The Black Books

The Black Books

The narrow stairs spiral down into the dark café. It’s the only café in Chicago that boasts a brooding atmosphere. Dim lighting and booths with dark upholstery. I strain my eyes as I make my way to the back near the bar, then smash my hipbone into the corner of the table as I plop down in a booth across from Sam.

“Ow! How does this place even do business!” I curse.

Sam shrugs. Her blue-eyed gaze tracks my presence just a fraction off center. "I like it here. Doesn't hurt my eyes," she says.

"Right. Are you okay? You sounded anxious on the phone."

"I'm fine. Better than fine. Order me a coffee. You know, one of those fancy-ass ones with espresso or something like that, and I'll tell you my big news. Oh, and how about omelets? Don't worry, this one's on me. Order whatever you want." Her hand fumbles across the table until she lands on the paper menu, then she slides it toward me.

A heavy sigh parts my lips. I didn't plan on being here long. I have my own business to attend to. My left hand subconsciously pats the small leather-bound black book in my pocket. Making sure it's right where I put it, safe and sound. Mysterious names and all. It's just the mystery I need to distract me from the messy divorce that's consuming every second of my free time. Maybe the book belongs to some out-of-towner. I can get on a bus and find it’s owner. I’ll start at the bus stop where I found the peculiar little book wrapped up like a gift in folded newspaper. I just need to get away.

There are more people crammed in here than I think there should be and yet it's quiet. Shady characters hunched across tables, talking to each other in low voices. I imagine my husband meeting his mistress in this place. Soon-to-be wife once our divorce is finalized. I scan the people, trying to pick out the bastard and his homewrecking wench. Instead, I catch the attention of a waiter who's recklessly stroking a dingy dishcloth over the surface of his serving tray. He saunters over to take our order.

I demand something simple. Something I'm sure the chef can whip up with ease and have us out of here in no time. The book is burning a hole in my pocket. I have to know who it belongs to.

Sam frowns. She knows what I'm up to.

"What? I thought something was wrong. I have to get back to work," I lie.

Sam blows a strand of blonde hair off her face. “I know your schedule. We work at the same house, remember? You're not on shift today."

I want to lie and tell her I'm picking up extra shifts at the firehouse, but why bother. If I know Sam, she'll call the lieutenant and check.

"Okay fine, what's your big news?”

She smirks and fiddles with the zipper holding her purse closed.

"You want me—”

"Gotta learn to do these things on my own.” She pulls her handbag right up to her eyes, squinting hard. "There you are.” She nabs the end of the zipper and tugs it down. Fishing inside her bag, she pulls out a small leather-bound black book identical to the one in my pocket.

I swallow hard. How can there be two?

"Found this little beauty right outside this building just the other day. Well actually, I tripped over it. Bastard tried to take me out, and truthfully, I don't know what it looks like, but it feels old and priceless.” She strokes the worn leather and thumbs through the pages. “Anyway, I brought it inside thinking someone had dropped it. Turns out there's a reward for its return. Guy behind the bar handed me the reward paper. Forty thousand dollars."

She pokes around in her purse again and hands me a tiny folded paper. It’s the reward bulletin.

"I called the phone number. It's a family heirloom. All the names on the pages are people that this old Middle Eastern doctor saved over the years. The man is dead now, but his son lost the book and wants it back. I mean, what are the odds that I found a family heirloom like this from a world-renowned doctor. At least the son made it seem like he was a world-renowned doctor. Who cares, I'll finally have some real money to try and get these damn eyes fixed."

She rubs her baby blues, the ones that were torched in a chemical fire after she courageously went back into an old brownstone to save a woman. The woman lived, but Sam's damaged vision landed her on disability, most of which she spends on a man who's researching experimental and very expensive eye procedures to correct her vision. I'm trying to be optimistic for her, but there's not much happiness left in my life to be optimistic about, and now the mystery of the black book and a potential escape is vanishing before me. Except for the mystery of why there are two.

"Can I see the book?"

She hands it over. "Anyway, I'm meeting the guy's son in an hour or so. I was hoping you could give me a lift.”

I'm quiet. Carefully flipping each page. The names are identical to the ones in my black book. Why would there be two?

The waiter returns and unceremoniously plops our food down in front of us. "So will you give me a ride after breakfast or what?" Sam shovels a forkful of steaming egg into her mouth and gives me a yellow-tinted grin.

"How do you know this is even legit?"

"Well, I already have half the money. So there's that."

"What?"

"Yeah. I called the number. The son, Adam? He runs a funeral home. Sort of a side business that compliments his father's family-owned medical office. Anyway, he said he was so happy to be getting the book back that he'd wire me half the money in good faith."

"Tell me you did not give that man your account information."

"Do I look stupid to you? I opened a second account. There's twenty grand in there. The guy is legit. Now I just have to drop the book off and collect the rest. You can help me with that, can't you?"

I take a deep breath.

"Oh, come on! Please? You know being on the road with me is always fun!"

I shrug and agree. I mean what's the worst that can happen? She gets twenty grand more and then I call the number on the bulletin and offer the same black book and collect forty grand myself? Maybe this dude is just trying to spread out a hefty inheritance to some randos who take part in his black book easter egg hunt. What does it matter? Forty thousand is enough money to buy a lengthy vacation anywhere I want. A little twinge of excitement stirs the decaying butterflies in my stomach.

We eat our food and hop in my car. Sam grills me about all the firehouse adventures I've been having without her. I can tell she misses being in the ambo with me. And truthfully I miss her. She's the best paramedic I know. It would be great to have my partner back. It feels like old times chatting with her, and for a moment the divorce drama fades in the rearview mirror as we drive out of the city and into rural Illinois.

"You have arrived," the female robotic GPS voice tells us after two hours of driving.

"What's it look like?" Sam asks.

"It's a funeral home attached to a small hospital building in the middle of nowhere."

She slaps my shoulder. “You expected a crack-dealing warehouse instead of a funeral home."

"You didn't?"

"Told you this guy was legit. Come on, let's go get the money," she says excitedly, and slides her hand down the car door, feeling for the handle.

Once she's out of the car. I pop open the center console between seats and grab my stun gun and shove it into my pocket. If there's one thing a nasty divorce has taught me it’s that people are never who you think they are and you should be prepared for anything. I link arms with Sam and we head into the funeral home side entrance.

I expect the funeral home to be stark and cold. It’s the opposite. Warm lighting, cozy atmosphere with large plush couches for guests to sit and grieve. A tall man with dark curly hair and sea-green eyes is standing behind a welcome counter lovingly arranging a grouping of flowers in a vase. He gives us a charming grin and approaches us.

"Hello, I'm Adam. You must be Samantha. And you brought a friend. How nice," he says to me.

I gesture to my right. "This is Samantha."

He smiles even more brightly and slides from behind the counter to wrap Samantha in a warm embrace. "I'm so lucky you found my father's book. May I have it please?"

Sam passes it to him. He clasps it against his chest and then hugs her again. "Thank you! It would be my head if my mother discovered it missing. Please have a seat. I will get my check book and a bottle of our finest family wine. We make our own. We must celebrate our good fortune. Yes?”

I try to reject the offer, but he doesn’t hear it. He’s disappears through a door behind the welcome counter.

“Oh, have a glass of wine,” Sam urges as we sink into a comfortable green couch. I don’t reply. This isn’t the time to announce I’m pregnant. It’s a complication I can’t face right now.

Adam returns, obtrusively seats himself between us and hands us each a glass of deliciously fragrant red wine.

Sam’s damaged eyes can’t pick out the over eager, grin plastered across his face. It makes the small hairs on the back of my neck rise. I press a hand into my pocket, grasping my taser.

Adam tells us about his father's medical conquests and writes Sam a check for the rest of the reward money. He hands it to her while we imbibe. Or at least Sam does. I scoot myself a bit farther down the couch and pretend to sip while they chat.

It's not long before Sam starts to act funny. Her eyes grow heavy and her speech slurs.

"Are you feeling okay?" Adam asks me while steadying Sam with a strong arm. “You look a bit weary. You can close your eyes here for a moment before getting on the road.

I pop up off the couch. “No thanks. I think we should be going. Come on, Sam.”

“Yeah, mayb-” she slurs and the check falls out of her hand as she collapses into the couch cushions.

Adam blocks me from helping Sam. His attention drifts to my untouched glass. His expression is no longer welcoming.

“What was in the wine, Adam?” I accuse and back away.

Adam lunges at me.

I yank the Taser out of my pocket and juice him in the side of the neck as his strong arms close around me and then spasm out of control. His body hits the ground and I blast him again for good measure.

My fingers fumble shakily for my phone to call 911.

The cops arrive to find me repeatedly shocking the poor man. Only he's not a poor man. It isn’t until later that we find out that his family has been running a black-market organ operation. Planting little black books all over the city. They're able to offer large "rewards" to their victims at a fraction of the cost of the organs they harvest and later sell on the black market. The names in the book are not survivors of medical miracles.