“I was told to call,” Justus says to Calvert. It might be an apology.
Despite the pain, Calvert keeps his feet under him.
“Police brutality,” Agatha says again. She moves her phone closer to Calvert’s anguished expression.
“You got to stay back,” the senior officer warns.
That’s when Calvert blacks out.
Moe’s Fresh Ride
It’s hazy out as Moe pedals down Cermak to grab the Pink Line at Cicero. She rolls past the Tastee Donuts on her left and the liquor store to her right before lifting her ass from the seat to bump over the tracks. She dismounts and ignores the bike parking.
She finds her usual spot tucked next to the fare card machine and uses it to shelter from the damp wind. Out of habit, she tries to unsnap the chinstrap of her helmet. I forgot my helmet. She makes a clucking sound with her tongue. Need more sleep.
Moe hates feeling sorry for herself. She looks for a distraction. She read somewhere it’s seven miles from this platform to Union Station. She turns her eyes east to the place where the rails pinch into one line. Tall buildings, like the woody stalks of swamp plants rise around the vanishing point. She takes her phone from a side pocket on her messenger bag and checks the time. Running late.
She ignores the other people by sipping thin tea from an insulated thermos she takes from her bike’s bottle rack. The grass-flavored water is no substitute for strong coffee, but the ritual half satisfies.
It’s not long before she hears the train approach like a gathering storm. She stays put as the train’s brakes grab and the doors open with a hydraulic exhale. She lets everyone board ahead of her. Finally she lifts her bike over the gap and stands it vertical as the doors close.
The ride to Clinton and Lake is short. Holding Bernstein, the bike she’d named after her favorite journalist, is no inconvenience. When the train reaches her stop, a number of seated commuters trade places with those standing and begin to bunch in a herd in front of the exit. She rests the bike against her left hip, her wide stance a brace against a sudden jolt. She and Bernstein will be the first to exit. She can feel the pent-up pressure of the crowd. Before the doors open, the mass edges ahead and someone knocks into her bike. It twists, grinding the narrow seat into her hip.
“So sorry,” a woman’s voice, very near, apologizes.
Moe turns and sees an angel with creamy skin in a dark suit, auburn hair in big rich waves, makeup luminous and flawless. Moe doesn’t go for the business types, but she likes what she sees.
“So sorry,” the woman says again, followed by an embarrassed smile.
Moe puts on her best James Dean and says, real cool, “No problem, ma’am.” She doffs the brim of an imagined cowboy hat.
The doors crack open, and she and Bernstein turn the opposite direction from the crush of bodies heading for the ramp to the street. Once people quit pouring out, a wave of commuters washes into the train. The doors close, the train leaves, and the platform is deserted. Moe exits down the ramp, Bernstein rolling beside her until she hits the sidewalk. She checks her phone to make sure she’s had no messages from Vivian, before throwing her leg over the bike and edging her way into traffic. Once she has her bearings, it’s a short ride to her meeting with a guy named Ricky.
Ricky, she’d learned in correspondence the night before, owns a business called Grip Audio, installing after-market sound systems from a garage near Washington and Peoria. The spot is easy to find, and the overhead door is open as she coasts to a stop. She can see the Honda CB550 sitting inside. It looks better than the pictures she’d seen. A lanky guy with a saggy ass is knocking around at a workbench.
She walks Bernstein through the door and calls, “Ricky?”
Ricky drops what he’s doing and reaches his lemur arms behind him to wipe his long fingers over the butt of his coveralls. He’s all elbows and knees and seems to fold and refold as he moves. It’s insectoid and it makes Moe’s skin prickle. He extends his mostly clean hand for a shake. He towers over her diminutive frame. The poor quality of the handshake is repellent.
“You found me,” he says, letting her hand slip from his feeble grasp. “You the one here about the motorcycle, right?”
“I’ve been looking for a while.” She leans Bernstein against the nearest wall and eyes the Honda. It’s her dream bike. She can afford what Ricky is asking. But she hopes to get a better deal. She puts on an unimpressed expression.
“Nice bike,” Ricky says, looking at Bernstein.
“Cyclocross. A good all-around bike.” She doesn’t mention a cracked weld where the top tube joins the head tube, getting worse with every pothole. “I hate to sell him. He’s a treasure.”
“Looks good,” Ricky says. As if she’s a mother whose child has been called adorable, Moe decides Ricky isn’t so bad.
“Tell me about the Honda?”
“Well, …” Ricky scruffs his chin stubble, considering where to begin. “Got the bike about two years ago as a gift for a girl I was dating.” He fills the space between sentences with a sour look. “She never learned to ride it. When I found it, it was real grimy. It’d been sitting a while in an old chicken coop out in Kane County. I saw a “For Sale” sign when I went to catch a minor league game. The Cougars. Real fun, real fun. You ever been?”
“I never have.”
“Real fun. Highly recommend. The bike was covered in dust and feathers and smelled like chicken shit. But the price was right. It had bad gas in the tank, you know.”
Moe nods that she knows. She hunkers down to look over the engine.
“You can see I changed the exhaust to a high-performance setup.” He waggles a long finger at the chrome pipes. “Mostly I gave it a good tune-up. Cleaned the carbs with Pine-Sol, boiled the jets in lemon juice. Replaced the plugs and wires. Got some fresh gas running through her. The inside of the tank was in good shape. What else?” he asks himself. “Charging system is strong. Battery is new. The body is in good shape. Really good. Long story short, when Crazy Vicky left she didn’t take the bike.”
“Ricky and Vicky huh?” Moe says. “Very cute.”
“Shoulda known it was a bad omen when our names rhymed.”
“Live and learn.” Moe smiles at him to seem polite.
Ricky goes on, “After you said you were stopping by, I checked to make sure she was ready. She started straight away. I tooled around the block a few times, then rode out past the lot where Harpo used to sit. McDonald’s built some giant complex on the lot. Seems strange, but what do I know? She rode great. I almost changed my mind about selling her. What else?”
Moe has ridden a little, mostly around warehouses in the Fulton River District. But she can see herself on the bike. “You said you wanted three for it?” Moe stands slowly, shoves her hands in the front pockets of her skinny jeans.
“Yes. I’ve got more than that in it. But it doesn’t make sense to keep her.”
Moe’s body is buzzing. She wants the bike. She already has riding boots, and they look fucking tough. Vivian, her boss, told her to get a real vehicle if she wants to move up. Looked at the right way, the Honda is an investment.
Last night, in anticipation of this moment, she narrowed the bike’s name down to two options: either Taibbi after the Rolling Stones contributor, or Fahrenthold after the Washington Post reporter. In person, the bike just doesn’t look like a Fahrenthold. The moment she settles on a name, she knows she’s going to buy it. “Think I can take him for a spin?” She pats Taibbi’s seat.
Ricky talks her through the start-up procedure. Moe finds his instruction more helpful than insulting. The engine fires up. Ricky hands Moe a helmet the same forest green as the bike’s tank, full face with a yellow bubble shield. She likes the look. On the back she finds a curly script that reads “Vicky.” She gives it a long look.
“That will come off. I don’t want the helmet,” Ricky says.
She uses the chinstraps to tug the helmet on. It’s perfect. Snug but not tight, and her field o
f vision is unobstructed. The yellow tint gives her artificial hope. For Ricky’s amusement she says, “Vicky must have been a pumpkin head.” Her voice is muffled, like talking into a pillow.
“Yeah. But it was mostly hair.” Ricky replies.
Moe pulls out of the garage and rides toward Randolph. She takes it slow, keeping her head up and scanning side to side. The helmet is heavier than she’s used to. Neck is going to be sore.
The streets are lined with cars along both sides, which makes the way narrow. She smells in the air a mix of heat coming off the Honda and greasy short-order food. The transmission shifts easily and she zips down the length of the block, slows to a stop, looks for cross traffic, then accelerates down the next block. Her fingers get cold in the wind. She can hear the traffic from the Eisenhower, cars honking, and a radio blaring a conservative talk show. She makes it to the main drag and works her way through a confusing traffic snarl before turning left. The West Loop has been transformed over the past couple decades, from a rugged series of warehouse loading docks into an epicenter of luxury lofts and retail boutiques, art galleries, repurposed architectural salvage, nightclubs, and one restaurant after another.
A Porsche Cayenne backs in front of Moe. Her reflexes save her. She leans the motorbike to turn it, has to drop a foot to keep from laying the bike down, rolls on the throttle and zips out of harm’s way. Now it’s a test drive. She reaches up and gives Taibbi a pat on the headlight before finding a place to make a U-turn and ride back to Grip Audio.
She has trouble finding the kickstand. Her legs are rubbery. She drags the helmet off and hangs it from the throttle grip.
“Pretty sweet ride, huh?” Ricky says.
Her phone buzzes. With one hand she combs her fingers through her hair, with the other she tugs her phone loose from the bag at her back.
Vivian: Get your ass north of the river. There’s a body. I’ll send the exact location. First come, first serve.
The message had been sent three minutes earlier. As she’s looking, a follow-up text pops up, with an address. “First come, first serve” is Vivian’s way of telling Moe to move it before another freelancer files the story. Especially before Jerome gets there. Jerome is relentless. Ricky waits. Moe taps a fast reply and tucks the phone away. She looks at Bernstein. It would be a hard pedal in morning traffic. She makes a decision.
“I’ll give you twenty-three-fifty and the cyclocross in trade.”
“Well,” Ricky says slowly, rubbing his chin, “I’ll do twenty-six, the trade, and you keep the helmet.”
“Let’s call it twenty-five.” Moe crushes his hand to seal the deal before Ricky can decline.
She is out the door on Taibbi in four minutes flat.
Unmet Expectations
Whistler walks straight toward the desk sergeant. He plants his newly polished shoes firmly and stands so his shiny badge on his new belt clip can be easily observed. The desk sergeant doesn’t look at him. Whistler clears his throat, feels his Adam’s apple rub against his starched collar and fat tie. He draws a deep breath to confirm his airway is unobstructed, resists the urge to ease the knot. The sergeant’s attention remains fixed elsewhere. That’s how it’s going to be.
Whistler worked hard for this. He grew up in Little Village, focused on school, and mostly stayed out of trouble. He was one of the first in his family to attend college. After his criminal justice degree, he excelled at the police academy. He did two years on patrol in North Lawndale, a stone’s throw from his own neighborhood. He learned a lot, had a number of close calls. Mostly he mediated chaotic conflicts between ordinary people caught in bad moments. Some days he felt he was doing good work. He was also frequently embarrassed for the people he dealt with. They were poor, stressed, and in tough circumstances.
High divorce rate among police is blamed on stress. Whistler has come to believe the nature of the job causes a loss of faith in humanity. Exposure to too much meanness and ragged anger corrodes the soul. In the end, Whistler saw too many people destroy the lives of those they were supposed to love. He knew he couldn’t be a patrolman long term, not if he hoped for a life outside the job.
He’d pursued detective the moment he’d met the minimum requirements. Unlike most first-time applicants, he’d passed the exam. He’d spent the past several weeks daydreaming about walking up to the officer on duty and announcing himself. Being welcomed: “Detective Diaz, so excited to meet you. We’ve heard good things. Inspector Ruther is waiting.”
Instead, he finds himself staring at the desk sergeant’s puckered, bald pate.
Whistler clears his throat loudly.
The sergeant glares through the top of his eyes, his half-glasses riding the end of his plump nose. Gravity tugs on his jowls, exaggerating creases on either side of his mouth. He looks like a hound dog. “What?” he barks.
Whistler tucks his thumbs in his belt. He tips his chin toward his badge, angles it. The badge looks good. He’d spent a long time deciding if he should clip it on or wear it around his neck like he’d seen cinema cops do, like Serpico. Whistler has a fear of accidentally hanging himself—the necktie is scary enough—so he went with the belt clip. He stays his hand from loosening his tie again. “I’m Detective Diaz. Assigned to Inspector Ruther.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” The sergeant is unimpressed.
“I don’t know where to go,” Whistler admits weakly.
The sergeant flicks a dismissive hand at the elevators. “Fourth floor. Ruther’s not in yet. He’ll find you when he needs you.”
Whistler’s broad shoulders roll forward in a defeated hunch. He swings his arms and taps his foot outside the closed elevator. He gets bored and strides into the stairway. I’ll always take the stairs so I don’t turn into a fat bastard like that desk jockey.
The stairway opens across from a room of disorganized industrial desks and roller chairs roaming free. There is no indication of the work done within. The place is abandoned. But the smell of coffee draws Whistler in. He finds an ancient Mr. Coffee machine in a small break room at the back.
He opens cabinets until he finds a mug. The phrase “Crafty Ass Bitch” is glazed brazenly in gold letters across a green mug that looks unclaimed. “Green is for the money, gold is for the honeys,” Whistler says to himself, a nod to the infamous Chicago pimp known as The Archbishop Don Magic Juan.
Whistler pours half a cup of black coffee. He lets the faucet run, tests the temperature. When it’s cold, he tops the mug off, nearly overfilling it. He likes his coffee weak and room temperature. It’s a trick he picked up from his father. Why wait for coffee to cool? Be smart, Whistler. God gave you a brain. Put it to work once in a while. Whistler brings the mug to his lips. He takes a careful sip.
“The hell are you?” A gruff voice explodes behind him. He sloshes coffee down his shirtfront, jumps his hips back to avoid wetting his slacks, and holds the mug away.
“Did I startle you? So fucking sorry.”
Whistler sets the mug aside and snatches a fistful of brown paper towels from a roll on the counter. He dabs at his shirt and faces the other man.
“Who. The hell. Are you?” the man asks again.
“Diaz,” Whistler says. He wads the damp paper and tosses it at the trash can. He misses.
“You are using my mug,” the man says. His dark mustache is streaked with shiny silver beneath each nostril, giving the impression his nose is running. The mustache bristles as if pointing its stiff whiskers at the pilfered mug. The man, a cop by his dress and demeanor, notices Whistler’s eyes on his upper lip. He slips a plastic comb from his pocket and works it through his expressive ’stache. He tucks the comb away. “My mug,” he repeats, making his left hand into a pistol aimed at the mug. “I’m a crafty ass bitch. Everybody says so.”
Whistler thinks it’s a joke, wants to smirk. But he gives in to his healthy fear of authority and says, “Sorry. I didn’t know.”
“I’m fucking with you. It’s not mine. I’m Inspector Ruther,
but you can call me “sir.” Grab your shit. We got a crime scene.” Ruther walks away and yells back, “Grab one of the fucking digital tablets from the dock by the door.”
“Yes, sir.” Whistler slurps more coffee and leaves the mug in the sink. He hustles to catch up to Ruther.
“Tablet,” Ruther says.
“Yes, sir.” Whistler turns back and finds the tablet dock, takes the last one. At the elevator, Whistler remembers his resolution about the stairs. He’s not brave enough to say anything. When the elevator arrives, the two men ride down in silence.
As they pass the front desk, Ruther calls over, “Hey, Wendigo, this is Diaz. We’re out on a call. Radio if you need me.”
“You bet, Inspector.” Then to Whistler the desk sergeant calls, “Diaz,” waits a beat, then says, “You got a little something,” and wipes his hand over the front of his own uniform. Whistler looks down at his stained shirt and tie, catches a malicious glint in the sergeant’s cloudy eyes.
Crossing the street, Ruther talks over his shoulder, “That’s Wendell.”
“You call him Wendigo?”
“Yeah. I do. You can’t. I’m the nickname guy. It’s a perk of being in charge. No one can say shit when I give them stupid nicknames.”
“Isn’t the Wendigo from a Native American story about a man who turned into a monster after tasting human flesh?”
“Fuck if I know. You’re the one with an education. I thought it sounded funny. Say it. Wendigo. It’s a fun name. Speaking of which, listen up: Wendell doesn’t suffer fools, so don’t be a fool and you’ll get along. Trust me, your life will be easier if you get along with Wendell.”
When they reach the car, Ruther stops to face the young detective, looks him square in the eyes. He brushes his hand down the length of his own tie and lets his mustache bristle at Whistler’s shirtfront. “You got a little something.” He lets the dig sink in. Whistler can’t stop from looking at his stained shirt again. Ruther adds, “From now on at least try to look professional.”
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