Just Kill Me Read Free Page A

quite sure.
    â€œGhosts!” says Cyn. “Perfect. Now, who brought someone we can murder?”
    People chuckle, but not enthusiastically. They all seem like they’re tired from a long day at Navy Pier and the Hard Rock Cafe, or whatever tourist places they’ve been to.
    One girl holds up three fingers, Hunger Games –style, and says, “I volunteer as tribute.”
    â€œYou can’t volunteer yourself as a victim,” says Cyn. “That makes it a suicide, not a murder. We’ve gotta control these variables. That’s science. Look it up.” Then she sits down and ties her hair into a low ponytail.
    While we wait for the last couple of people with reservations to arrive, Rick comes onboard, takes the mic, and starts warming the crowd up, making friends with everyone.
    â€œDid you all see this in the news?” he asks, holding up one of those free weekly papers. “Someone broke into President James Garfield’s tomb in Cleveland and stole a dozen commemorative spoons. Spoons! Who gets buried with spoons? And who busts into a tomb and steals a bunch of spoons?”
    â€œMaybe they aren’t really spoons,” I suggest.
    â€œWhat else would they be?”
    He puts the mic in front of me, and I take it.
    â€œMaybe some stormy night, an old woman showed up at the White House and offered President Garfield one single rose for shelter,” I say. “And when he sent her away, she turned his staff into flatware, so whoever stole them was just, like, rescuing them. And now the cops will never find the spoons, because they’re human again.”
    Ricardo’s face breaks into a grin. “Okay. You, I like,” he says.
    Score.
    A minute later the last parties show up, and it’s time to get going. Rick introduces Cyn as “ ‘Switchblade’ Cynthia Fargon, my roommate, my oldest friend, and the best damn driver inthe city.” Then he says “All right, you guys wanna go see something scary, or what?”
    â€œYeah!” people shout.
    â€œAll right, Cyn. We’re gonna start out at the men’s room of the Greyhound station.”
    â€œGot it.”
    â€œAfter that, we’re going to your house.”
    â€œIt’s your house too, doinkus,” says Cyn. “Screw your courage to the sticking place, team.”
    And he navigates us out from behind the DarkSide buses, down Clark Street, and toward the Loop. The guy in the frog suit at Rainforest Cafe waves as we pass.

Chapter Two
    A s we head toward the first haunted stop of the tour, Ricardo points out some sites of interest along the way. Just south of the Rainforest Cafe is a spot where a brothel owner named Tillie Wolf was stabbed in the face with a sharpened umbrella stick in 1898. The next block has the spot where a gangster named Hoops-a-Daisy Connors was shot through the eye and the groin one unlucky evening in 1929.
    Then he points out the fire station that was built over the site of the old prison where they used to hang people, and tells the story of a guy they tried to bring back to life with electricity after they hanged him in 1882, just to see if they could.
    â€œAnd all of this is to give you fair warning,” he says, “that this is gonna be an inspiring and uplifting tour for everyone tonight. We’re gonna talk about puppies and ponies and horsies and kitties and rainbows and flowers and sunshine and unicorns.”
    Everyone laughs, and he laughs too. “Actually, this is a ghost tour, which means we’re talking death, disease, destruction, dismay, decapitation, defenestration, decomposition, decay, and Donald Trump. So, fasten your seat belts, and if you’re in the first three rows, you may get slimed.”
    I’ve made up my mind about the job before we even cross the river into the Loop.
    If I don’t get this gig, I will never forgive myself.

    The first stop turns out to be the site of the Iroquois Theatre,