by Thomas Laird
“It’s better than walking, Guinea. Much better than that.”
“He goes to federal prison, but he might get out in ten or fifteen if he’s a good boy.”
“Well then we’ll have to attend his parole hearing if we’re both still breathing, Lieutenant. We’ll have to inform that board what a piece of shit Wade S. Hansen is. Perhaps I’ll throw the list of one thousand names on their table.”
“That’d be very theatrical, Tommy.”
“And your point is?”
“Twenty years is too little.”
“It’s the best we could do.”
Jimmy looked out at the bright first day of winter. The sun wouldn’t dent the snow on the ground because The Hawk was howling out of the northeast, off the Lake.
*
Parisi sat opposite Gina in Carlo’s favorite titty bar.
“People are going to say we’re in love,” Gina grinned.
“You ought to date, young woman like you.”
“I’m still wearing the black dress, Jimmy P.”
“Time to get rid of it and wear a red dress. You look great in bright colors, Gina. I remember the way you looked in high school. You were a babe. You still are.”
“Your wife’ll be pissed when I tell her you put the moves on me.”
“Shooting is a fast way to go anyway.”
Gina smiled. It was the first time Parisi had seen anything other than bitterness on her Sicilian face.
“I want to thank you for what you did. I’m not accepting your line of work, so don’t get me wrong. And I hope you’ll make these bars legit and get your family out of the life, Gina, but I didn’t come here to recruit you. I just wanted to thank you for putting Hansen where he’s going.”
“That was for Carlo, not for me.”
“I want to thank you anyway. There was nothing in it for you, really, but you did it anyway.”
“Hey. I’m an American ain’t I? And Grodnov was a terrorist, too, no?”
Jimmy nodded.
“Even us guineas get a patriotic urge, now and then…Now get outta here and go see your wife before I do what I dreamed of doing to you, back in high school.”
Parisi bent over the table of the booth and kissed her on the cheek.
“We’re first cousins, Gina. Cut it out,” he smiled.
“The forbidden fruit,” she laughed.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Ciaou,” she told her cousin.
Wade S. Hansen went off to federal prison on a drug rap. Grodnov and his lieutenants were all dead. Karin Vonskaya was doing a life’s term in an Illinois pen, and the Russian Outfit in Chicago was in disarray.
Parisi could read, however. The Sicilians were still around, and the Hispanic and Vietnamese gangs were still lurking in the streets. And no one knew if the Russians might find someone to take Grodnov’s place. There was no telling where evil was going to take root, but like the weeds in a drought, they survived.
It wasn’t over, with the bad guys, and it never would be, Jimmy understood. There was no perfect world, not now and probably not ever. There were murderers preparing to murder. There were killers to be caught. Streets to be purged and cleaned.
Jimmy Parisi was just a teacher now, he remembered. All of the above was someone else’s problem, not his any longer.
He reached down to his ankle to see if the .44 Bulldog was in place, but it wasn’t there. Neither was the nine millimeter or the six inch buck knife. He felt naked, suddenly, and he waited for the feeling to pass.
But it wouldn’t pass.
EPILOGUE
March 19, 2003
Shock and Awe has begun. The bombs are falling on Iraq and Baghdad again. My son is somewhere in the Middle East, but we don’t know exactly where because of security. He’ll write to us when he can, I’m sure.
Mike was in Afghanistan for three months, but now they’re moving him to Iraq—we assume, since that’s where the ground troops will have to mop up after the Stealths and the Phantoms and the rest of our Air Power have decimated what was left standing after the early 1990’s and the Kuwait Mess, Desert Storm.
Every day I wait for something to turn up in our mail box, and every day I pray some sergeant won’t be standing at our front door with the worst news a parent can receive. I spend lots of time in the church when I’m not working at the Academy or helping to take care of Jimmy Junior—or Jimmy J, as Natalie calls him. He’ll be a year old in July, but he’s already trying to get up and walk at eight months. He’ll be on his feet by the end of nine months, I’m sure. Then he’ll be hell on wheels for real. As a crawler he’s scarier than hell.
Tommy Spencer is engaged to Elaine Grant, and I’m going to be the best man in a June 2003 wedding. They haven’t got the exact date yet because they’re doing a civil wedding, and there are still arrangements to be straightened out, but it will take place in early June, according to my partner.
I meet Tommy all the time on his dinner or lunch breaks, whatever happens to work for our mutual schedules. He’s got a new partner now named Phil Harrison. Harrison’s a good guy. Ten years in homicide and soon to be retiring, as Spencer keeps threatening to do. I asked Tommy if he wanted to teach with me at the Academy, but he says he’s terrified of public speaking. This from a guy who won two Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star and the Silver Star for bravery in battle in Vietnam in 1969. Tommy says he might look into the security field.
I try to keep myself as busy as possible so that I won’t worry about my son Mike, but the anxiety seeps through all the time. I think about him all day, and sometimes I can’t sleep, so I take a pill to knock me out. I’ve got three little ones to take care of, and I want to be around to see what happens to Mary and Mike too.
Natalie is back to full steam. Her new partner is Jack Carroway, a seven year vet of Murder Incorporated, as we jokingly call Homicide. He’s a decent cop, but he’s been divorced three times and is a known cocksman. And he’s ten years my junior. But to this point Natalie insists it’s a purely professional relationship between them, he’s made no sideways moves at my wife. I trust Natalie completely, and she knows it, and I can hardly ride in the squad with the two of them all shift to keep an eye on her anyway. Red says a little jealousy can help sustain the passion in our love life, but I don’t need any help in the lust department regarding my beautiful young wife. I can’t get enough of her, and she’s aware that I’m nuts over her. Always have been since we met.
My age has always been a problem for me in our marriage, but Natalie insists the difficulty is in my head alone. I believe her, but I can’t help remembering that I’ll be 76 when Jimmy J graduates high school. Now the media is saying you’re not old until you’re 71, so I’ve got 13 good years left to try and stay frisky with my old lady. She’ll only be in her mid-50’s when Junior graduates secondary school.
We’re lying in bed on a Saturday night while all these heavy thoughts trample through my brain.
“What’s the matter, baby?” she asks as she turns over and sees me staring at the cream colored ceiling. It’s cream colored, I know, because I painted the bedroom with her last month.
“My mortality again.”
“Again?”
“I’m getting long of tooth.”
“See the dentist.”
“Cute, Red.”
“You’re not old. You never will be. You swarthy types live forever. It’s we Gaels who age because we’re a melancholy race—those cold and wet Highlands, you know?”
“I’m serious. I’ll be in a fucking walker when Junior hits puberty.”
“Cut it out. You’ll be running marathons when you’re eighty.”
“Be serious, will you? You remember that old Alan King gag—“
“Alan Who?”
“Alan King. He was on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson all the time—“
“Yeah. Yes, now I remember him.”
“He did a bit called ‘survived by his wife.’”
“And you’re thinking I’ll survive y
ou.”
“You damn well better.”
She kisses me.
“Mikey is coming home soon, in one piece. I know it the way I know the kids’ faces. You hear me, Big Jim?”
“Now I’m Big Jim?”
“There are two Big Jims, but I’m talking to the head that can talk back, right now.”
“Very amusing, Red.”
“I thought it was very clever…I swear to you, Jimmy, Mike will come home okay. I have no doubts about it, honest to God. Have I ever lied to you before?”
“Never. Not once.”
“And I’m being true now. You got that, Lieutenant?”
I lie on my back and look at my paint job in the dimness of our bedroom.
“Your partner ever try to get wise with you?”
“Never in the squad. Only when we roll around naked at the Holiday Inn.”
She looks at me with her head propped on her right hand, her elbow on the mattress.
“It isn’t funny, Natalie. I worry about you. I worry about Mike—“
“Nobody said you should stop worrying, baby, but you can’t let it paralyze you. How ‘bout showing a little faith in your son and in me? And, oh, in Jesus Christ too, while we’re discussing faith.”
“I have faith in all of you. I don’t have any faith in those sons of bitches who started this bullshit.”
“You voted. I voted. Our guy lost. Wait four years. Maybe they’ll throw the bum out.”
“I have a bad feeling on that one too.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, then, Jimmy. You got to believe in something or somebody—“
“Or you’ll fall for anything. Yeah, I know.”
“I wasn’t going to say that, but yeah, I’ll go along with the sentiment…You want to go back on the job, don’t you.”
“I’m not a teacher.”
“They say they’re lining up to get into your lectures.”
“I’m doing all right. I’m not cheating them, I don’t think. But it’s not my job. It’s something I can do, but it’s not…”
“So go tell the Captain. He said he’s got a position for you any time you want it.”
“Everything’s so goddam clear to you, isn’t it, Redhead.”
*
I last four months as an Instructor at the Academy. Then the summer arrives and I find myself at the Captain’s office in Homicide.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he says.
They hook me back with Tommy Spencer, at our mutual request.
“I won’t hang up my spurs until you do for the final time, Jimmy,” Spencer tells me.
He’s a married man, now. I was the best man. He and Elaine are living out in Palatine, but Spencer keeps his Clark Street apartment so he can use the Chicago address in order to keep his job. It’s a department rule that cops reside in the city proper.
I’m back on the job in July. We have a full case slate, but nothing nearly as radical or sensational as the Anderson Building murders. A scenario like that one only comes around once in a career—I hope.
The phone call comes from a frantic Natalie, about three in the afternoon here in my office.It takes them a week to get him out of the hospital in Germany. He’ll be at St. Mary’s Hospital in Oak Park for at least a few months, Natalie explained, once I got home on the day she received the phone call from the Army chaplain.
We drive to Oak Park, just Natalie and I, because we don’t know what he’ll look like and we don’t want to scare the girls or Mary or have them frighten Michael by their reaction to his wounds.
Dr. Martin Santon, the surgeon, meets us outside the hospital room.
“He’ll recover fully. He caught some shrapnel from a roadside bomb in the shoulder and back, and we’ve successfully removed all the fragments, but we’ve got to be very careful about infection. We also gave him a big dose of anti-tetanus, but that’s routine.”
“Will he be going back to combat?” I ask.
“No. He’ll have a few months of therapy to get that right shoulder back near full capacity and range of motion. Then I’m afraid he’ll be discharged. He’s done his bit, Lieutenant, more than his share. You’ll find out about it very soon,” Santon smiles. “You’re very lucky. Six inches over and he would’ve caught all that iron in his chest, right about where the heart is. He’s a fortunate boy, Lieutenant Parisi.”
Santon shakes hands with us and walks down the hall away from us. We walk inside Mike’s private room. St. Mary’s is not lavish, but it is comfortable. He’ll be moved to the VA Hospital in the city when he recovers from his surgery.
Mike is sitting up, his left arm in a sling. His face beams brightly when sees the two of us. Natalie rushes him before I can get close enough to embrace an unbandaged part of him.
Natalie is crying, so I tell her to cut it out.
“It’s all right, Pa. Let her cry. I did mine already.”
“The doctor says you’ll recover.”
“He did?”
“But they’re going to discharge you after that. Apparently your combat-ready days are history.”
His face darkens.
“That’s good news, Michael.”
“We’re not nearly finished over there.”
“You are. You did your part and more.”
I know I’d never get it out of my son, so I got the details out of the Army Chaplain who called Natalie. I called him the day we heard Mike was flying home from Germany.
Michael Parisi won the Purple Heart for his wounds, as well as the Bronze Star for bravery. He’s been put up for the Silver Star as well, and it’s now going through Army channels. He saved the lives of three of his fellow Rangers after the explosion that wounded him. He dragged the three Rangers, one at a time, out of harm’s way, and he bound their wounds with his own shirt, which he tore into pieces with a k-bar knife. All this while he almost bled out, himself. A paramedic saved my son’s life because Mike had been too busy to tend to his own injuries.
“I don’t suppose you want to tell your dad any war stories about all this, do you?” I ask my son.
He shakes his head.
“War stories are Number Ten, Pa,” he smiles.
He picked up the ‘number ten’ from the tales I told him from Vietnam. He complained I was reticent about my war experiences when I told him the little I did relate to him when he was a teenager. Now he’s giving me the equalizer.
“We never got to see Bob Hope,” he smiled. “That’s my one real regret about that war,” Mike laughs.
“I never got to see him either. We were planted in the bush the day he toured Bong Son.”
“I never went to war,” Natalie sighs.
“Thank God,” I tell her.
I kiss my wife, and then I bend over and kiss my son on the left cheek. He doesn’t flinch or try to stop me, and it amazes me.
“Thank God. Thank God. You’re both here with me. Thank God.”
The tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them overwhelm me.
“Now we can see about you finishing school.”
“Lot of rehab first, Pa, before they discharge me.”
“I can get you some of the materials they read at the Academy. Get you a jump on all the other cadets. Something to read while you’re in therapy.”
“It’s good to be back. Iraq was too hot. And the German nurses were belligerent.”
He smiles and then he takes my right hand with his good right hand. He squeezes, and I return the pressure. Natalie is bawling, but neither of us has the heart to tell her to shut the hell up.
*
My son is nearly done with his therapy in November of 2003. He’s met a girl. Her name is Margaret, and he’s dating her while he’s living at home and doing his outpatient time. The Army will discharge him officially in the late winter. Then he’ll be eligible for the GI Bill and money for college. He says he wants to begin at the Academy and go to night school to finish his bachelor’s in criminology. He also says he might like to try law school at
night, later on. Right now his dance card is full.
Jimmy J is rambling about the house like a madman. At times I think he’s hyper-active, but Natalie insists he’s just healthy. He makes me tired just watching him fly about the room. His big brother Mike plays with him, but he can’t lift any weight yet, so the big son has to be careful around the young tornado. Natalie keeps an eye on our young wolf cub when the big one is around.
Jimmy J doesn’t say much. He didn’t say ‘daddy’ or ‘mommy’ until he was seven months. He’s a tight-lipped cuss. His favorite, though, is his big brother. You can see Jimmy Junior light up when Mike comes into the room. He is wary of Leigh and Maggie, but they try to mommy him. He allows Mary to pick him up and kiss him, because she’s a natural with children. Christmas is getting closer and I have my whole crew with me.
Then Mary sits down next to me one night before a family dinner, and she takes my hand and looks into my eyes.
“How does the word ‘Grandpa’ grab you, Daddy?’
IN THE FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
Table of Contents
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
THE TYGER
By William Blake