Death in Uptown

by Michael Raleigh

  He could smell the man waiting to kill him. It was faint, just an acrid trace in the stale air of the living room, but there, nonetheless, the street-smell of clothes worn in the sun all day, a mixture of body odors and the windblown dirt of the city.

  He stood at the outer edge of the living room until he was certain the boy was not in the room. Then be reached back with one hand to touch the hammer and walked over to turn on the lamp in the front window. He stood still for a moment, listening, thought he heard a floorboard creak somewhere in the back of the house and held his breath. He heard nothing more.

  Where would he be? In the back of the house, farthest from the door, or somewhere Whelan was more likely to go as soon as he came in? Bathroom, where there would be no room for either of them to move? No. He looked across the room at the dark doorway to the bedroom, the room he would pass on his way to any other part of the house.

  He was in there.

  Yeah, he was in the bedroom. Whelan looked around his living room, fought a momentary urge to run, told himself that a house is a collection of defensive weapons, wondered how to enter the bedroom without leaving himself open, and finally blew it all off. Let’s do it.

  “Come on out of there, Donnie, darlin’. That’s where your sister and I romped and frolicked while you were out stomping winos. Come out and get a piece of me, babe.”

  He took a couple of steps toward the bedroom, stopped beside an old wooden chair and hooked his thumbs into his back pockets. With his right hand he carefully slid the hammer out from his belt and rested it against the back of his leg.

  There was a subtle rustling from within the darkened bedroom and then footsteps and something moved to the left of the doorway and Donnie Agee emerged, moving fast, and Whelan’s heart came as near as it ever would to bursting.

  The being that came bounding out from the darkness was no man. Red-faced, eyes bulging, head thrust forward so that he looked up at Whelan from beneath his brow, Donnie came out in a crouch, not a fighter’s stance so much as the prelude to a pounce. His young face was contorted with all the anger of his barren life and his mouth worked, and in one hand he held a knife, a small, wood-handled knife that Whelan recognized as his own.

  Whelan made a sudden move to his left and Donnie shuffled forward, knife held low where Whelan would have trouble holding it off.

  Whelan beckoned. “Come on, Donnie. We don’t have all night.”

  Donnie waded in, made a swiping motion with the blade, moved forward two shuffling steps, his weight forward, body tense. Whelan could see the veins pulsing in his neck and temple. A grenade ready to go off.

  He moved to his right, closer to the chair, and the point of the blade followed his movement. He watched Donnie and wondered if his own face was bathed in sweat like the boy’s, realized his whole body was wet. He made a jerky movement to his left and the boy matched it effortlessly. Don was undoubtedly quicker than he was, and he knew if he backed up, he was finished.

  Hands still behind his back, he switched the hammer to his left.

  “C’mon, asshole, let’s get it on. You killed anybody face to face lately? You killed anybody that wasn’t asleep, or a drunken old man? C’mon, halfwit, come get a piece of me.”

  The boy’s lips were wet and a froth of saliva appeared on his upper lip, hanging down like a fang. He seemed to be on the point of saying something.

  “Trouble with you, kid, is you want a fair fight out of me,” Whelan said, and in one motion picked up the wooden chair in his right hand and swung it up into Donnie’s face. He let the chair go and swung the hammer, a straight overhand blow, felt the cast iron hit bone and heard Donnie groan, and then the kid was down.

  His swing took him off-balance and he teetered slightly to his left; he tried to recover his balance and Donnie was up on one knee and slashing, and the blade tore into Whelan’s calf, then into his thigh and he staggered against a table. Donnie bounded up at him, blood streaking his face, and Whelan fought panic and bounced the hammer off the kid’s head again. It was a glancing blow that caught him just above the ear and Donnie let out a high-pitched keening noise. He slashed out at Whelan again with the knife and Whelan jumped back. He swung the hammer one last time, putting shoulder into it and this time he caught the boy across the nose. Whelan felt the blood spray him and then Donnie was staggering across the room, attempting to run, holding on to his face and making a strangled screaming sound, and as he got to the front hall the door seemed to explode against the wall and Detective Albert Bauman of the Chicago Police Department thrust his bulk into the narrow hallway.

  Whelan watched as Bauman caught Donnie under the chin with one hand and began to squeeze, and he saw the knife move before be could call out. Bauman stopped the knife with his free hand, took the blade in the center of his palm, closed his fist around it and squeezed the blade, then literally lifted the boy off his feet by the throat. Don’s face went violet and his eyes bulged till Whelan thought they’d pop from the sockets, and the boy’s legs kicked spastically at Bauman. There was a gurgling sound, and he could see blood dripping from Bauman’s hand around the knife. Whelan lurched toward the hall, heard himself yelling, “Bauman, don’t kill him, don’t—”

  And he heard the detective’s booming, outraged voice.

  “YOU!”

  Bauman shook him and stared into the kid’s purpling face and squeezed, and Donnie tried to free his knife and the detective’s voice shook walls.

  “YOU…HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN FUCKING SILENT.”

  And gradually, as he gave the kid letter-perfect Miranda, his voice went from a bellow to a monotone, and he lowered the boy to the floor, relaxed his grip on Donnie’s windpipe and let him go. He pulled the bloody knife from his hand and tossed it onto the hall floor.

  The boy collapsed in a sobbing heap on the floor, moving back and forth on hands and knees like a hurt child, and Bauman got on top of him and cuffed him. Then he looked at Whelan.

  “Whaddya call this? You fuck-up. He kills you, and he’s out on the street again.”

  “I’m sorry. I wanted a piece of him.”

  Bauman looked down at the battered figure on the floor. “Looks like you got it.”

  Whelan sank onto the ruined carpet. The cut in his calf stung but the longer, deeper one in the thigh bled freely and bathed him in searing pain. He squeezed at the skin around the cut and looked at Bauman.

  “What are you doing here? How—” Bauman looked at him, a little half smile on his face, and Whelan gave a short laugh.

  “You followed me.”

  “I don’t trust anybody, Whelan. I watched you. You were movin’ like a guy that’s got someplace to go. And the broad cinched it for me. She asked where you were and then she says, ‘Hope he went straight home.’ ”

  He gave Whelan an odd look, almost paternal. “Got it outta your system now?”

  “Think so.”

  “Good. Now watch him while I make the call. How bad you cut?”

  “I’ve had worse but it hurts like a sonofabitch.”

  “We’ll get you all fixed up. You’ll be dancing again in no time.” At the door he paused, dripping blood from his hand. “Where, Whelan? Where’d you get worse? That time with Kozel.”

  “In the Delta.”

  Bauman nodded. “And you were, what? A medic?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tommy was a medic. My cousin Tommy.”

  “He come back?”

  “Fuck, no. We grew up together. He lived a couple blocks from us.”

  “So who’d you vote for?”

  Bauman flashed him a look of amused malice. “That guy McGovern. After Tommy, I voted for McGovern. Do it again, too. You see, Whelan? I’m just a fat old peacenik at heart,” he said, and went out to use the radio.

  “Oh, I’ll bet,” Whelan said to himself.

  Epilogue

  Wade was standing out in front of the Wilson Men’s Club Hotel and smiled uncertainly when Whelan got out of his car. Whelan walked stiff-leg
ged over to him.

  “Hey, Mr. Whelan. How’s the leg?”

  “They think I’m going to live.” He handed Wade the envelope. “You know what to do with this, right?”

  Wade took it in both hands and looked uncomfortably at Whelan.

  “Yeah, man. I do.”

  “Buy clothes, get a train ticket, use the rest to get yourself started down there.”

  “I’ll pay you back, man.”

  “I don’t care if you do. But you can if you want. See you around, Wade. Drop me a line, maybe.”

  “You’re good people, Mr. Whelan.”

  “So are you, Wade. Get out of town,” he said, and smiled.

  He stood in front of the A&W, perfectly aware that he looked like a lost puppy. He looked at the sign and then cupped both hands against the window to peer in, looking for some sign that it was all some kinky Persian joke, but the evidence was obvious, complete, unmistakable. It was closed. Counters were clean, supplies and equipment were carefully put away just as if the two madmen were coming back later in the morning to open up. He looked at the sign for the third time and said, “Shit.”

  It was, in its way, a marvelous sign, a sign that could only have been composed by Gus and Rashid:

  CLOSD. THIS ONE NOT OPEN NO MORE

  WE GOING TO CALIFONIA TO MAKE BIG MONEY

  GOD BLESS PRESIDNT REGAN AND USA

  He started to laugh. Gus and Rashid were about to be turned loose on California.

  Californians, save yourselves!

  Whelan wondered what ethnic heritage they would claim for themselves in California. When they’d arrived on Lawrence, they’d called themselves Egyptians, and during the worst of the Iranian crisis they’d told anybody who’d listen that they were Israelis offering cuisine from the Holy Land. “Food that Jesus would like.” What would they be on the coast? Mexicans? Hondurans?

  A large shape in a green jacket appeared beside his reflection in the window.

  “Hey, sleuth. So these guys boogied, huh? Whaddya think, maybe they poisoned somebody and had to leave town?”

  He looked at Bauman. “No, if my guess is right, they decided to go out to the Coast, become entrepeneurs, stare at the blond girls in the little tiny bathing suits and enjoy the American dream. They’ll fit right in.” He glanced down at Bauman’s bandaged hand. “How’s the injury?”

  “It’s no big deal,” Bauman said, a little testily. “So how’s your leg?”

  “Thirty-eight stitches. Three in the little cut, thirty-five in the big one. Had to toss my ma’s old rug, too.”

  Bauman looked around the street, eyes coming to rest on a pair of plump young Puerto Rican girls squeezed into halter tops and jeans made for their little sisters. He shook his head, looked slightly flustered when he saw Whelan watching him, then smiled.

  “I’d even be willing to learn the language. Any language they want.” He watched the girls enter Sam’s Carniceria.

  “He won’t stand trial, that little fucker. You figured that, right?”

  “Yeah, I figured. Spend some time in a hospital, I hope?”

  “Oh, a long, long time, Whelan. He’s growlin’ and hearin’ voices, talking like he’s different people. I think they’ll want to keep him in just to study all his moves.” He shot an uneasy glance at Whelan.

  “What about her, Bauman?”

  Bauman kept his eyes trained on traffic as he spoke. “She’s gonna stand trial. She don’t hear no voices, Whelan.”

  “No voices, maybe, but isn’t she something?”

  Bauman looked at him. “That’s a hard little number, there, Whelan.”

  “Yeah.”

  “All these poor fuckers dead…you know she still thinks her old man had a stash somewhere?”

  “She say that?”

  “Yeah. I told her she got all these people killed for nothing and she just gives me this little smile and says, ‘What you don’t know would fill a book.’”

  Whelan looked up at the sky and blocked her out. A cloud mass was forming to the west. Rain, maybe. He had calls to make, people to talk to: he would need to talk to Marie Shears to tell her that Art’s killers were in custody. She probably knew already, but she’d have a thousand questions. More than that, she’d need a listener. And he wanted to talk to Captain Wallis again, to talk about the hapless boy known as Billy the Kid. He dreaded both conversations and was suddenly very tired of it all, sick to death of his neighborhood and the people he knew and his life.

  “Bauman, I need a long, long ride on a train.”

  “Yeah, I bet.”

  “You ever want to be finished with it all, Bauman? Just take off somewhere and leave it all to somebody else?”

  Bauman watched the street. “Nah. This is all I got, Whelan. It’s all I got.” He cleared his throat and took out one of his nasty little cigars. “C’mon, you wanna go get a cup of coffee?”

  “Why not.”

  “Let’s go down to this joint under the tracks. You can tell me all about being a private eye,” and he laughed.

  “I’ll have to fit you into my schedule,” Whelan said, and they walked up Lawrence to the coffee shop. The wind was picking up from the west, a hot wind that lifted dirt and grit and loose paper from the street and sent it sailing. The reigning odors of the street were car exhaust and grilled onions, and somewhere somebody was cooking with chilies, and there was salsa music booming from a third-floor window.

  Whelan shrugged and told himself to worry about somebody else’s troubles.

  More from Michael Raleigh

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  Whelan's investigation takes him into the rarefied air of the wealthy, where he begins to discover unlikely connections between the two men in the harbor. But Whelan isn’t the only one snooping, and he discovers himself an unwitting player in a game of cat-and-mouse, with deadly consequences.

  The Maxwell Street Blues

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  Soon Whelan is swept up into a whirlwind of old feuds, dark pasts, unlikely romances…and a killer hiding in plain sight.

  Killer on Argyle Street

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  All the evidence suggests that Tony is dead as well, but Whelan keeps digging until he finds himself surrounded by a dangerous maze of silent witnesses, crooked cops, and people willing to kill to keep the truth from surfacing. When a friend from Whelan’s past emerges—a friend Whelan thought long dead—his investigation takes a dangerous turn; one that brings him no closer to Tony, and a lot closer to his own demise.

  The Riverview Murders

  Margaret O’Mara’s brother disappeared thirty years earlier, so when his last known associate is found murdered, O’Mara hires Chicago PI Paul Whelan to investigate.

  Whelan makes the rounds through seedy bar and dilapidated apartment buildings where he discovers connections to a long-gone Chicago amusement park where another murder took place forty years prior.

  Soon, Whelan finds himself navigating his way through dark pasts, deep secrets, and a mystery that may cost him his life.

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