A kid with fat headphones and downcast eyes walks a collision course for Calvert. Calvert steps wide to avoid catastrophe. Light flashes off the lake from blocks away. He squints against the glare. Thinking of all that water makes him desperate to piss. He hustles to catch up to Big Hair. When he closes the gap, she alters her stride to avoid what appears to be a frozen green smoothie dumped on the sidewalk. Calvert steps on the back of her sensible flats. She glares over her shoulder and mumbles an angry monologue. She and her hair hobble-walk across the flow of foot traffic so she can shelter in a doorway and slip out of her shoe. Calvert is preoccupied with the pressure in his middle; he follows her and stops walking when she stops.
She wields the shoe, swats it in the air near his right ear. “Look at it. Look what you did.” Calvert tries to look, but she lashes her footwear too wildly. “Why? Why would you do that?”
“It was an accident,” he explains as reasonably as he is able while dodging her attack.
“There are no accidents.” She slips her shoe on and bumps him out of the way. He nearly wets himself. He focuses on clenching the muscles that control his fluid sac. His neurons spark, his nerves respond, his body follows orders.
Her voice bounces around his vacant skull: There are no accidents. If one backtracks, is there always a tipping-point when a poor choice led to a domino of consequences that only seem unintentional? He chose to follow the woman, which led to the kid with the headphones nearly hitting him. Because of that he saw the lake, thought of water, and his bladder. His acute discomfort distracted him. He scuffed High Hair’s shoe. I’m responsible. He looks for High Hair to deliver a mea culpa. Dead Calvert has no ego. He only wants to do what’s right. But the woman is long gone.
He has no time for guilt. He charts his own course amid the bustle. He hunts for anyplace to pee. Halfway between Van Buren and Jackson, he ducks down a narrow alley. He walks around a man leaning one shoulder against the bricks to suck on a cigarette. The space between the buildings is a haze of burnt tobacco. Despite his absent sense of smell, the thick air catches in his throat. Calvert wills himself not to cough; his bladder would let go. He walks toward the deeper shadows, steps behind a dumpster, and fumbles with the old zipper. He barely fishes himself out in time. Once he starts to pee, he can’t stop.
The smoker avoids looking in Calvert’s direction, stubs his butt on the wall and sprays a few puffs of Binaca in his mouth, looks both ways before he’s pulled out of sight by the stream of humanity.
Still Calvert’s bladder drains. The pressure lets up. He tucks himself away and struggles to zip his fly. He gets it half closed and gives up.
He hears a rustling and a smattering of high-pitched cries. He’s drawn deeper into the alley. Calvert knows walking toward unknown noises in a dark alley is the opposite of what he should do. What have I got to lose? He edges around another dumpster. On the ground, he finds a grubby man asleep on a nest of crushed boxes. In the curl of his body, a skinny cat nurses three mewling kittens.
The mother turns wild yellow eyes on Calvert. She begins to stand, but the kittens keep pressing their paws into her exposed pink belly, making emphatic, tiny sounds, soft claws too new to retract. She settles for lifting her head and lets a rumbling growl slowly build.
The sleeping man scratches his beard but doesn’t wake.
The cat lets go of a feral hiss, afraid and dangerous; sharp teeth and sinew. Motherhood makes her capable of any degree of violence. Calvert backs away.
On the sidewalk, his empty bladder has made room in his body for a thought. He remembers how much Meredith wanted to be a mother, how much of their life focused on remedies for the perceived absence of child, and just how badly he had handled it. He also remembers his intention to shop for the things written on the list tucked in his wallet.
Shoe Leather
Whistler lifts the yellow tape and lets Moe out of the cordon. He’s a gentleman, even though I ticked him off. He can’t help it.
“Maybe I’ll see you tonight.” His tone makes it clear he doesn’t want to get together.
Moe knows her cousin keeps commitments, even the ones he’d rather avoid. He’ll show if I push him. Besides, he has a weakness for hot shrimps. She says, “I won’t quote you, Whistler. I mean it. You’re safe.”
His taught jaw relaxes.
“Good luck with the case.”
Whistler nods.
Moe watches his broad shoulders roll forward in the overlarge shirt. His head hangs. Built like a bulldog. He’s under a lot of pressure, always out to prove something. She truly would like her reporting to help his case. I’ll report the hell out of this.
Short Michael Jordan hovers near by, keeping an eye on her. She notices the crime scene tape is wrinkled.
“Answer me one question. Nothing to do with the case. I promise.” She crosses her heart. “Nothing at all to do with the case.”
“Ask your question. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.” Short MJ leaves his arms crossed, showing his biceps.
“The tape is mangled. I’ve seen a lot of crime scenes, and I’ve never seen it like that.” She leaves the question unasked; the indirect-question strategy pays with reluctant sources.
“We’re reusing it. Cost savings.”
She clucks her tongue, shakes her head sympathetically.
MJ goes on, “Been told to make the cordon area small as possible. We went two years without a state budget. Thank god Springfield finally had the cojones to override the governor’s veto. Some budget is better than no budget.”
She clucks her tongue at that too. “More crime, smaller budgets.”
“Don’t have to tell me,” he tells her.
Detective Chapman talks to a mic on his shoulder, moves to the far end of the crime scene.
Where’s he going? She decides she needs to find out. “Thanks, officer.”
“Don’t let me see my name in print.”
“I didn’t get your name.”
“Even better. The same rules apply.”
She crosses her heart again. Moe’s fatigued legs won’t lift when she turns to jog away. She stumbles and kicks crumbled pavement before righting herself.
At Taibbi she pulls her helmet on, turns the key, and presses the ignition. He fires up. She pats his tank lovingly as the engine rumbles. The exhaust pipe is warm against her ankle. She taps the shifter into neutral and backs the bike, eases into first and shifts her body to swerve around potholes. Traffic is what one would expect in the Loop. Wind comes off the lake and strikes her at every intersection as she spirals through a series of one-way streets until she finds the shore-side path.
Parking Taibbi is challenging. She finds a metered spot and reluctantly jams her debit card into the slot. She punches a few buttons, waits for the parking receipt to print. She peels the backing away and slaps the sticker on the bike’s front headlight. It only takes a couple minutes to find Officer Chapman’s wedge of red hair cutting up the footpath. She shadows him to the massive Echelon Hotel, where he enters with purpose.
She nods to the bellhop while waiting for the revolving door to spin to an opening. The helmet is clumsy and draws attention.
“Can you hold on to this?” she asks.
“Sure thing.” He rips a ticket and hands it over; the other half he tucks in the helmet.
She follows Chapman’s trail into the grand lobby and spots him at the reception desk. He passes an evidence bag over the counter. A young lady in a dark blazer clacks at a keyboard and relays some information. Chapman returns the evidence to his pocket. The young lady picks up a phone and makes a call. Chapman mills around while he waits, chewing his thumbnail.
Moe keeps her distance, helps herself to a complimentary bottle of water and inconspicuously settles into a comfy chair. From her seat she reads a sign set on a collapsible easel: “Welcome to the (1) National Athletic Trainers Association; (2) The Autonomous Vehicle and Smart Road Technology Annual Summit; (3) College Book Arts Association.”
The vic
tim was here for a conference. Based on her shoes, the trainer thingy. Out-of-towner. That’s why the mayor’s pet detective squad is involved. The death could ding tourism. She slips her phone out and snaps a quick image of the conference sign board for reference.
Chapman is still pacing. She texts: Viv: Think I’m onto something big. I’ll drop in and hash it out.
A lanky man in his fifties with a mane of sandy hair approaches Chapman. The new guy has a lot of muscle stacked neatly into a fitted suit. They shake hands like men, talk in low tones. The fit guy gestures to a door and escorts Chapman that way.
Moe walks to the reception counter, smiling at the young lady, “Hope Officer Chapman won’t have trouble getting what he needs.” She makes it a friendly warning.
“Mr. Windisch took him to the security office. They can put whatever camera feeds he needs on a thumb drive. You need to go back?”
“No. Chapman’s a good man. I trust him. He will handle it. So the victim was here for the Athletic Trainer Conference?” Moe reaches for her phone, looks at the screen, swipes her finger over it a few times and pretends to read.
“No. She was here for the driverless cars.”
Confirmation of being a guest. “Where’d she fly in from? Do you know?”
The woman looks at Moe’s street clothes. The ruse is crumbling. But she replies cautiously, “No. I don’t know. Do you have some ID?”
“You bet. I didn’t do that?” Moe returns her phone and twists her bag around, rips the Velcro loose and digs through the contents. “Don’t tell me I left my badge in my car again.” She mumbles it under her breath, but pitched for the benefit of the attendant. When her performance has run its course, she says, “I can’t find it. I better go get it. I’ll be right back.” She walks briskly away, takes four steps, turns and asks, “Oh, one more thing. Can you confirm the victim’s name?”
“Let me get you someone from security.” The young woman picks up the phone.
I had to try. “Okay. That is perfect. Have security wait here.”
She hustles out the revolving door and waves her half ticket at the doorman. He takes her helmet from the cabinet beneath his workstation. Moe grasps it and slips him a folded dollar bill. She puts the helmet over her head to shield her face from cameras. She hurries across the circular drive and forces her legs to jog the half block to her bike.
The Napping Canadian
Moe sits at the Ainsworth Diner in South Chicago perfecting her ritual of using the string attached to the tea bag to wring the liquid from her alfalfa peppermint tea. She stirs in honey and brings the heavy mug to her face. It smells good: earthy and floral, but weak. She shuts her eyes on the tiny laptop in front of her. She feels the third draft of her article watching her. She dismisses the computer’s malicious Cyclops gaze.
She gulps too much of the scalding tea, burning her tongue. She lets the hot liquid spill out, run down her chin to drip back in the mug. “Thamn it!” She snatches at napkins to cover her mess. She’d told herself she wouldn’t do that again. A fresh cup between drafts is part of her process, but her wandering mind loses track of the fact that a fresh cup is hotter than the dregs of the previous one.
“Thamn mith,” she says, gripping the scorched tip of her tongue. She allows herself a laugh, sets the mug aside and reads the article again. It takes only a few minutes. She makes a single change, preferring “strangled” over “choked.” She considers reading the article one last time. Decides against it. Good enough. She sends it to Vivian. She takes out her phone and texts:
Viv—be there soon. Want to talk about a follow-up article I have in mind.
She carefully sips the tea. Her tender tongue regains some feeling. Now that she has Taibbi, she’s under less pressure to rush. Freelancing for a digital paper is different from working in traditional print journalism. Moe needs to generate eight stories a week for her finances to work out, but there are no hard deadlines. Vivian has yet to employ anyone on staff, but she keeps dangling the possibility. Now that Whistler is a detective, my potential for bigger stories is huge.
She’s not above using someone to get what she needs. She can be calculating and cold. She knows that about herself. It’s not something she’s proud of. It’s ruthless to have a transactional relationship with her cousin. In her defense, making it as a journalist is nearly impossible. Most of her classmates went into broadcast news, which she barely considers news. Some have moved to regional papers where they remain journalistically insignificant, reporting local Girl Scout bake sales and high school sports. Not her. She’s willing to bend some rules in the service of real reporting. Perhaps one day she’ll be privileged enough to travel the moral high ground. It seems like a luxury reserved for established journalists. Still, when it comes to Whistler, she wants to play nice. Within reason.
Sitting here, watching Momma putter behind the counter, Moe has time to fully grasp what an opportunity she’s stumbled into. If she can partner with Whistler, they could both build their careers. Not necessarily on this murder, but with a series of hard-won articles over years. She finishes her victory beverage, staring out the window.
Across the street is a two-story brick building with three storefront shops. One is a barbershop that specializes in tight clipper fades. The middle space is empty. The other is a used bookstore with a hand-lettered sign that reads “Ramshackle Books.” Beside the bookshop is a community garden in what used to be a derelict lot.
A fat man in a broad-brimmed sun hat is harvesting produce from a raised bed. He walks over to a spigot to rinse a carrot. He rubs the firm orange skin clean under the flow of water, shakes off the excess wet, and chomps the tip from the fresh vegetable. His big jaw works the food around. The carrot greens wave in the wind as he chews and chews. I love this neighborhood.
South Chicago is one of over seventy-five neighborhoods within the city limit. It sits along the lakefront and covers an area of around three and a half square miles shaped like a chevron that fell over drunk and chose not to right itself. Moe knows this because she wrote her first published article about this diner, this neighborhood. The abandoned diner had reopened in a wave of optimism that followed Barack Obama’s inauguration. The area was once known as Ainsworth, thus the throwback name of the diner. Though in truth, most people call it Momma’s Place.
“You need any food today, honey?” Momma is there.
“No, Momma. I’m about to go.”
“You need to eat. The pie is fresh.”
“Not today, Momma. Thank you.”
“Okay then, honey.” Momma fishes in her apron and passes a fold of paper across the table. “You pay when you’re ready.” She shuffles away. Getting old. Across the street, Fat Man takes a last bite of carrot and throws the spray of greens onto a compost pile, his jaw still working mightily.
Moe wrote that article about the diner sitting in this very booth. A snapshot of a spry Momma appeared on the top of the day’s feed. A story with her name attached: M. Diaz. It wasn’t hard-hitting journalism—more of a human-interest piece. But the place she wrote about would have been completely ignored by the mainstream press. The act of writing it was political. She’d been proud. She’d highlighted the depressed local economy and the hopeful surge of Mom and Pop retail cropping up. She’d found her voice. She takes a last sip of tea. Time to go.
Six minutes later, Taibbi rumbles under her as she rolls in front of Text Block. The gate is open. She shoves down her kickstand. Her thighs are hot after the short ride. Her ass is sweaty and her jeans have slipped down, showing the top of her butt to the world. She hitches her pants as she walks.
Her Vicky helmet dangles from one hand as she raps on Vivian’s office door.
“Come in.” Vivian closes her laptop.
Moe exhibits the helmet.
“You got the motorcycle. That’s good.” Vivian leaves it at that and moves on to business. “I uploaded your story. The part about the crime scene tape gets at the funding crisis perfectly. Nice hook.”
“Glad you liked it.”
“You used personal observation. I haven’t seen you do that before.”
“Too much Hunter S. Thompson in my formative years,” Moe explains, half sincere.
“It worked. You’ve built this place as much as I have. On that note, take a seat; I’ve got something to tell you.”
Moe sits across the tidy desk from Vivian. “It’s time to put someone on staff. For real this time. You and Jerome are my top writers. Jerome has an idea for a big story. I’m going to have him come in and pitch his idea. You need to have a pitch too. I’m going to decide who gets the staff position based on the pitch. You understand?”
“I guess.”
“I know I’m dropping this on you. That’s why I’m telling you now. I wanted to let you know, this dumpster girl you wrote about—there were three other women choked to death in the city in the past month; two Latinas and one black. Practically no press. I’m not saying there is a pattern here. I am saying there is a potential pattern here.” Vivian digs in her desk drawer and hands a piece of paper to Moe. “Those are names, dates, places.”
Moe glances at the list.
“I’m getting Jerome. This is about to happen.” Vivian walks out.
Moe knows the broad strokes of Jerome’s personal history. He isn’t a Chicago guy. That’s good for Moe. The city has a Midwest openness, but that ends where city politics begins. There’s a turn of phrase, “We don’t want nobody nobody sent.” It’s about Chicago’s history of cronyism and a fundamental mistrust of outsiders. That gives Moe a leg up over Jerome. He moved here from one of those “C” cities in Ohio. Columbus or Cleveland or Cincinnati. She can never keep them straight. Won an award for reporting on chronically over-chlorinated public pools leading to a painful rash that scarred dozens of kids. The city cut corners on pump equipment for pools in poor neighborhoods. That led to dangerous levels of irritants. Parents reported the odor, burning eyes and rashes for weeks before anyone took them seriously. It made national news, led to a class action lawsuit. After that Jerome decided to move to a bigger market. He arrived in Chicago and strategically took a job as a bartender at the Dearborn, one of those restaurants where City Hall employees go to drink. Before long he was on a first-name basis with dozens of city employees. He knew aldermen by their cocktail. After six months, he wrote a story about abuse of environmental oversight rules related to dumping in Lake Michigan. The uneven application of regulation was causing dangerous toxic algae blooms. He sold the story straight to The Atlantic. The article led to a book deal. The book sold well. Somehow, Vivian convinced Jerome to start writing for Text Block.
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