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Author Note: This is the third in the North Shore Whore series.

* * *

The engine ticked lightly, rhythmically, having only recently completed a twenty mile journey. Rain dripped from the frame of the car, from the edges of its bumpers. The windows were blurred, save for the two arches where the wipers had recently swept drops from the tempered glass.

The car didn't belong there. Not in that parking lot. Not in that town.

The rain having passed, the titanium gloss of the newly acquired Mercedes S-class gleamed in the setting sun. Next to it, a rusty, seventies-vintage Ford Granada sat silent, its engine having long since cooled; its owner had pulled in hours ago.

Across the macadam parking lot - crumbled in places, weeds sprouting up through the cracks - was the front door of the tavern.

Frank's Tavern. Green Bay Road. North Chicago.

Like the weather-beaten Granada in the parking lot, Frank's owed its style to the seventies. It was dark and dank, some windows clouded ...

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