Introduction

Starting with only a cryptic message about an event from a century ago written in the blood of the woman he loved, Malcom Winters races around Chicago piecing together increasingly baffling parts of the puzzle in an effort to solve the crime and gain his vengeance. Together with the help of a brilliant and beautiful science professor, a gruff chef who claims to be in witness protection for trying to assassinate Fidel Castro, and a cross-dressing businessman, he uncovers a bizarre murder spree and draws the attention of the killer to himself and those few people he holds dear.

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Excerpt

Freddy, being ever cautious, won’t answer the door if you show up at the time he specifies in his classified ad. It has to be eleven minutes later. Not ten, not twelve, but eleven. I get an early start, as it’s about an hour’s walk to the apartment that doubles as his office. Located under Highway 40 over a bagel shop near the Tennessee State University campus, it isn’t the most conspicuous spot. It’s been awhile since I’ve been there and my memory has disappointed me more than once lately, so I have concerns about whether I’ll recognize the building. I’ll never get my new identity if I’m late. The plan is to find it then camp out in a coffee shop nearby, grab a pastry, and wait out any excess time.

The route to Freddy’s lacks the distraction of any visual appeal, allowing me to ignore my surroundings and to mentally revisit my tryst with Fyre. She’s attractive, intelligent, and vibrant, which should be enough for any man, including myself. On the negative side, she’s secretive and clearly is haunted by something, causing loud warning signals to sound inside my head whenever we’re together. It’s possible, even probable, that I’m so accustomed to being put in situations where not being able to read what’s going on inside an individual’s head means almost certain death that I’m overreacting. I have the ability to track Fyre down if I want to, but is that what I want? Something to think about on the next Greyhound.

Having settled that issue through procrastination, I look up and find myself thirty yards from the bagel shop. Score one for my subconscious memory. From there, though, my plan rapidly falls apart. Walking a one hundred-yard perimeter around Freddy’s base of operations, I barely catch any sign of life at all much less a Starbucks. In a way that isn’t a bad thing, as their uninspired selection of hot teas shows why they’re known for their coffee. I stand on a corner, frustrated and cold, contemplating whether to hang out in the 24-hour laundromat when a revelatory thought enters my head. Freddy lives above a bagel shop. Moron (me, not Freddy). I had to skip the Fairfield breakfast when it became clear that Mr. and Mrs. Evans were going to make a morning of it over coffee and Froot Loops, and a toasted wheat bagel with vegetable cream cheese sounds palatable. If they don’t have tea, juice will do.

The bagel is better than good and the juice is cold. I’m just finishing when chimes sound from the phone in my pocket. Exiting the revolving door and circling to the rear of the building, I climb up a rotting wooden staircase to the second floor, staring at my phone and counting down the last few seconds before knocking on a faded green door. Two knocks, pause, one knock, pause, then two more. I wouldn’t be surprised if Freddy has a different code for every customer.

The door slowly opens to a six-inch crack, the business end of a high-caliber handgun emerging right at eye level.

“Password?”

The request startles me. He’s never required one before, although it’s been at least five years since I last used his services. I’m not scared but I’m not happy either. Mostly I’m just pissed off.

“How about if-you-don’t-open-the-door-to-let-me-in-I’ll-bust-it-open?”

“That’ll work,” he mutters. He opens the door just wide enough for me to slip in sideways before quickly shutting it and engaging a Rube Goldberg-esque set of locks.

“Since when do you require a password?”

Freddy grins, then shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t. A few months back I used an acquaintance to whisper to certain sources that the password ‘Key Largo’ would gain entrance. If you had used that phrase a minute ago I would’ve blasted you without a second’s pause. Keeps the riff raff away.” He shrugs again, a nervous habit. “You can never be too careful.”

With that, the old man turns and straggles back to an old banker’s desk set in the corner of the room, its top obscured by at least a dozen lamps of various intensities. For now, the room is darkened. Freddy has aged since I last saw him, having added deep stress lines across his forehead. His gray hair has turned a cream-colored white, a stark contrast to his coal-black face. Five years before I would have guessed his age as around 50. Now maybe closer to 80. And yes, he's wearing a tie. Purple with red stripes, if you must know.

“This business is getting harder every day,” he grumbles as he lowers himself into his chair. “I’m too old to keep up with the technology. Thinkin’ about retiring.”

As he speaks, Freddy leans down and opens a drawer, which lets out a loud squeak in protest. He pulls out a thick envelope. “Good name, I like it. Solid. You’d be surprised what some people want. Won’t even do some of them, draws too much attention.”

Freddy’s fingers quiver as he opens the clasp on the envelope, pulling out a stack of documents and pushing them across the desk. “If you ever need to do this again and I’m still kickin’, I’ll need a more recent picture.”

I pick up the passport, turning it over in the dim light. Exquisite. Freddy sighs, then speaks again. He’s talkative today.

“Kept your same birthdate. You know the drill. Take these to the chair over there and start learnin’ about yourself. Before you leave they go in the fire.”

My memory may not be what it used to be, but I’ve been trained to zero in on the most cogent facts and lock them away forever. I can always Google myself later to fill in any gaps. I was apparently born in a small town outside of Toledo, won an award in a 7th grade science fair, and was a two-sport star in my high school. And knowing Freddy, if you look up the class yearbook online, there I’ll be along with every other student. Freddy has pictures of me at a variety of ages from early childhood on stored in his database. I’m not worried about security though. The first time I met him, Freddy told me that if anyone’s fingers but his own touched his keyboard, all of his stored data instantly dissolved.

I’ve been married, moved to Cleveland, then got divorced. Worked in sales for a while before accepting a manager’s position with a flooring company. My interests include golfing--which I hope I’ll never have to prove—and collecting beer cans. I’m pretty sure I hear Freddy chuckling as I snort in disgust.

There’s more of the same, but I don’t stay the whole hour. I throw my new life’s history into the fire, shake Freddy’s hand, and make a quick exit. Leaving his shop, I have a decision to make. Where to? My default plan is to go to the bus station, take the first bus that has a final destination at least two hundred miles away, and hope that the fates will be kind. I descend the stairs and plot my course to the Greyhound station. Heading back, a chilly wind flies in my face and I bury my hands deep into the pockets of my jacket.

As I walk I feel a slip of paper at the fingertips of my left hand that hadn’t been there the day before. Curious, I pull it out, read it, and give a mental tip of the hat to the fates. No words, only ten digits. 773-555-3589. I recognize the area code. Looks like I’m headed to Chicago. view abbreviated excerpt only...

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