Precinct 11 - 01 - The Brotherhood

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Bingo. A subject to study.

  Jack recommended a bunch of books, a night school class, and even a training session by a field officer from OCD.

  “I don’t have to be part of Organized Crime to take advantage of that?”

  “All you have to be is a sworn officer.”

  “Jack, what would you do with me if you could get me into Organized Crime?”

  “You kiddin’? You obsess about gangbangers. You’d be a natural in the Gang Enforcement Section.”

  “I wouldn’t work directly for you?”

  Jack laughed. “Not till you take Pete Wade’s job. He’s commander of Gang Enforcement, and he would report to me.”

  “And how does gang enforcement differ from—”

  “Undercover work?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, for one thing, you can’t go undercover.”

  “Why?”

  “Sorry to tell you, but you’ve been too visible. All your commendations, being in the paper, being on TV, and then, you know, the—”

  “Fire, yes, I know. Makes sense. It would be hard for me to blend in.”

  “Anyway,” Jack said, “I like how you interact with bad guys. They know you’re a cop, and they know you know all about them. You know how to talk to ’em, get what you need, establish who’s in charge, all that. I see you as the Eagle Scout in the communities, engaging with the gangs, enforcing the law. Back when I was doing undercover work—”

  “Hold on, Jack! You were undercover?”

  “’Course! You knew that, right? We’ve talked about it.”

  “No! I knew you worked in the gang unit, but not undercover.”

  “See how good I was? You didn’t even know.”

  “So were you really?”

  “You get it so ingrained in your head to not talk about it that it must have stuck with me all these years. You’re serious that I never mentioned it?”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Well, I’ve got lots of stories you need to hear, even if I can’t use you undercover. Let me know when you’re up to it.”

  Boone told Jack of Brigita Velna’s advice.

  “Makes sense. But I’ll follow your lead. When you’re ready, I’ll talk.”

  “Not sure when that’s going to be, Jack, but maybe soon. I do have one question, though. Isn’t organized crime more about the Mafia or the Mob, or—what do they call themselves here . . . ?”

  “The Outfit, but it’s nothing like it used to be. If you’re going to study it, you’ll learn that. In Capone’s day, during Prohibition and all that, sure, it was huge. But it’s been on the decline ever since, and now it’s just a shadow of what it used to be. There are hardly enough ‘made men’ anymore to even worry about. The street gangs are way bigger and more influential now.”

  He and Jack agreed to start talking about organized crime in Chicago as soon as Boone was ready and Keller available.

  Sheer boredom put Boone in front of the TV for the ten o’clock news. A convenience store proprietor was interviewed in silhouette, his voice technologically camouflaged. For an instant, Boone was distracted from his own turmoil. Even with the effort to hide the man’s identity, it was clear he was small and slight. Boone guessed he was Asian or Indian. And the modified voice couldn’t hide the man’s fear and resignation. “I pay,” he said. “Of course I pay. I have family. And I have nowhere to go. What’s my choice?”

  Gang members would visit the man near closing time late at night, telling him that if he didn’t pay for their protection, they could not guarantee his safety. “Windows could be broken, merchandise stolen, maybe even a fire burn my place down. But now protection costs almost all my profits. But I got no choice.”

  Boone stood and paced. Something deep inside him wanted to find that shopkeeper, have him point out the gang’s so-called enforcers, and see how they liked facing terror. He knew they weren’t just talking. Small businesses on the edges of gang neighborhoods were torched, looted, vandalized every day. You paid or you suffered—it was as simple as that.

  These gangbangers were little more than grown-up versions of the bullies Boone had taken care of as a schoolkid. Oh, for the chance to do that again now, these days, when it really counted.

  Late that night when Boone was depressed and unable to sleep—yet still determined to stay away from the wine—his phone chirped. He looked to see that Francisco Sosa had texted him a Bible reference. Psalm 51:10.

  He found Nikki’s Bible and looked up the verse:

  Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me.

  Boone had to admit, that stopped him. He carried the Bible out to Jack’s easy chair and sat reading it over and over. Could that be his prayer? He wasn’t sure yet. And what was he going to tell Ms. Velna? Had his rage given way to mostly sadness?

  Boone missed Nikki. Missed her touch. Missed her smile. Missed her laugh. Missed her love. He missed Josh. Missed his giggle. Missed just watching him. Missed his welcome when Boone got home.

  He was still mad too, no question. But this missing business—this was sadness. Boone was alone and lonely and preoccupied. He was still thinking of telling Nikki things, more than once a day. Every time it washed over him that he would never talk to her again, never see her, never touch her, reality bit deep.

  At times Boone began to shake and couldn’t calm himself. He was not finished crying yet either. He proved that in the middle of the night, every night. And what was that? Just grief? No, it was more. It was longing. It was frustration. It was wanting something like you had never wanted anything before and knowing that nothing you could ever say or do would bring it back.

  What, Boone wondered, had been wrong with his faith? Had he turned on God when God disappointed him? Or had he never enjoyed a real relationship with God in the first place? His faith had never demanded anything of him, and he couldn’t remember ever having been as devout as Nikki or Pastor Sosa. Had he ever just longed to pray, to read the Bible, to go to church, to worship? It was all okay with him, and he was a believer. He didn’t doubt that. It’s just that his faith had never defined him.

  What had he missed? What was the disconnect? Was it simply that he had always been self-possessed, self-reliant? He had heard people begin their prayers by telling God that they loved him.

  Do I love him? Have I ever?

  Maybe Boone had nothing to fall back on in the time of his most dire need because he had never had anything in the first place. He wondered how he might have felt about God’s seeming to abandon him and allowing this, even if he had been devout. It wasn’t like a loving God would have allowed this just to get his attention. What kind of a capricious, hateful thing would that be?

  His parents and Nikki’s parents were good Christians. Why weren’t they spared this agony? No way God would have made Nikki and Joshie and the grandparents suffer just because of Boone. Would he?

  Boone told Ms. Velna that he had decided what to study, and that he had come to a conclusion about her question. “I think I’ve gone from being madder than sad to sadder than mad. I’m still mad; I’m still frustrated. I have a lot of questions about faith and God and all that. But I don’t think it’s the kind of anger that would affect my work. I’d like to be back on the street as soon as you approve it.”

  “Well,” she said, “do you feel you know yourself well enough to know how you’ll respond when you’re full of adrenaline, under pressure, and someone ticks you off?”

  “I guess I won’t know until I’m in the heat of battle.”

  “As you can imagine, Officer, that’s not good enough. My job depends on how accurately I assess these things. I put you back on the street and you wind up hurting yourself or someone else—a partner or a bad guy—because you overreact, and I have to answer for it. And if it’s serious, both you and I will be looking for work.”

  11

  Hunkering Down

  Over the next FEW WEEKS, as Boone tried to busy himself with daily tasks a
nd chores to occupy his mind, he often scared himself. He didn’t dare admit it to Brigita Velna, but there were times, in the middle of the night or maybe in the afternoon while Jack was on duty and Boone was tired of reading and studying, when he erupted.

  Boone reminisced, grew emotional, and imagined the horror of how Nikki and Josh had died. Then would come the longing. He missed them, wanted them back, didn’t understand, couldn’t make it all compute. Once he rose from his reading, street gang and organized crime history books tumbling from his lap, and lifted the entire recliner, heaving it into the wall. He kicked it over and over, screaming and crying.

  If that was a hint of the kind of hair-trigger emotion he might take onto the street, Ms. Velna could never know. If there was anything Boone yearned for, it was to get back on the job.

  He was learning—reading and memorizing, trying to thoroughly familiarize himself with the organized crime world in Chicago. He attended class, and he and Jack talked into the wee hours almost every night. The more he learned, the more he realized that moving quickly into the Organized Crime Division, even if Jack became the deputy chief there, was not likely. The only people his age to land such plum positions were working undercover, and Jack had rightly ruled that out for someone as visible as Boone had been.

  One rainy night when Jack got home, Boone asked him straight about the possibilities.

  “I told you, Boones. I’m not taking the job if it doesn’t mean I can bring you along. Now you can quit asking.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Just want you to be sure. Now listen, bein’ out there without you has had its moments. Couple of funny ones today and one not so funny. You up to hearing ’em?”

  “Am I ever.”

  “I get called to the Mirage. Remember it?”

  “That dumpy little bar down on—”

  “That’s the one. Barkeep calls in; dispatch says he sounds scared. Bunch of Demon Warrior bikers are in there throwing things around.”

  “And you go alone?”

  “Call me crazy.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I waltz in there and shout for attention. Looks like everybody else has cleared out, so ten, maybe eleven of these guys are winging beer mugs and cans, breaking stuff, laughing. I shout for attention, and when they see me, they burst into laughter. Pretty soon they’re chucking stuff at me.”

  “So you call for backup.”

  “Nope. I get a better idea. I retreat.”

  “You did not.”

  “What was I gonna do, Boones? Start shooting them? I back out of there, and those guys are firing stuff at me from every direction, laughing their heads off. I go to the squad, pull out the double-barrel, grab a coupla shells, and blast one whoop on the siren.

  “That brings ’em outside, where I make a big show of loading the shotgun. I point it at the prettiest bike in the long line and say quietly, ‘Leave or the hog gets it.’”

  Boone closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’m listening . . .”

  “End of story. All I saw was taillights.”

  Boone sighed. “Man, I want to be back out there.”

  “Soon enough. Wanna hear the other funny one?”

  “Sure.”

  “You see what it’s doin’ outside?”

  “Been pouring since three or so.”

  “Right at the close of the shift I’m heading back to the precinct and a car blows the light right in front of me. Rain’s coming in sheets, so no way the driver even saw me. I pull the car over, throw on a slicker, and venture out, asking this woman for her license and all. Young girl sitting next to her. The girl looks scared but the woman is shaking her head and laughing. I say, ‘Somethin’ you wanna tell me?’ She says, ‘Something I shouldn’t tell you, but I’m going to. My daughter screamed at me when I ran that light and I told her not to worry, that no cop would pull me over in this weather.’”

  Boone proffered a courtesy smile. Stuff like that happened all the time on the street. He wanted to hear the not-so-funny story. “Get to the good one,” he said.

  “Well, there’s good and there’s not so good, at least for the vics.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “Well, everybody’s had an idea that OCD was keeping an eye on an old associate of the head of the Outfit.”

  “Graziano?”

  Keller nodded. “He had a guy that did him wrong, so we figured it was only a matter of time, ya know? So our people are tailing him and tailing him, and nothing for weeks. We finally let up, just a tick, not worrying about covering every shift change, all that, and sure enough, we’re not there when he gets it.”

  “Today?”

  “At Midway. Crazy thing is, not one earmark leads this to the Outfit.”

  Boone squinted and pressed his lips together. “What’re you saying? Guy on the outs with Graziano turns up dead and it wasn’t one of Grazzy’s hit men?”

  Keller shook his head. “Dangedest thing. It was the same MO as when that accountant bought it outside the travel agency last year.”

  “Yeah, but wasn’t he connected with the street gangs?”

  Keller nodded again and pushed his cap back on his head. “Saw all the dollars and tried skimmin’ a few. Chose the wrong clients for that nonsense.”

  “Duh. But why would Graziano’s enemy die the same way?”

  “No idea, but we don’t like it. Normally the street gangs stay out of the Mob’s way and vice versa.”

  Boone paused. Then, “It’s not like they’re in the Mob’s way. It’s like they’re both using the same hit man.”

  “Never a dull moment, Boones.”

  “We’re losing this war with the gangs, Jack. You know that, right?”

  Jack shrugged. “I’m going to get my chance to do something about that. One of these days.”

  “Me too?”

  Jack snorted. “’Course. If only to shut you up.”

  As Boone’s furlough slowly passed, the legal stuff his father-in-law was handling eventually came together. That was a relief. Boone didn’t want to think about it, let alone fret over it. If, by the time he was back on the job, his house was fixed and sold and his bank account healthy, that’s all he could ask for.

  His leather bracelet had turned out perfectly, and he wore it all day every day. Embedding Nikki’s diamond in his wedding band took longer because it had to be tooled so as not to protrude and become a danger. Boone was thrilled with the result and often found himself studying it as he daydreamed.

  Boone was no longer resorting to alcohol to get to sleep, and he hoped he could maintain that resolve when he was back at work. Now it wasn’t such a problem if he had a bad night. He could sleep in or nap during the day. When he was back on patrol, with his and his partner’s and the public’s lives on the line, he would have to be at his best and alert.

  “Any idea who my new partner’s going to be?” he asked Jack one evening.

  Jack snorted. “Your new partner’s gonna be your old partner if this bureaucratic logjam doesn’t break.”

  “Any idea when you’ll know?”

  Keller shook his head. “They were saying a few days, then a week or two, and now they aren’t even promising that. Usually when this happens, there are a lot of good candidates or one of the big bosses has a favorite he’s trying to shoehorn into it. If Fletcher Galloway has someone else in mind, I’ll be stuck where I am. I’ll tell you one thing, Boones: if this keeps up, I’ll start angling for nights again. This day shift stuff just doesn’t do it for me.”

  Boone was puzzled. He’d been sure Jack would be a shoo-in for the Organized Crime Division vacancy and that, in due time, Boone would join him there. But if it wasn’t to be, it wasn’t to be, and second-best would be to get back on the job, working the night shift as Jack’s partner. Anything to get out of this torturous desert of boredom, interrupted by grief and rage.

  Boone had to admit that Francisco Sosa was keeping his word and maintaining an appropriate distance. There were actually days
when Boone regretted having broken from him and wished the pastor would be more insistent about seeing him. But who was he to think he should be a priority for the head of such a huge church? Sosa had a dozen pastors reporting to him and a million other things to think about. And there was the fact that Boone had virtually legislated that the man leave him alone.

  Boone came to appreciate that every few days Sosa sent an innocuous text, simply listing a Scripture reference. Boone would haul out Nikki’s Bible, peek again at his name at the top of her prayer list, and find the verse. The most recent had been Isaiah 40:31:

  But those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.

  Boone found the language majestic, the promise magnificent. The rub came in the opening phrase. When had he ever waited on the Lord, and why should he now? Yes, his strength needed to be renewed, he needed to be able to fly, to run, to walk and not faint. But what had God done for him lately?

  During Boone’s visit with Brigita Velna on the fourteenth workday of his furlough, he fully expected to be returned to duty.

  “You don’t have to like it or accept it, Officer Drake,” she said, “but I am recommending that you wait one more week.”

  Boone sat shaking his head. “Of course I have to accept it. What recourse do I have?”

  “I stand corrected. You do have to accept it. I mean, you can appeal it, but that process would take longer than a week, so it’s not worth the effort.”

  “Can you at least tell me why? I’ve read, I’ve studied, I’ve attended classes. I can sometimes think of Nikki and Josh without bursting into tears. And I’m bored out of my mind. I need to be at work.”

  “How is the apartment hunting going?”

  “I’m close to something I like. I should have an answer in a day or two.”