Crowley opened the glass door to the diner, where an old-fashioned red-and-white OPEN sign hung a-dangling from the inside of the copper frame and escaped from the rainy cold autumn night into the warmth, where it smelled of bacon and coffee.
He stopped for a second to unwrap his dark-blue woolen scarf and shake the water from his umbrella, which was unsuspiciously black and uncommonly large. With a heavy sigh and a short cough he headed towards a free booth and slid over to the wall.
It was late, but not too late and the place was empty except for a few regulars, reading newspapers, nibbling on their food or staring blankly into the void. Although he had simply entered an American restaurant during the last two minutes, Crowley liked to think in romanticizing words and idioms, for he was an aspiring writer, a crime novel writer - and unfortunately, he had gained some first hand experience. And he was finally about to come clean.
Phil, that was Crowley’s first name, had been a man in business with the shadier types of Chicago, to say the least, and even had some blood on his hands from beating the crap out of some guys who didn’t like to pay what they owed those shady types. It had been a job to him, well-paid, and a way to forget the seperation after everything went haywire with Amy. Man, that had been an endless drag.
Tonight his career path was going to change, he had been adamant to his image in his mirror at home about that. It was the night he was meeting up with Garrison, a man from the D.A.’s office and they were to talk about his statement in the upcoming trial against his former employers - here in the godforgotten, downtrodden, gloomy hell-hole of a -- Who was he kidding. A crime writer? He could be glad if they wouldn’t find him hung from his apartment, gutted and castrated. The information he had from one lonely visit to one of the mob offices, well, it sure was pretty ... spicy. He noticed a small framed picture on the wall, next to many others of celebrities. Audrey Hepburn smiling into the camera, smoke rising from her cigarette, hair all done up and strikingly beautiful.
Enter Garrison, a man in a grey coat and hat, carrying a non-descript suitcase which he immediately sets on the table. Hello, Mr. Crowley. You sure this is the right place to talk? Yeah, sure. No one here cares what you or I have to say. Can I bring you something gentlemen? - Just coffee, madam. Two cups. So. And Garrison explains to him in a soft voice how the trial is going to start soon, how his statement will be used, the usual methods of witness protection and Crowley, Phil, suddenly realizes that shit is about to hit the fan.
This ain’t no detective novel, pal, his own thoughts boom in his head - this is your ass on the line. The man in the grey coat keeps talking, his murmuring matter-of fact voice fading as the traitor-to-be looks at beautiful Audrey for help, sweat on his brow, hands shaking and not just from the coffee. She remains silent and he turns to his Christian upbringing, looking for a sign, from, yes, God. Although it’s been a really long while. And just as goddamn Garrison’s voice gets louder again, it hits him. She, the lady in the picture is a Non-smoker forever and she is smoking an everlasting cigarette.
'And that’s how he’s gonna play this.
He finishes his coffee, stands up while his table-partner stops his speech and raises his eyebrows, grabs his arm and whispers to him hectically. “Good night sir, and thanks for the joe.” Wrapping himself in his scarf and unfolding his umbrella he takes a last look at Hepburn, who is smiling only for him and vanishes into the rainy night of Chicago. He walks with a confident stride and a passerby is slightly distracted by his small and short leap of joy and freedom.
Maybe romantic comedy, he thinks- Something for the beautiful, smiling wives of the people he just, almost, turned his back on. And you never know, maybe come the right time, he might send them all to hell. But not tonight, he was adamant about that later to his mirror at home and for many years. His day would come.
Yep, Phil Crowley. A man among many in the dark buildings and boding skscrapers of the the town that Billy Sunday could not shut down, as the Sinatra song goes. He might have dodged the bullet, But no one in this town was proofed. And his day would come, indeed.
EPILOGUE
Everyone is bound to take a drag of that everlasting cigarette sooner or later. I stopped by the diner the other day. Despite of what came to pass, Audrey is still smiling.
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