by Daniel James
A Suit Good Enough to Die In
Isaac had gone through the slightly unreal process of hiring his funeral suit for tomorrow. It was as black as his mood, with nice shoes and cufflinks. He would have to show his best self even if only from a distance, watching the coffins slowly sink into the earth like some ghoulish voyeur. If he went anywhere near the service, Hank and every extended family member and friend would be throwing him into his own plot.
Dazed, he had considered the likelihood that Maggie had kept some of his old suits back at the house, boxed up for an occasion when they could both dress up again and have a nice night on the town. Making new memories. The thought of going anywhere near North Hermitage caused acid and bile to rage through his stomach, peeling away the layers. The snappy and handsome tailor in the suit store on North Clybourne Avenue had politely gone on about recommending this fabric or that, asking how he found the fit of the jacket. Was the crease okay? Were the shoes comfortable? How about that tie? Isaac had nodded like a bewildered man grabbed off the street for an unexpected makeover, offering the occasional mumble to prove he wasn’t a store mannequin.
Leaving the store, he wasn’t ready to head back to the hotel yet, so he took his time, bags in hand, strolling north-east to Fullerton and boarding the red line three stops south, south-east down the Magnificent Mile, dimly aware of passing a myriad of restaurants, Washington Square Park, the elegance of the Waldorf Astoria high-rise and the Talbott hotel, before departing at the corner of North State St and East Chicago Ave and walking east to the Water Tower Place. If an inmate had told him that two days after his release from Menard he would be impervious to the cultural splendor of the city, the exciting hum of activity, he would have told him where to shove his prediction. Yet here he was, borderline nihilistic about the passing spectacles: the historic gothic limestone landmark, the Chicago Water Tower; the functional yet classically proportioned aluminium and limestone façade of the Museum of Contemporary Art; even the simple luxury of the Ritz-Carlton. It all washed over him like empty stimuli.
The gun, though—that was a comfortable weight in the small of his back.
He found himself working his way up the levels of the crowded Water Tower Place, streaming along like a lost tourist without an agenda. Then he stopped when his eyes lit up with silver light. He had sleepwalked his way up the vertical shopping mall, guided by the ghosts of memories toward the Swarovski outlet.
As he stood there, perusing the goods through the glass, that old vice hungered beneath his placid surface, its impatient appetite dangling a poisonous carrot before him. The assortment of high-quality Austrian watches and crystal dazzled his senses, awakening a phantom sensation on his wrist. His own high-end watch had been smashed to bits during the Jensen job. That calamity which sent him down this winding road of misery. He roughly workshopped the store’s likely security systems, and estimated the net worth of a quick smash and grab. But it wasn’t really about the money. He was thinking about how the rush might distract him from the pain, and how much self-loathing he’d feel if he gave in to his street-honed instincts so damn easily.
Maggie had bought him that watch, right from this very store. Maggie … he’d promised her he’d stay within the lines of the law. He wanted to. He truly did; even in death, he still couldn’t stomach the idea of breaking his oath to her memory. The gun grew heavier at his spine, a lump of icy metal. Its comfort now felt like a cheat. Ideas rose and sank in his head: returning it to Roger, lashing it down a storm drain.
But what about Wyndorf? He knew one way or another that their mutual burn for vengeance was going to end in the spilling of each other’s blood, with either one or the pair of them dead. Was he meant to give up his life to that animal to honor his word? Would Maggie want that, or Will? His thoughts buzzed like a swarm of angry bees.
No, Isaac decided. They wouldn’t want that. He was willing to die, but he was taking Wyndorf down with him, and he’d accept the verdict from whatever judicial system awaited him beyond the mortal threshold.
He took the ghost’s hand, and allowed it to guide him along happier memories of days he had spent here with Maggie: a bit of cash-burning retail therapy, sharing some laughs and something to eat at Mity Nice, the both of them planning what else they were going to do with the rest of their day. All the basic pleasantries of a life he used to take for granted.
Isaac wanted to sharpen these moments, improve the clarity of their cut. For he would need them tomorrow, and he would hold them tight.
Rites of Passage
There was a chill in the heart of Graceland Cemetery.
In accordance with Hank Kurtz’s wishes, Isaac watched from the shelter of a distant willow as the priest performed his family’s funeral rites. Even from his far remove he could still hear the faint wails on the cold air. He waited patiently, hollowed out and wind-sheared, until the ritual was completed and the gathered Kurtz clan slowly vanished behind gravestone or tree, formal wraiths escaping back to the land of the living. He scanned around the grounds again, expecting to find Wyndorf half-hidden behind a grave marker, waiting for an opportunity.
Nothing.
Isaac approached the precisely tended grass and hard-packed fresh soil of Margaret and William Reid’s graves, a conjoined tomb of his very world. It was resplendent in tokens and letters, brightly scented wreaths, candles and photos. To Isaac, the bouquet he had picked up had a noxious quality, making him fearful of placing it amongst the heartfelt offerings.
Isaac felt as though he was interred under the dirt with them, murk spilling through his chest like some depressing fungus, sinking deeper and deeper with each passing hour. Head bowed beneath the duo of aggrieved stone angels, a beautiful guardian for each of his loves, he slowly tortured himself with vignette fantasies of a life he could now never build. The tentative November frost reminded him that it would have been Will’s tenth birthday in three months, the first he would have spent with his boy outside the hard, cruel walls of the Menard Correctional Center. Before that, of course, there would have been their first Christmas together, prior to Will reaching the milestone of double digits. Opening presents under the tree with him, a ritual Isaac’s own father had never shared with him, usually too drunk or distant to care, but one which Isaac would have cherished with his own flesh and blood. A glass of wine with Maggie before the fire. Laughter, fun and festivities. It made a tight and gruesome smile on Isaac’s face, the bitter tears threatening to wash it all away. There would have been a lot of lost time to make up for, possibly too much. How many more years would Will’s childish optimism and naivety have shielded him from the hard truth that his old man had done very bad things? A life full of wrongdoings and deceit. Will could well have shunned him like a dirty secret when he was mature enough to learn all the facts. Assuming Hank hadn’t already aired the dirty laundry.
Isaac stroked the short, frigid brush of grass as if it was Will’s hair, or Maggie’s, soothing their sleeping minds from a bad dream. Maggie, God bless her, had proven to have had the patience of a saint in putting up with him for so long. The fights after she learned that he wasn’t spending his nights pulling pints and mixing cocktails at jazz bars had been brutal, but he couldn’t continue to lie to her face when everything was getting so serious between them. And he loved her, the way she loved him.
Isaac’s armor was in tatters. He knew this was inevitable. There was no escaping it. No hiding from it. Here, at their final resting place, he would be flogged by his bad choices. The human condition was nothing if not masochistic when it came to brooding over one’s faults. He relived it all again. The moment he could have got out of the life, should have got out, but was too stubborn and foolish to change. Viewing everything in this messed-up life as one big gray-toned landscape devoid of good and bad deeds, only haves and have-nots. The fierce arguments between himself and Maggie played in his head, mixed together, a jumble of guilt. Her suspicions about some of his friends from work. Her finding a small black velvet bag of diamo
nds hidden behind their dresser. His bullshit rationale to ease her worries, and keep her entwined in his life.
Just one last score, baby. I promise. Nobody gets hurt.
The empty justification of a selfish professional thief. He stuck to big heists only, the type with plenty of insurance and staff who were trained to roll over and let the wealthy banks take the hit.
Or at least that was the case until it wasn’t.
Nobody gets hurt.
How many times had he told her that, as salty trails ran down her beautiful face? The last time he did, she had her hands resting protectively over her slowly swelling belly. The poor thing had fallen in love with an absolute loser.
Isaac’s breath caught in his throat, his nose sniffling as he fought back the deluge of sorrow straining to burst forth. “I’m so sorry.” The first tear slipped free and rolled off his chin, thawing a blade of grass. It must have been his thousandth apology but all the apologies in this world and beyond couldn’t change the histories of his squandered choices and stupid decisions.
A soft breeze rustled low across the earth, stirring some of the wreaths heaped before the angels. Isaac wasn’t the spiritual sort but he liked to think it was Mags and Will silently exonerating him. A man’s shadow fell across them. Isaac’s prison-honed caution had crumbled under the weight of his grief. Maybe the shadow belonged to the Reaper, his hand of bone gripping his Wyndorf mask, the agent who slayed with a song in his heart and a whistle on his lips. Or maybe a wolf. Isaac stared through his tears at the epitaphs and waited for the cold tip of serrated steel or speeding hot lead to finish the job and put down the ghost wearing his body like a cheap suit. Still crouching, he swiftly drew his gun and spun on his heel.
“Hey, easy, brother.” The man’s hands went up in half-surrender.
Isaac knew the voice. The sun burned through the cloud over the silent stranger’s shoulder, and slowly revealed enough detail for Isaac to make out his features, a quiet sadness on his face. Without a word Isaac got to his feet, staring hard. It was shocking how different and yet how similar the man before him looked after their lost years.
The man was a few inches taller than Isaac, with a wider frame propping up a long, dark winter coat. He was still handsome in his rakish way but underneath his dark beanie, strands of his shoulder-length dark hair were glowing silver. His neat moustache was a new touch, or at least it was to Isaac.
“Roach.” Unexpected relief slowly pooled inside him.
Roach looked awkward, his mouth trying to find something to say but only managing to twitch and stumble quietly, the bouquet clutched delicately in both of his hands like it was a sleeping infant. Isaac became unglued. He disappeared the gat and pulled him into a fierce bear hug, mindful of the flowers.
Roach found his voice, muttering over Isaac’s shoulder something Isaac himself had been saying a lot. “I’m sorry.”
Breaking apart, Isaac kept hold of Roach’s shoulders, continuing to look at him like he was a rare exotic species.
Roach had fallen silent again, searching for something to say. “I know you wanted me to stay away, clean break and all that. But I figured, after everything, there would be exceptions to the rule. That okay?”
Gratitude broke through Isaac’s painful smile. “It is. Of course it is. Thanks for coming down.”
Roach looked at him like he was nuts for showing gratitude. “Fuck, man, don’t thank me. Our shared mileage, you can’t write that off completely. No matter what. You ever need anything, anything, you know you can still call me anytime.”
Isaac patted him on the arm. “Thank you for watching over them whilst I was inside.”
Roach shrugged like it was nothing. “Ludlow is cut up about this. He sends his best. He misses you, you know.”
They both stood quietly for a moment, then Isaac gestured to the forgotten bouquet of roses in Roach’s hand. He wiped a tear away with the back of his hand. “They’re not for me, are they?”
A wonderful pressure release of laughter eased the tension, helping to guide them out of this heavy morbid spell and fleetingly toward the healing light of day. Roach handed them over, watching as Isaac softly laid them down amongst the others.
“Wyndorf did this?” Roach seemed to hate himself for asking.
Too tired to react, Isaac remained on one knee for a time, feeling the chill radiate through the knee of his trousers. As he rose back up, his face was tight and blank, and Roach could only imagine the cold anger which coursed through his oldest friend at that moment.
Isaac squinted at the sky, dropped his head and nodded softly. “He must have been hiding in one hole or another, keeping his ear to the ground.” He almost broke down into a sob but he choked the life out of it like it was Wyndorf’s throat. “There was someone else there that night, too. Not inside the house, in the backyard. A guy in a wolf mask.”
Letting that sit for a moment, Roach appeared to consider the most diplomatic way to broach the next subject. “You might have severed your ties to us at your sentencing, but I need to know: what’re you going to do now?”
Isaac knew exactly what Roach meant. He wasn’t wondering about Isaac’s career aspirations. There was no room for subtext here.
“I mean, you’re not carrying that heater for fashion.” Roach’s thumb and index finger became a gun.
Isaac felt like he was cheating on Maggie and Will, standing here, breathing, and talking about his future, one of pending illegality no less. He tilted his chin toward the winding paths of the sprawling acreage encompassing them. “Let’s take a walk.”
They wandered the long, looping pathways of memorial markers and shady trees with no real destination in mind, the crisp air biting skin and scrambling the raked leaves.
“I’ve been thinking on it. I don’t want to go back to that life,” Isaac stated. “It’s what caused all this senseless violence. But let’s call this a hiatus, because right now I don’t see any other option than to find and kill this fucker before he comes at me again. Or maybe he’ll take a crack at you next. Maybe even Ludlow.”
“That dirty fuck messed up real bad by coming out of hiding. Luds already has guys searching for him. He’s got a lot of his own pain to pour into that shitbag.”
Isaac knew full well about that. He and Roach. But instead of feeling comfort or solidarity in their shared hunt, Isaac felt alarm. His own agonies were fresh, unlike Ludlow’s. Was he prepared to share the kill? His rage had a selfish appetite. The distant Red Line L train rattled along the eastern edge of the cemetery.
“Truthfully, do you blame Luds for all this? Adding Wyn to our crew that night?”
Isaac’s attention stayed on the middle distance, gears churning out an honest response. “No, I don’t. He was hurting bad. Desperation can do awful things to people. And we went right along with it. Shit, we forced ourselves onto the Jensen thing. That’s what you do for family, though, right? And Luds and Janine were the parents we never had. So no, I don’t blame him. I played my part.”
Roach’s cheeks were flushed with the cold, his brown eyes glancing over to the large colonnades of the Potter Palmer mausoleum across the pond.
“And I’ll fix this.”
“We’ll fix this,” Roach corrected. “Together. I played my part too. For Maggie, for Will, for Janine.”
“For the Jensen family.”
Roach looked ambivalent for a moment. “For his wife and daughter, sure.” That was awkward. “Look, where are you staying? Come back with me, you can crash in –”
Isaac dismissed the inquiry immediately. “No. Thanks, Curt. I got a room at the Versey.” He caught the surprise on Roach’s face. “I had an old nest egg in Roger’s place.” The answer seemed to satisfy Roach. “Dirty money, but that’s all I have right now.”
“All money’s dirty. It’s a dirty world. Please, let me put you up somewhere. For my own peace of mind. At least until we deal with Wyndorf.”
“I still need some space. Time to adjust.”
Roach’s expression grew serious, his brows knitting together in concern. “Okay, but don’t fight me on this.” He started skimming through a substantial wad of bills.
Isaac seized his wrist. Laundered money had never looked so filthy, and he was already carrying more illicit funding than he cared to. “Trust me, brother. I’m okay.”
Roach looked annoyed, but finally relented in his offer of charity. “But we’re in this together, yeah? You’ll come in, see Ludlow?”
Isaac didn’t like lying to him. “Yeah, together.”
They exchanged numbers.
“Hey, I think I need a bit more time with Mags and Will.”
Roach held his hand up in understanding. “Say no more. It was fuckin’ good to see you, man. Been too long.”
“Ten years,” Isaac added. The sum total of days burned down to absolutely nothing was too hard to fathom. They hugged briefly, patting backs or shoulders, still feeling the gulf of years between them.
Roach looked wary of leaving his friend again. “Be in touch.”
Isaac nodded. “You be careful.”
Watching Roach walk away, Isaac slowly retraced his steps to the stone angels watching over his late wife and child.
A Man Walks Into a Bar …
Conway was wiping the bar down with a rag the health inspectors would probably balk at when he noticed the legs of a man through the grimy window, trotting down the steps to his door. Milky, overcast light followed the stranger inside, spilling into the gloomy dive and causing the suspicious scoundrel-types to react like vampires, furtive eyes latching on to the incongruous man who looked very much like he had taken a wrong turn. Some rooms positively crackle with tension and an anticipation of trouble, and Conway’s most certainly fell onto such a list. There was a reason the eponymous proprietor didn’t go in for any flashy neon signs advertising his basement saloon up on street level. This had been a neutral zone for an outlaw clientele going back to the days of speakeasies and vice right here in Printer’s Row of the South Loop.