Page 16 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

“He’s my friend!” He sticks a thumb into his chest to drive the point home.

Ah.

“That’s a good call,” I say, as encouragingly as I can. “You should definitely talk to a friend about this.” And maybe also a therapist.

But this makes him even more livid, which unfortunately seemsto give him a second wind. His mouth curdles into a gruesome grin. “Merle’s aclose, personalfriend of mine, and he does not take kindly to illegal roadside activity in his ward by so-called public servants.”

“Wait. Illegal?” I squeak. “So-called?”

“I’m taking Jacques straight to the vet. After that, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

Lawyer? Can he do that? I can’t afford to deal with lawyers right now. Do I also have to hire one to, like, do battle with his lawyer? My throat starts to close. I don’t know a lot about lawyers, but I do know you can’t hire one on crossing guard money.

“I didn’t do anything,” I squeak.

“And I wouldn’t be surprised if the alderman sends the police to your door. He’s mybro. So watch out, traffic girlie. Alderman Carey knows where you live.” Poodle Dude feints at me, and I pull back in time for him to stumble forward harmlessly.

Was he trying to headbutt me? What is going on?

He recovers his balance, shuts the poodles back in the Kia, climbs behind the wheel, and peels off.

My head is spinning, and I’m trying to understand what the hell just happened, how worried I should be, and who I should call for help, when I realize Mark isstill there.

Standing across the street. Watching me with wide, shocked eyes.

“So, Friday? Coffee?” I holler, trying to pick up where we left off as if none of this happened.

“Oops, I’m getting a call,” he says quickly. He speed walks away, forgetting to actually put the phone to his ear.

Operation Get Hired, dead on arrival.

All of a sudden, there’s a creaky groaning sound. I look over at the pothole just in time to see a huge chunk of street fall in on itself.

Okay.

Nowit’s a sinkhole.

Chapter 6

My commute home is only two blocks—one block up and one to the right. It’s a gorgeous afternoon, sunny and warm. People are out walking dogs, bikers pedal past, there are even some late-summer blooms holding on here and there. But I’m not enjoying one second of it.

I’ve got the heebie-jeebies the whole way.

The alderman knows where you live, Poodle Dude had said.

But, like,why? Why would he know something like that? Is the alderman a perv? Is he watching me? With binoculars? How did this all escalate so fast?I was only trying to do this job I don’t actually want, I think miserably. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to be back in Chris’s condo, safe and cozy.

Instead, I’m out here on the mean Chicago streets, being threatened by a guy who owns three poodles and a pervy elected official.

“Watch out!”somebody yells, just as a Frisbee hits me in the head.

Streets so mean you have to wear a helmet.

I hand the Frisbee back to a little kid who doesnotapologize, and, head pulsating, I push through the imposing gate to my apartment building.

My new home looms over me. I hate that this is home now. It’s a sketchy brick U-shaped monstrosity that crumbles at the corners when the wind blows hard. There are three separate entrances, one for each section of the U, and the courtyard has a distinct prison yard vibe. The studio I rent month to month is a third-floor walk-up in the center of the U, and to get there, I have to pass my landlord’s apartment. I’m pretty sure that’s why the place was so affordable. Roy, professional landlord, lives on the first floor with a TV blaring the Home Shopping Network 24/7, and every time I walk past, he flings his door open and talks at me.

Every. Single. Time.