorrow night. Some didn’t even include potential monsters.

Instead of moving on, I closed my laptop and looked at the half-cigar I’d picked up from the floor last night. It sat on a saucer next to my laptop. I couldn’t see anything that would identify the brand. It smelled nauseating.

            The monster had held it in its claws, coming down from the private club that cost $10,000 to join. What was going on up there?

            Not my problem. All I had to do was follow Rose Egan for one more night—and hope no more creatures emerged from the upper room.

            But I was curious. Yeah, I know what happens to cats. It’s come close to me, more times than I can count. But I never could let go of a story.

            It had cost me my career, and my marriage. And more.

            So I could let it drop. Or I could do something that scared me more than confronting any monster.

            In the end, it wasn’t even a choice. I took a deep breath and picked up my phone again.

“Hi.” Rachel sounded pissed.

            “Hi, it’s me.” I tried to keep my voice steady.

            “Your face is still on my contact list. What do you want?”
            “I need a favor.”

            Rachel sighed. “Like what?”

            “I want you to look at something.” It was the kind of thing I used to call her for all the time. Today the question seemed loaded with land mines.

            A groan. “I’ll be right down.”

            Fifteen minutes later Rachel knocked on my door. She has a key, but she waited for me to unlock everything. “Hi. Thanks.”

            “Whatever.” She pushed past me. “What is it?”

            Rachel has short red hair and deep hazelnut eyes. She’s my upstairs neighbor, and she’s psychic, which sometimes helped me on my cases.

            Until a few weeks ago, she was my girlfriend.

            I’d been dealing with a demon, in a kind of amateur exorcism. During the process, the demon had spouted the usual kinds of lies, trying to shake my faith in—anything. Not being religious, the lies didn’t have any impact, even when it accused Rachel of having sex with other men. I didn’t believe it, and it had finally gone back to Hell, or wherever demons come from.

            But later Rachel told me the truth. And it had shaken my trust in everything I thought I could depend on.

            “Over here.” I pointed to the table. “That cigar.”

            She snorted. “You’re smoking cigars now?”

            “It’s not mine.” I didn’t want to tell her too much before she examined it. “Just—take a look at it.”

            Rachel shrugged. I locked the door out of habit and followed her as she walked to the table.

            She was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt that smelled as if it had just come out of the dryer. At the table’s edge she glanced over her shoulder and gave me a smirk. “Stop checking out my butt, asshole.”

            “Force of habit.” But my breath came a bit easier. If Rachel was calling me names, she was still talking to me.

            “Riiight.” She pulled out a chair. “Okay, let me . . .”

            Rachel touched the cigar with the tip of her finger. A bit of dried ash fell off. She bit her lip, breathing slowly, then sat down and rubbed her hands on her jeans. “What’s wrong with it?”

            “It came from a monster.” I told her about last night.

            Rachel picked the cigar up for a moment, then dropped it back down on the saucer. “Yeah, there’s something wrong with this. I don’t know what exactly. Maybe drugs. But not the usual kind. There’s magic mixed up inside.”

            That’s what I’d been afraid of. “Okay. Thanks.”

            She stood up. “That’s it?”

            I hesitated. “You want some coffee?”

            Rachel sat down again. “Sure.”

            I poured. “You okay?”

            She shrugged. “Busy with work. You?”

            “Same.”

            We sat across the table, not looking at each other.

            “You going to go on with this?” She crossed her arms.

            I nodded. “The client wants me to go back tomorrow night. Assuming his wife goes.”

            “And if she doesn’t?” She gave me a stare.

            I sighed. “Okay, I was planning to go back on my own and ask a few questions.”

            Rachel slid her chair back. “I could come with you. Help you scope the place out.”

            Really? I tried not to jump to conclusions about what this might mean. “That would be—fine.”

“But not tonight. I have to work.”

            I tensed and looked away from her. But I managed to keep my mouth shut.

            She stood up. “Yeah, I mean work. For real. I’ve got too many projects. I don’t have time for—anything else.”

            “Okay, okay!” I stood up too. “I didn’t say anything—”

            “You looked at me.” Her shoulders were heaving.

            “I wasn’t looking at—”

            “It was the way you didn’t look at me!” She kicked her chair. “Okay. I can’t . . . we’ve got to do something. I can’t go on like this.”

            Me neither. “What do you want?”

            “I want . . .” Rachel shook her head, and then walked around the table. For a moment I thought she might kiss me.

            Instead she punched me in the arm. The way she used to. “That.”

            Ow. “What was that for?”

            “For not calling me until you needed help.” She turned for the door.

            “I thought . . .” She hadn’t called me. But maybe that wasn’t the right response.

            Rachel grabbed the doorknob. “See you tomorrow.”

           

We followed Rose Egan in my Honda back to Raul’s. Neither of us spoke as I drove.

            Rose was sitting at the same table, her pack of Kools already out as she ordered a drink. Other couples and groups sat smoking and listening to the classical music as the overhead fans revolved endlessly.

Rachel and I took seats at a table with a white tablecloth, a small vase of flowers, and two menus—one for drinks and one for cigars.

The bartender from the other night looked up and gave me a nod. Then he went back to serving drinks and flicking his lighter.

            “I’ll probably order a cigar just to look like I belong here,” I told Rachel as a waiter with a thin mustache walked toward us. “You don’t have to—”

            “I’d like this one.” Rachel pointed to the menu. “And a red wine.”

            “Very good.” The waiter smiled. “And you, sir?”

            I checked the list. The cigar Rachel had picked was $24. “I’ll have the same cigar, and a soda water with lime. I’m driving.”

            “Of course.” The waiter backed away.

            “You smoke cigars now?” I glanced at Rose Egan. “And drink wine?”

            She shrugged. “Time to try something new. And this looks more like a wine place than a beer place.”

            I don’t drink because of the anti-anxiety meds I’m taking, but the glass of wine the waiter brought looked good. He snipped the ends of our cigars, lit Rachel’s first, then fired up mine.

            Rose was on her third cigarette. She watched the stairs nervously, as if remembering the beast from the other night. I didn’t blame her.

            Before the waiter darted away I asked, “Is Davis here tonight? Davis Shank?”

            The waiter blinked. “Does he know you?”

            “I just wanted to say hello. I was here the other night.” I handed over my card.

            He looked it over as if he’d seen cards from more important people. “I’ll see if Mr. Shank is available.”

            “What’s up with that?” Rachel kicked me under the table.

            “I’m a detective, remember? I did some research. He owns the place.”

            She looked at the name on the menu. “Then who’s Raul?”

            “Fidel was too probably too obvious. I only want to ask him some questions.”

            Rachel snorted. “Riiight.”

            I kept my eyes on Rose Egan—and also on the stairs to the upstairs room. I wanted to be ready in case another monster came stalking down.

            Okay, I also watched Rachel when she wasn’t looking. She was wearing jeans and boots, and a loose vest around a blue long-sleeve T-shirt that hugged her slender arms.

I missed her—talking to her, watching TV, even getting punched. This wasn’t a date, but it was almost good enough.

            She caught me. “What are you looking at?”

            I zeroed in on Rose Egan. “Nothing.”

            Rachel groaned. “Look, did I say I’m sorry?”

            She hadn’t. “You don’t have to.”

            “Shut up. You don’t get to do that.” She glared at me.

            “Do what?” I was confused.

            “Pretend you’re not mad at me. Like it didn’t matter.” She gulped her wine.

            “Of course it—” Wait a minute. This wasn’t the right time. But if she was willing to talk to me . . .

            “Yes, I’m mad.” I kept my voice quiet. “I thought—you felt the same way I did.” She didn’t always like it when I told her I loved her. And now I wasn’t sure how I felt.

Yes, I still loved her. Yeah, I was mad at her. My blood started pumping harder than usual. “So why the hell did you have to—”

            “Shh.” She pointed a finger. “Later.”

            Damn it. I turned in my chair.

            “Tom Jurgen? Davis Shank.” He held out a hand that was broader than a catcher’s mitt. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

            Shank was a big man, almost as large as the monster the other night, with long arms and a barrel chest. He had short hair, almost white, and a nose flat as a hammer.

            “Uhh . . .” I stood up as he shook my hand. “You know who I am?”

            He laughed. “Lots of people know Tom Jurgen. In certain circles.”

            “You’re a wizard?” Or a vampire, maybe. I didn’t want to ask.

            Another chuckle. “No. But I have friends who—walk in those circles.” He grinned at Rachel. “And you are?”

            “Rachel.” She stood up as well. “I’m Tom’s—” She hesitated. “It’s complicated.”

            “Nice to meet you.” Shank plopped down in a chair. “What can I do for you?”

            I saw Rose Egan looking over. Shank’s voice carried over the quiet music and low conversations.

            “I  . . . was here the other night.” I gestured at the back stairs with my cigar. “When the, uh, excitement happened.”

            Shank’s smile vanished like a puff of smoke. “That was—things like that don’t happen often.” His voice was quiet now. “We took care of it.”

            “What was it?” I checked out Rose. She was staring at her gin and tonic. “I’m not working—on this, anyway. I’m just curious.”

            “Yeah, I’ve heard that about you too.” He grimaced. “Look, there isn’t much I can tell you—”

            Then shouts erupted from upstairs. Followed by a gunshot.

            Shank’s chair fell over as he lurched to his feet. “Goddamn it—”

            What the hell? I looked at Rachel. She twisted around, peering at the steps. “Is this what happened last time?”

            “There weren’t any—”

            Something boomed in the upstairs room. A gunshot. Shank twisted in his chair. “What the hell?”

            Not a monster. This time a man and a woman pounded down the stairs. The woman, slender and blonde in a short skirt and leather jacket, carried a handgun that looked too big and heavy for her skinny arms to carry.

            The man was taller, with black hair in a short ponytail, in a long raincoat. He carried a long wooden box in his hands, holding it with tight fingers as if it might explode

            The woman jumped the last two steps to the ground. “Just stay there!” She waved her gun as people ducked to the floor or, like the other night, started running for the nearest door. “Stay put!”

            She fired the gun at the ceiling. It almost dropped out of her hand from the kick, but it got the impact she wanted. Plaster rained down on the tables and floor. Most people froze, and those who didn’t dropped down, crawling under tables or behind whatever cover they could find.

            “Come on!” The blonde woman raced for the door, her partner behind her.

            Shank jumped from his chair, ready to chase her, but she waved the gun back and forth, and he backed away, arms raised. But his eyes were red with anger.

            The door banged as they left.

            Rose finished downed her drink, grabbed her cigarettes, and dropped some money on her table. Then she marched toward the door—along with half of Shank’s customers, all pushing to get out.

            The two men from the other night rushed down the stairs. The African American made his way toward the door, sliding through the stampede with his Taser in his fist.

            The other man came up to Shank, gasping. “I’m sorry, Mr. Shank. They just—”

            “Josh!” Shank shouted above the crash of people fighting for the door. “Don’t go after them! Let them go!”

            Josh was pulling people aside, but Shank’s order stopped him. With an angry frown, he jammed his Taser into a pocket and held the door open for patrons frantic to leave.

            “What happened, Tony?” Shank watched as his customers fled.

            “They were just smoking cigars.” Tony spread his arms. “Nothing unusual. They weren’t even turning, just taking it easy. Then suddenly the girl had a gun, and the guy was grabbing for the box. She took a shot at the wall and Ben let him take it—”

            “Was anyone hurt?” Shank pounded a big fist on the table.

            “No.” Tony trembled. “Just the wall.”

            “Good.” Shank rubbed a relieved hand across his forehead. “Did they get—”

            “Yeah.” Tony nodded.

            “Damn it.” He sat down again.

            Rose was gone. I could follow her, but at this point I figured she’d just go home and y never come back again. I didn’t blame her. “What’s going on?”

            Shank ignored me. “All right, everybody!” He held up his hands and, surprisingly, about half the customers stopped shouting and shoving.

            “I’m sorry there was a disturbance.” He managed to keep his voice calm. “But it’s all over now. Just sit down and have a few drinks and cigars on me.” He turned to the white guy. “Tony, tell the staff to cancel all bills. Everything on the house. Josh, with me.” He hesitated. Then he looked down at me. “Will you stay? I’d like to talk to you.”

            I glanced at Rachel. She shrugged. “Sure,” I said.

            Shank and Josh headed upstairs.

            Most of the customers left despite Shank’s offer of free drinks, but a few, either fearless or too rattled to leave just yet, took their seats again and gulped at whatever was in front of them.

            Rachel polished off her wine in one swallow. “You do take me on interesting dates.”

            Date? I didn’t say anything. But maybe it was a start.

Sometimes a Cigar Isn't Just a Cigar, Part Two

A half hour later we were sitting in Shank’s office.

            It was upstairs. Josh took us up, leading us through a dark, low-ceilinged room filled with leather armchairs and silver ashtray stands. Two workmen were already repairs the bullet hole in the wall.

Josh knocked, then opened the door.

Shank was on the phone. He motioned Rachel and me to sit. “No, there’s no need to send anyone. Everything’s under control. Just a misunderstanding. Thanks, commander.” He hung up with a sigh.

“Police?” I sat.

“I don’t want them barging around here.” He opened a bottle of whiskey and lifted three glasses from a drawer. “You?”

The office was small, packed with books—some of them brand-new paperbacks, others that looked hundreds of years old—along with a tall file cabinet and a heavy iron safe that could have once starred in an old Western movie. A laptop sat on the corner of the desk.

Rachel accepted a drink, although I noticed she only took half a sip. I turned it down—as much as I wanted one. “So what can I do for you, Mr. Shank?”

He downed half his drink. “The club up here—it doesn’t cost $10,000, like I said, but it’s exclusive and expensive. The cigars are—shape changers.”

Uh-oh. “They turn people into monsters?”

He groaned. “Just—different. Some people become small animals. Large ones. One woman turned into an angel for twenty minutes. An old man became his dog from childhood. It all depends on what’s in people’s minds.”

“Sounds like fun.” Rachel tilted her head. “I wonder what I’d turn into?”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to speculate. “So what about the monster from the other night?”

“Sometimes it’s—not fun.” He poured more whiskey. “People have dark, ugly minds sometimes. We take precautions—that’s why Josh has his Taser. All the attendants up here have stuff to deal with problems. It hardly ever happens—nothing like the other night.”

I sat up in my chair. “The monster from the other night—it had a short black ponytail. Just like the guy carrying that box tonight.”

Shank nodded with a scowl. “Guy Turleck. He was a provisional member. You can join on a short-term basis for a reduced fee, but someone has to sponsor you for full membership.”

“What about the woman?” This came from Rachel.

“Sheila Arlow. Same deal. Just came in tonight, with Turleck.”

Rachel blinked, but said nothing.

“What did they steal?” I asked.

Another groan. “The cigars.”

“Where do they come from?” Rachel asked.

“South America. There’s a chemist there who makes it with some kind of rare plant. They take years to make, so I can’t just order another box. I’ve got to get those back.”

Uh-oh. I could see where this was going. “Are you asking me to find her?”

“I’d like to hire you. You have a good reputation in—those circles I mentioned.”

Flattery was nice. But not enough. “I can try to locate her. I won’t try to steal your box back. She has a gun.”

“No, no.” He shook his head. “I have people who can handle that. Just tell me where she is.”

I hesitated. “I may not be able to narrow it down that closely. Don’t your provisional members give you any kind of information?”

“I’ll give you what I have. You can check to see if it’s accurate, and then anything else you can do . . .”

I shifted in my chair. It’s always hard to turn down a paying client, but this seemed like an exercise in futility and disappointment. And a dangerous one.

Still, I had a chance at helping Shank if I was lucky. And not getting shot if I was careful. Plus, getting paid. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Great.” He opened his drawer and pulled out a checkbook. “What should the retainer be?”

Back in the Honda Rachel watched the cars come at us. “Well, I could say that was different, but for you, that’s pretty much a normal evening.”

            “Sorry.” I slowed for a red light.

            She punched my arm. “I know what I’m getting into with you.”

            Another punch. This was almost old times. I didn’t say anything to spoil the mood.

            “He knows the woman. Sheila Arlow.” Rachel’s psychic powers are pretty good at picking up deception.

            “Huh.” I had the address, phone number, and email she’d given, and Shank had promised to send me photos from the security cameras on the main floor and up in the club. “Not a good sign when the client lies to me right off the bat.”

            “Technically he didn’t lie. He just didn’t tell us everything.”

            Us? A positive word. But I didn’t push it.

            Back at our building I parked on the street and we walked up the steps to the front door. I held the door for Rachel. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

            She winked. “Wouldn’t have missed it.”

            We waited for the elevator. Finally I gave up and asked, “Are we okay?”

            Rachel put her hands in her pockets and looked me in the eyes. “That’s up to you.”

            The elevator opened. We rode in silence. I got off at my floor. “Good night.”

            She nodded without looking at me. “Be careful.”

Sheila Arlow’s address turned out to be an shopping mall in Gary, Indiana. I found a nice bird’s-eye view of it on Google the next morning. The email I sent her using one of the alternate addresses I use came back as undeliverable, and the phone number went to a pet shop in Lombard where no one had ever heard of her.

            At least she’d used her real name, since Shank knew her. After a twenty-minute search I found that Sheila Arlow worked in a real estate office in Logan Square. The office’s website had pictures of its agents, and hers matched the security camera images Shank had emailed to me. She had degrees from the University of Michigan and Northwestern, according to her profile.

            I called the main office number, only to find out that she didn’t work on Thursdays. Her regular days were Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays, plus weekends when necessary. Did I want to leave a message? I didn’t, so I thanked the agent and hung up quickly.

            Turleck’s information was also bogus, and his name too, as far as I could tell. But he’d shown up first, and Shank didn’t know him.

            Rachel called as I was eating a sandwich for lunch. “Find out anything?”

            “I know where Sheila Arlow works but I can’t find a home address for her.” I’d spent an hour searching all kinds of specialized sites. “The other guy is a fake name. I suppose I’ll have to stake out her office, unless she’s taken the cigars and moved to Mexico or somewhere.”

            Talking about a case again, as if everything was back to normal between us, felt strange. I waited for a snarky comment.

            All she said was, “Well, call me if you need anything.” Then she hung up.

            Damn it. First she ignores me, now she was bugging me without saying anything. I didn’t want to break up, but I wouldn’t be able to stand this halfway-to-reconciliation business for very long.

            Why would she do that to me?

            For the first time in a week I felt angry.

            At first I’d been in shock. Then I tried to ignore it. We’d run into each other coming into and out of the building once or twice, said hi, and that was it. I tried not to think about her. Concentrate on my work.

            Until I’d needed her help.

            Maybe she was right. Or maybe she’d been waiting for me to call.

            Damn it. I shoved the thought aside and stabbed a quick email to Shank, telling him what I’d learned and my plan for a stakeout tomorrow. I had no idea where the cigars were—

            Except for one of them.

            Turleck’s half-smoked cigar was sealed in a plastic bag in my refrigerator. I got it, opened the bag and smelled it.

            Stale, but it still had wisps of a pungent aroma.

            I looked at it a long time. Then I found an ashtray in a drawer, and a book of matches.

            Then I called Rachel.

“Is this a good idea?” Rachel had brought her pepper spray and stun gun.

            “I just want to see what it’s like.” I wasn’t sure it was a good idea at all, but I thought maybe—possibly—smoking the cigar and doing the transformation might tell me something. About Turleck, about the cigars—anything.

            And I’d be safe with Rachel.

            She grimaced. “It turned that guy into a monster. And . . . you’re mad at me.”

            “I’m not—” I stopped, angry at myself. Denying it wouldn’t do me—or us—any good. “Yes, I’m mad at you. Really, very, honestly mad. Worse than any editor who told me I was crazy, worse than my divorce, worse than when Dudovich died—”

            She held up a hand. “Okay, you can stop—”

            “But I love you.” There. I’d said it before, but it felt different now. Like it meant something more. “I’d rather you pepper-sprayed me and shocked me and kicked me face than anyone else.”

            Rachel gave a long sigh. “It’s a deal. Fire it up.”

            Now that she’d agreed, I was nervous. I had trouble striking the first match. Rachel giggled. “Need some help?”

            “I’m fine.” I wanted her a good distance away. The second match flared.

            I stuck the cigar between my lips, lit it, and dropped the match in the ashtray, shoving my chair away from the table.

            I drew the smoke in—not enough to cough, but just to taste whatever was in the tobacco. I used to smoke cigarettes, and it came easier than I would have liked. I exhaled.

            Rachel watched me, her arms tense. “Well?”

            “Nothing yet.” I took a gulp of water. Maybe the cigar’s effects were gone. I waited.

            The cigar went out. After two minutes I lit it again and took another couple of puffs. It smelled better now. The smoke tasted like rum.

            I leaned back. “Okay. I think it’s hitting me.”

            I felt it in my chest first—my heart pounding hard and heavy. Then in my hands and feet. I looked down.

            My hands were shiny green.

            I kicked off my shoes, wondering if I should have had Rachel tie me up. My arms shook. My face itched. I leaned back, my face suddenly aching. My nose felt as if Rachel had whacked it with a two-by-four.

            Then I could smell her. Rachel’s body. Her breath. Her feet. Her hair. Her skin.

            I blinked my eyes and looked at Rachel.

            I could see every inch of her. Not X-ray vision—and yeah, I’ve seen Rachel naked, and vice versa—but it felt like seeing more of her than I ever had before. From the dark pupils inside the wide hazelnut irises of her eyes to the veins in her throat and the sharp angles of her shoulders, I could see everything. Her tense muscles, her slender fingers, every strand of her hair—

            I could hear each breath she took. The sound of her eyelashes fluttering. Her hands clenching. I could even hear her heart, beating steadily under her blue cotton shirt.

            “Uhh . . .” My lips felt strange, but I could still manage to talk. “What’s happening?”

            She laughed. I heard each syllable separately, like an orchestra in slow time. “Dude, you’re a lizard.”

            I looked at my hands again. My fingers were longer, and webbed. I pushed up my sleeves. My arms had spots all around.

            My tongue flicked out. My tongue? It was long and skinny as a whip, and it tasted the air—my empty cup of coffee, the garbage in the kitchen, the lingering smoke, and . . .

            Rachel.

            My head rocked back and forth. “I can see everything. I can smell—taste—and feel—everything.”

            “Maybe that’s what you want.” I could feel her eyes on my forehead. “To know everything.”

            Closing my eyes was hard. They wanted to stay open, taking in every sight, every color, every movement. Pulling my tongue back into my mouth . . . I felt empty and blind.

            Oh god. How long would this last? I tried to shut down all my senses, but my lizard body was trembling. I could hear Rachel’s heart beating faster, her breaths pounding my eardrums. I couldn’t even bite my lip—my teeth couldn’t reach it.

            I smelled the cigar. It had gone out again, but the tendrils of its scent filled my nostrils as I tried to resist every other sense. I tried not to breathe.

            Behind my eyelids, red and yellow sparks rose like fireflies around a campfire. At first I thought I was just pressing my eyes shut too tight, but after a moment the shapes and colors turned into pictures.

            I saw the room at Castro’s, shaking in every direction. People looking up, startled—then alarmed.

            I saw Rose Egan at her table. From the corner of my eye, I saw—me. Sitting at the bar, perplexed and clutching my drink.

            Did I really look like that?

            I felt a hand slapping my cheek. “Tom! Snap out of it!”

            Rachel. “No! Wait!” I grabbed her wrist and squeezed. Rachel yelped. “Not yet! Give me . . . a minute . . .”

            I ran out Castro’s door, grunting like an animal. The sidewalk tilted under my feet. I ran—Turleck ran—and in a few minutes I leaned down, gasping, wondering what had happened to my clothes.

            Home, I thought. He thought. Home.

            Turleck flagged down a cab, the monster still fading from his body. He jumped inside, ignoring the suspicious look from the driver in front. “Take me home,” he grunted.

            He gave an address.

I woke up on the couch. Rachel was rubbing my shoulders. “Come on, you jerk! Wake up!”

            My eyelids flickered. “I’m . . . awake.”

            “Good.” She slugged my arm. “Don’t do that again.”

            I sat up. My body felt back to normal. I couldn’t smell anything beyond my sweaty shirt. I could feel the couch under my butt, but nothing else. I could still taste the cigar in my mouth, like dried ashes under my tongue.

            I could see Rachel’s face. Nothing else. It was enough.

            “So . . .” I swung my legs to the floor. “I was a lizard?”

            “It was kind of cool.” She stood up. “Until you passed out and I had to lug you over here.”

            “Yeah.” I licked my lips. “Thanks.”

            “Are you okay?”

            I stretched my arms and looked at my hands. I took a deep breath. I touched my face, checking out my nose and mouth.

            Yeah, I was back. And I missed the feeling.

            “I can see why people pay money for that.” I grabbed a bottle of water from the coffee table. “It was—intense.”

            “Like what?” Rachel pulled a chair from the kitchen table and sat down. “It looked—weird. What happened?”

            “I could see everything. I could feel—everything.” I looked at her. “I could hear your heart.”

            “Okayyy . . .” She scooted her chair back. “What did it say?”

            I shook my head. “I know where Turleck is. I should call Shank.”

            Rachel stood up. “Yeah. You do that.”

            “Wait!” I lurched to my feet. “I didn’t . . . I could feel you. Every part of you. And I knew you were helping me.”

            I held out a hand. After a moment, Rachel squeezed it.

            “You’re an asshole.” She slugged my shoulder.

            “And I’m mad at you.” I let her hand go. “Thank you.”

            “Yeah, well . . .” She looked over my shoulder at the door. “I’ve got to go.”

            “Sure.”

            She picked up her equipment—the stun gun and the pepper spray. Then she turned around. “You okay?”

            “Yeah.” I gulped some more water. “Thanks again.”

            Rachel grabbed my arm. “You’re a jerk.” Then she kissed me. Hard

            “Y-yeah.” I staggered but stayed on my feet. “I love you too.”

            “Call me.” Rachel left.

Shank called me back late that afternoon. “We didn’t find them.”

            Nuts. I’d called with Turleck’s address, and he’d said he’d take care of it. I’d imagined Josh and Paul descending on the place like a SWAT team, but apparently all they’d done was wait outside the apartment building until “Turleck”—whose real name turned out to be Mike Gunther—came home.  

I don’t know how they, uh, persuaded Gunther to let them search his apartment, but the fact that he didn’t actually have the cigars probably made him more willing to cooperate.

“All right.” I’d hoped this was over. I was still exhausted from my cigar experience. “If you want, I could stake out Arlow’s office tomorrow and tail her home. That’s if she hasn’t run.”

“She won’t run. She’s too stubborn.”

That was my opening to the question I had to ask: “You know her, don’t you?”

He realized what he’d said. “What makes you say that?”

“Rachel. She’s psychic.”

After a moment Shank chuckled. “I can see why you want her around. Aside from the obvious. Yeah, Sheila and I dated. It ended a few months back. I didn’t—uh, I didn’t want to mention it because, well, I was an asshole. She caught me . . . well, she caught me. You don’t need to hear the details, do you?”

Cheating seemed to be the theme for the week. “No, that’s all right. I’ll be in touch.”

So the next morning I was parked in across the street from Sheila Arlow’s real estate office, a storefront in Logan Square. The office’s website said her Friday hours were 11:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., so I got there at 10:30 to find a suitable parking spot.

I sent Rachel an email to let her know where I was. I was still doing that, even when we weren’t speaking, just as an insurance policy. She rarely responded. Today she texted back, “Watch out for lizards.”

At 11:55 Arlow walked into the office. Through the window and between the rental notices posted on it, I saw her wave to a co-worker and then disappear toward the back.

I called Shank. “She’s here.”

“How long can you stay there?”

“A few hours.” I’d handled long stakeouts before, but after four hours my concentration faded. And I’d need a real bathroom break at some point, not just a wide-necked bottle.

Shank thought for a moment. “I don’t know where she lives now. I can send someone over to watch the place for a while  if you can come back when she leaves.”

But if she left to visit a property with a client they might lose her. And if she never came back to the office we’d have to wait until next week to pick her up again—if she bothered to come back to work at all.

“No.” At least I’d packed sandwiches. “I’d better stay on her myself. I’ll call if she goes anywhere.”

“Okay.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“It’s a job.” A seven-plus hour stakeout would add a lot to the bill.

I called Rachel. “Looks like I’m stuck here for the day.”

“Poor baby.” I heard her keyboard clicking. “I’d come and sit with you, but I’ve got a website to put up.” She does graphic design. It pays better than P.I. work. “Plus, I’d rather claw my eyes out than sit in a car for eight hours.”

“I hear you.” My butt was already starting to ache.

“Call me before you do anything stupid.” She hung up.

I sipped some water, turned the radio on low to my favorite classic rock station, and leaned back, prepared for a long, boring day.

It was indeed a long, boring day.

            I ducked out at 2:00 p.m. to buy a cup of coffee and a scone at the coffee shop, but really to use the restroom. Fifteen minutes later I breathed a sigh of relief as Arlow walked a client to the door and shook his hand. She hadn’t left.

            At four o’clock a knock on my window startled me. Turleck/Gunther? Josh? But it was Rachel, holding two cups of coffee.

            I switched the radio off and unlocked the doors. “At least you can watch the door when I have to go to the bathroom again.”

            “I finished up.” She slid inside and slipped one coffee into a cupholder. “Then I got bored. Anything happening?”

            “Two hundred and thirteen bicycles have gone down the street since 10:30.” I held up a notebook with scratchmarks on it. “It’s apparently Journey Day on the radio station. Every time I hear the chorus of ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ I wait for Tony Soprano to get whacked. Sheila Arlow is inside there.” I pointed. “Probably taunting me.”

            Rachel folded her arms. “Let’s talk about it.”

            “Here?” I glanced across the street. “Now?”

            “What else have you got to do but count bicycles?” She leaned back. “I want to get past this somehow. One way or the other.”

            Yeah. “Okay.” I resisted the jerk move to say “You first.” Instead I took a deep breath.

            “It hurt.” I stared at my windshield, keeping one eye on the office door. “Hearing it from a demon? I figured it was lying. Finding out it was telling the truth? From a demon? That  . . . sucked.”

            “You’d rather hear it from me?” Her voice was quiet.

            “Would you have told me?”

            Rachel looked in her lap and didn’t answer.

            “You must have been mad at me.” I sipped the coffee she’d brought me. “For a long time.”

            “Not mad. Just . . . frustrated.” She clenched her fists. “You keep getting yourself into these situations. Yeah, you always get out us of them, but every time I wonder if it’s going to be the last, and . . .” She shook her head. “That’s not even it. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”

            “It’s what I do.” I’d told her that before. It had cost me my job and my marriage. Was it going to mean losing Rachel too?

            “Not what I mean.” She tapped a finger on the armrest. “I was scared.”

            I nodded. “I get that. Vampires and witches and giant mutant chickens—”

            “Shut up.” She punched my shoulder. “We’ve been together . . . how long?”

            I tried to think back to the first time I’d met her. Helping her deal with a vampire while she was running a support group for victims of vampire attacks. “Four years. Maybe five.”

            “That’s the longest I’ve ever been with anyone.” She counted down on her fingers. “Bobby in high school, two weeks. Alex, six months, off and on. Seamus, college, nine months. Allison . . . that was different. But call it eight months. Then James, after college—”

            “I really don’t need the whole list.” For that matter, I’d been with Rachel longer than I’d been married. “What are you getting at?”

            “Don’t you get it? I’m not used to this.” She breathed a long sigh. “I may not be good at long-term relationships. I never was.”

            I flinched. “So you—decided to deal with it by having a bunch of one-night stands?”

            I regretted it as soon as I’d said it. I braved myself for a punch. Instead Rachel just lowered her head. “You asshole.”

            It hurt worse than a punch. “I just meant . . . I don’t know.”

            “I know what you meant.” Rachel hugged her arms around her chest.

            “What?”

            “You don’t know how I can love you and—do what I did.”

            I wanted to pound the dashboard. “Well . . . yeah. I don’t get it. All right? Can you explain it? Because I’d really like to—”

            “Shut up.” Rachel pointed through her window. “It’s her.”

            Damn it. I started the car.

            Sheila Arlow walked through the door, a smile on her face, looking up and down the street. Then she turned right, heading up the sidewalk, a purse swing over her shoulder.

            I managed to make the turn, getting an angry honk from an oncoming bus. I hoped Arlow didn’t have far to walk. Pretending to look for a parking space on the street wouldn’t work for long.

            A block away she unlocked a small blue Hyundai. Fortunately she was quick. The Hyundai pulled away, and I followed.

            “Call Shank.” I tossed my phone to Rachel. “Tell him we’re following his girlfriend.”

            “Girlfriend?” Rachel giggled. “I kind of thought—wait, okay, okay, here he is.” She punched the number. “One, two . . . hi, Dave! Uh, Davis, sorry. This is Rachel. I’m Tom Jurgen’s, uh, associate? You met me the other night? Yeah, that’s me. Anyway, we’re tailing that Arlow woman. I guess we’ll call you when we have something more.”

            She planted the phone on the dashboard perch. “He sounds mad.”

            Yeah. “Just let me drive.”