Back in his hotel room, Pieran was readying himself for the evening. He pulled his hair up off his shoulders and tied it back with a lash of leather. A quick brush of his teeth, a touch of Old Spice, a new shirt unstained by nervous sweat, and he was set. He checked the mirror.
“Irresistible,” he said and pulling himself into his all-weather saddle coat, slipped out and into the hall.
Once outdoors he lit his pipe for a leisurely smoke of his whacky tobaccy. The brisk air felt cool on his face. A few icy needles of rain wetted his cheeks, signaling the vaguest threat of an approaching shower. Night had come and the sidewalks were packed with Chicagoans en route to their destinations. Inclement weather didn’t slow these people down. Pieran savored his smoke as he watched them going back and forth. The smell of sweet pipe smoke mingled with the aroma of roasting chestnuts, fragrant perfumes, stale cigarettes, and choking muffler exhaust. Music poured into the streets from storefronts, cars, and street performers. A boy no older than twelve approached him with a pamphlet allegedly published by the Illinois State Board of Education, petitioning for donations to support the athletic department. A number of grammatical errors jumped out of the first paragraph. The boy wanted five dollars for 'the cause.' Unswayed, Pieran asked him to read the pamphlet. He tried but his illiteracy was immediately evident as he struggled with the words on the page, further replying in the negative when asked if he could find anything wrong with the first sentence –
‘We are commited to your children and there education.’ It was sad. Pieran sent him away with a dollar and suggested he try a better hustle, or at least exchange it for a lemonade stand.
Predators and prey. It might not be his Miami but he was still at home. Only the details were different. What a mercy that the mass of humanity dashing, staggering, and capering around him was largely ignorant of the myriad shades of predator skulking about their steps. Not just crooked banks -the Madoff's, the Enrons, the fixers, users, scammers, gurus and cutters- but flesh-and-blood demons, and devils, and ghouls, oh my! He breathed in deeply the cool air, feeling for a moment the awesome weight of his responsibility, and the terrible burden of knowing too much.
'To the crew of Cornerstone, the Silent Sentinels.'
But even sentinels need time to themselves and time to play. Ducking between cars he sped across the street to The House of Blues. He suspected from the beginning that it wasn't
quite the place for him: too polished, too perfect, too corporate. But given that Marco was billed for the club was reason enough to attend.
After picking up his pass at the door, Pieran stepped inside the show floor. It was nearly full of patrons eager for good food, good ale, good music, and good company. A cute hostess with a flirtatious wink started him toward a small table when he suddenly spied Raven already seated at a table of her own. He called her name above the minor din of the house and she waved him over, inviting him to join her.
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:29, Thu 26 Nov 2009.
The train sped on, traveling northward across the Illinois vast farm country. Most of the fields were barren, the crops harvested, the furrows of the earth crusted with a light dusting of snow. Lunch in the dining car was surprisingly tasty. The passengers had their choice of a marinated steak, herbed baked chicken, or seasoned breaded perch, fresh from Lake Michigan and quick fried. The Cornerstone crew took it easy on the 6 hour ride; they napped, chatted, or enjoyed the sights. Raven flipped through the tome she had brought and Edwin reviewed the medical files. Occasionally, the train briefly stopped in one small mid-western town after the other until it finally came to a halt in Union Station, Chicago.
