Pigs
Page 7
The room was a bit bigger than the jail cell he had become accustomed to, but the busy wall collage behind the bed made his eyes ache, the imagery of the Navy Pier Ferris Wheel and Wrigley Field cramped together with part of a Les Paul guitar, signposts and various snapshots of the Windy City. On a positive note, he wasn’t sharing it with some snoring, farting gangbanger with a penchant for volatile outbursts.
He shrugged into his flannel shirt and headed for the door and his second chance at life. The hallway carpet resembled choppy aquatic wavelets, the soft gray walls emblazoned with large white text, rainbow-colored graffiti and artwork. He took the stairs to the equally hideously decorated lobby. Maybe hideous was a bit harsh. At another time Isaac might have looked upon the kitschy décor with a wry appreciation, but those days seemed a distant memory. Right now most things were on the wrong side of negative for him. At the moment he thought it was like a group of garish and fiercely proud Chicagoan bachelors had gone apeshit and taken full advantage of their ability to design the place unimpeded by good taste: predominately grays and whites, with mustard yellow seat cushions and baby blue wall panels housing bric-a-brac celebrating the colorful history of the longstanding iconic building. The former home to jazz legend Bix Biederbecke turned decades-spanning rock star hot spot.
One of the two blue-blazered receptionists caught his eye from across the room and attempted a polite smile. Isaac wasn’t sure if he managed to return one or not. He might have grimaced instead for all he could tell. The receptionist quickly and professionally diverted his attention to his colleague, the both of them all smiles and easy-going banter. He walked past a group of elderly touristy types lounging about on colorful modern-art-y chairs, and left the building.
He stopped and waited on the corner of Clark, Broadway and Diversey, blowing into his hands. Lights changed, cars rambled to and fro. He flagged a taxi.
The ride down was mercifully quiet, leaving Isaac to think things through. Isaac never waded through the currents of the narcotic world. Even when he was regularly moving amongst thieves, he knew names but never had any cause to associate with that crowd. During his stretch in Menard, he’d heard names, too: old-school players still going strong, up-and-comers making big plays and causing friction. One of the old guard was C.B. The man who was at the forefront of crystal meth’s rise in Chicago. It used to be that it just passed through to the south, from Indiana to central Illinois to Iowa, chewing up countless lives in its path, remaining too much of a lightweight narcotic to challenge the heavyweights like heroin and crack. But after making room for itself in the city’s northern gay club scene, it started to infect more and more of Chicago, becoming almost systemic in certain neighborhoods. Its spread was made all the worse by the toxic vascular system that was C.B.’s meth network. From what little Isaac knew, the man never even came near Chicago. He was content to pull strings from up and down the east coast, NY, NJ and Miami. Isaac had no way of knowing if Wyndorf was still pushing for him or not. He needed some names from C.B.’s workforce. Anyone he could use as a jumping-off point.
That was why Isaac had the cab drop him off on South Wells Street, near the tail end of the South Loop. He knew a place with useful contacts, where info could be bought or learned. A place he had history with. A place where—Isaac came to dead stop. A blockade of flashing police cars, fire engines and ambulances had blocked off a large section of street from both sides. He could smell smoke scenting the air from where he stood. Conway’s had become Lucifer’s basement, fiery whips reaching out of the heat-shattered window to snag an ankle, dragging any poor souls inside to burn with them. The firefighters were making some progress, though, the water jets mixing and concocting a huge cloud of smoke and steam. If Conway had survived he’d be here somewhere, snarling and phoning somebody. Isaac searched for him amongst the various uniforms and blank-faced observers. But he knew in his gut Conway and his unlucky patrons were still in there. Dead by now.
Something crept along his spine and he quickly glanced around him, feeling the security of the 9mm at his back. He hard-eyed the growing crowd, looking for Wyndorf, or a wolf maybe. Finding nothing. Off balance, he stormed off in search of a quiet place to think of an alternative plan.
Okay, so that was a pretty significant brick wall blocking his investigation. Having found a new café called Mateo’s just minutes down the street from the flashing mayhem, Isaac sipped a coffee he didn’t really want, as the baristas darted back and forth about the shop in their green caps and aprons like decaf wasn’t an option. He reassessed his options, which were currently one above nil. He could still dig for answers about C.B.’s crew, but he’d be digging up a whole mess of worms in the process. But that was fine. It might be nice to feel something other than this suffocating despair for a few minutes. He peered out the window of the café at the world he didn’t recognise.
His phone danced about in his pocket, and he had a stab of panic. Was Roach in the shit now, too? He didn’t recognise the number, so that ruled Roach out. He stared at the screen like it was a threat, finally deciding to accept the unknown.
“Who’s this?”
A throat was cleared; then an unmistakable voice, soft, musical and deep, greeted him. It was like an analgesic, pleasant and welcome, and Isaac couldn’t deny the surprising comfort he found in it.
“Luds?”
“Hey, son. Is it okay that I called? Roach gave me your number.”
Such unease for a man of his standing. Isaac rubbed his brow, nodding. “Course it is.”
“Christ, kid. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am about Maggie and your boy.”
It was as if Isaac’s lungs had packed in, breathing in soil, choking him. He locked the pain away and swallowed the key. “I’m sorry about Janine. I heard it was a nice service. Sorry I couldn’t be there.”
“I didn’t expect anyone in a hospital bed with a gut shank to have been there, so don’t be sweatin’ it. It was, though—a nice service. A good woman like her, she left a mark on a lot of people.” It sounded like Ludlow had written a script for how this conversation would go but had forgotten his lines. “Anyway, that was years ago now, and I don’t want to turn this into some soppy goddamn mush-fest so I’ll get right down to it. Wyndorf needs a bad exit and a dirt nap. It’s long overdue. He’s been on my shit list so long the ink has faded. I thought he’d gone native in some jungle or died in a desert somewhere. But that stupid little fuck obviously likes tempting fate. He won’t be pulling a vanishing act this time around. So I heard you’re maybe looking to fix him? I’m not pushing, I don’t know how irregular your moral compass is right now with the grief and whatnot … but if you are looking for him, I sure would like it if you would come back into the fold. For my own peace of mind. Dangerous work like this, and hearing that he might not be alone? Partnered with an asshole in a wolf mask or something? I don’t want to be worrying about you out there all alone. It’ll be safer with me watching your back. Hell, we’ll be watching each other’s.”
Isaac saw the lifeline dangling before his eyes, but his hands didn’t reach, they withdrew. Ludlow’s position meant he would be negotiating with the other power players whose street soldiers might have seen or heard something of Wyndorf. And if Isaac did ally himself with Ludlow, he could get the old jazz man’s cops to kick the names of C.B.’s local street-to-mid-level guys up to him. But then that would also mean following Ludlow’s lead, and Ludlow would be patient and smart in his business. He had a reputation, and whilst the man never handled narcotics, he would be careful not to instigate a war with C.B. or any of his friends without a damn good reason.
“C.B. sticking to his old story?”
Ludlow sighed, seemingly expecting this. “He’s proving difficult to get hold of, but I’m trying.”
A black Audi A8 cruised to a smooth stop opposite the café. A suited man watched Isaac from the driver’s seat of the polished and pristine ride, his attention on him like a fly on sugar. Isaac watched back. The man was black wit
h a closely shaved head, but any other features were difficult to ascertain from this distance. Another suit, a stocky white guy with mirrored sunglasses, was in the passenger seat, his attention on the cops still maintaining crowd control nearby.
“Maybe someone needs to grab his attention.”
“You don’t start a war with a guy like C.B. on a hunch. And I see no reason why he would take Wyndorf back into his business since booting him out in the first place.”
“He’s family.”
“He’s a reluctant cousin and a liability. Murdering a highly respected cardiac surgeon—” There was no mistaking the effort it took Ludlow to give the late Dr. Jensen acclaim. “And his darling family brings all kinds of extra heat that C.B. doesn’t need. His empire is booming, flowing from the east coast to the Midwest. He’s smart enough to know that throwing a bone to that wild animal would only invite disaster.” Ludlow verbally took a step back, not wanting to descend into butting heads with Isaac. “I’ll get a line to him, and I’ll find out what he knows of Wyndorf’s current situation.”
The Audi driver pressed his phone to his ear, and the conversation must have lasted less than ten seconds. He then pushed a button and raised his window, a dark mirror of street lights and shop fronts. Isaac caught a lonely glimpse of his self, sitting by the window, engaged in his own phone conversation. He had failed to glimpse the Audi’s plates as several emergency vehicles bussed past.
“So what is it, son. Can we meet up? I need to know there are no hard feelings between us. To this day I still blame myself about what happened to you. I should have done more to keep you from that job. Emotions should never enter the equation. You were a thief, not a kidnapper.”
The Audi continued doing laps around Isaac’s thoughts. Was it just a few pricks having a bad day, or could they be trouble?
“Bury it, old man. We’re good. Always have been. The shit with Jensen is on my hands as much as yours. But like you say, I was a thief, not a kidnapper. And I’m not sure if I’m a cold-blooded killer, either. I’ll let you know if I’m on board with the payback.”
Isaac felt a pang of guilt about this, but unlike Ludlow’s, his pain was still fresh and bloody, and he didn’t have the patience to see this through diplomatically. He thought of Conway’s furnace, and who might have caused it. Isaac was prepared to set fire to the underworld to smoke Wyndorf out, and screw anybody who didn’t like his methods.
“I need to sort a few things first.”
Food Chain
Isaac kept hearing that infuriating little voice in the back of his head telling him he needed to slow down and think this through. It was doubting his every move. This wasn’t a great strategy, but Isaac knew if he knocked on a few doors he’d find something in the end. And if it was a bullet? Well, he was past caring.
Isaac had the cabbie drop him off at 4400 West Monroe. A notoriously dangerous hood on the Westside in Garfield Park. It was a utilitarian development of two-storey brick homes. Urban forts against the rampant gangs shooting it out for drug turf. For the poor, law-abiding folks trapped here, an honest living was an urban hell.
This was as good a place as any for Isaac to start.
He loitered on a small dirt lot on the corner of South Kostner Avenue and West Monroe. The rows of houses and street lights were starting to light up, artificial stars in the purple twilight. He knew there would be eyes on him. Not because he posed a threat. Not because he didn’t belong. But because the watchful gangsters were scoping him out for a possible sale. White boys liked crystal meth. Isaac just needed to find a pusher. Wouldn’t be too hard. He had seen enough wasters inside prison and out to bullshit his way into some pretty convincing acting. Looking antsy and with a hint of pathetic desperation, he tried to blend into the environment, keeping a practised eye on a group of black thugs looking mean on a stoop down the street. He could hear the ominous bass intimidation thumping away under the sounds of the group’s talk.
Isaac slunk down the street like he was up to no good. A cold and edgy survivor looking for an opportunity. He spotted his mark further down the way on Kostner, carefully dropping a small stash on the pavement, letting a skeleton with yellowish skin and moth-bitten clothes scoop it up before staggering off to some dank corner. Isaac slowly moved across the street like a whipped dog, past a fudge-brown deli and toward the dealer, hanging by an alley opposite a lot full of U-Haul trailers. The dealer was an observant type, keeping his eyes peeled from behind his shades, sizing Isaac up. Isaac slowed down, making himself look as non-threatening as possible, a little peppy even, a new user still on top of the world and yet to fall.
“Choo want, man?” the man grumbled like a tremor. He was a black kid in his twenties, dark clothing and leather jacket, Bulls ball cap to go with his shades. The only thing that wasn’t dark on him was the white square of bandage on what must have been a broken nose.
Isaac gave himself a case of the shakes, becoming a furtive weasel in need of a pick-me-up. “Ice, man. You got any ice?” His voice was needy, a little unfocused. He didn’t want to spook the pusher or his spotters dug in nearby.
The hustler stood tall, showing who was in charge here. He played God whilst junkies grovelled. He read Isaac, checking to see if he was legit. After a quick look to his hidden homies, he settled a bit and became the salesman. “Shit yeah, I got that Tina for ya. I got all kinds.”
Isaac saw his sunken eyes and sketchy portrayal in the corner pharmacist’s shades. He didn’t want ‘all kinds’, didn’t want ‘Tina’. He didn’t hesitate. The gun was in his hand smooth as liquid. Isaac used some of his new prison muscle to shove Nose Bandage into the alley and against the brick, his speed catching him off guard. Any thought of mouthing off or fighting quickly leaves the dealer’s mind when the barrel presses up under his chin. Isaac felt the clock ticking again now, knowing it was only a short matter of time before the Nose’s pals swarmed in to stamp him into the pavement.
“Who supplies your ice?”
Tick-tock.
“Fuck you niggah, you’re a dead man.”
Isaac dropped the barrel and shot the thug in his left size 12 Reebok. The backup would be sprinting over now, steel in palm, gold chains swinging. But from where? The squad on the stoop? A lookout watching from the three-storey brick block across the way? From down the alley? Isaac was rarely this sloppy, but that was back when he still had something to live for. If he died here and now, without killing Wyndorf, at least he could still find peace with Maggie and Will. The street soldier in black was pogoing against the wall, flailing in pain and using Isaac’s pinning arm for balance.
“That’s crutches.” Isaac aimed at his rabbit-hopping right foot. “Want the wheelchair?” The gun was nudging under the dealer’s smooth chin once more. “Where’s your supplier?” He heard a car slam on the brakes on the street somewhere, angry voices, pounding footsteps getting closer, louder, descending on the alley. “I can die here. Can you?”
The corner dealer must have pictured himself in the grand scheme of things, his lowly position as the lowest link on the food chain. He didn’t like the empty look in Isaac’s eyes or the chill in his voice. “Fuck! Rico, Rico Perez. Hangs out in Pockets, the pool hall on West Grand, man. Fulton. You’re one dumb-ass dead cracker if you roll up on ’em. You think he’s gonna sweat a punk like you?”
“Describe him.”
“Big Mexican dude with glasses and goatee. Busted nose.”
Isaac cold-cocked him with the butt of his gun and let him drop, taking off down the alley just as the gangsters rounded the corner. They were all curses and snarls, liberal with their loud and angry gunshots. Their firing was chaotic, made worse by their running. Isaac sprinted past the rear of a hardware store, several bullets scraping brick and lancing through parked cars. He fired over his shoulder, aiming to give them pause rather than drop bodies. He cut across a small parking lot and pushed hard out onto West Madison Street, sprinting diagonally across four lanes of angry traffic. Sucking air through his t
eeth, arms pumping, he spotted his cab waiting on the corner of the next block, by the gas station on North Kilbourne Avenue. The driver had honored his word. He’d earned his tip.
Isaac checked over his shoulder. The gang had just spilled out of the car park onto the pavement at Madison, separated from their quarry by a river of head- and tail-lights. Isaac slowed down, sprint to jog to brisk walk, warm gun tucked away. He nodded to the driver, who still looked bored but now mildly curious about the gunshots a few moments ago. Isaac slid into the back seat, breathing hard but composed, hands shaking from adrenaline.
He had a name: Rico Perez. He had an address: Pockets on West Grand Avenue, Fulton River District.
With C.B. practically dominating this corner of the drugs market, it was likely that Rico was part of his infrastructure. But could he point a finger toward Wyndorf?
I’ll know soon enough.
Ludlow’s Solo
The notes rang out sweet and clear from the broken-in strings of the 1957 Gibson Les Paul Goldtop. The weathered hands ran fluently over the neck, effortlessly turning out a succession of recycled jazz standards—Stella By Starlight, Autumn Leaves, Blue Bossa—before chopping and changing various blues-style licks of the all-time great Wes Montgomery, and then transitioning into some of the bebop-infused scales and arpeggio chords Joe Pass was known for. For Robert ‘Laylow’ Ludlow, this was a practice he had enjoyed since he was a young man hijacking trucks during the tail end of the 1970s. Not only that, it was a form of therapy for him, easing his mind during a concerto of soul and technically schooled fingers, deciphering the language of the fretboard. With his line of work, it was little wonder he was so skilful, its many difficulties and hard days and nights shaping his stress and anguish into a wail across six strings.