Double Play

by Nikki Duvall

  “If you’re not out in five minutes, I’m coming in,” said Rita.

  “Relax. I’ll be fine.”

  A group of women strolled back and forth in front of the store’s entrance, talking on their cell phones, mostly complaining about bad boyfriends and rehashing he said- she said arguments. A few looked like they were waiting for some business to roll up. Others looked like they’d just come to gossip. Halee kept her eyes down, knowing she was a fish out of water and in her condition, a sitting duck. She’d left her purse in the truck on purpose, hoping to convince anyone looking for trouble that she was a bad bet. Still, her heart was beating faster than usual.

  She made her way through the store and to the restroom, bag in hand. Glancing behind her, she caught the eye of a woman who looked vaguely familiar. Was she a former student at the literacy office? Maybe a customer at Benedetto’s Bar and Grill. The woman eyed her suspiciously, and then looked away. Quickly, Halee locked the door behind her and breathed a sigh of relief.

  The bleeding was worsening, leaking over the edges of the thick pad wedged into her underwear and staining the fabric of her jeans. She sighed and shuddered against the chill of the late September afternoon. In another few minutes she’d be raging with fever, then dive back into a state of chills. She ought to be in bed, sleeping off the assault on her body and on her heart. But she couldn’t rest until she found her child.

  Slowly, carefully, she changed her underwear and jeans and slipped in a double layer of protection. In another minute she’d convinced herself that she had the strength to get to the sink. What she found there shocked her more than she cared to admit. A thin, pale Halee stared back at her from the cracked mirror, reflecting the kind of deep sadness she’d seen in her students’ eyes every day. After all these years she finally understood. Poverty was not the lack of material things. Poverty was the lack of hope. Losing J.D., Ty, and now her own baby all at once had left her hopeless.

  She watched as one tear trickled down her pale cheek. This was the tipping point. She would recover what was lost or sink so deep into despair that she would never be the same again. She wiped away her tear, picked up her bag, and unlocked the door.

  Bam! Her back cracked against the cold concrete wall with a powerful force. Her head slammed against the hand dryer. Her skull screamed; her vision blurred. She tasted blood. An angry mob of screaming faces assaulted her, their breath hot against her skin.

  “Chantrell don’t want you here!”

  “Get your white ass outa here before we kick your ass even further!”

  “You wanna live, you leave now!”

  One of the women rifled through her bag, holding up her bloody pants in disgust and tossing them to the ground. “She ain’t got nothin’.”

  Her breath came in short bursts; her legs were mush, unable to hold her. She slid to the floor.

  “She’s sick,” someone said.

  “Let’s get outta here,” said another woman.

  Halee felt someone crouch down beside her and heard a switchblade open. She felt the cold steel against her throat.

  “You stay away from Chantrell, you understand? That baby belongs to Chantrell.”

  “Ty’s mine,” Halee whispered. “I’ll find him and I’ll get him back.”

  The blade sliced through her tender skin, causing her to cry out. A warm trickle of blood dripped down her neck. She breathed heavily, remaining still against the cold steel.

  “You remember what I said.”

  Halee opened one eye and watched as the woman pushed off the floor. “I taught you to read,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

  The woman turned back. “What did you say?”

  “You’re Patrice. I taught you to read.”

  Patrice hesitated, panting and rubbing her shaved head. “Fuck you!” she screamed, kicking the door. “I don’t owe you nothin’! Fuck you!”

  Something inside Halee snapped. She lunged out and grabbed the knife from Patrice’s hand, pulling her backward. Patrice’s shoes slipped on the smooth floor. Her head hit concrete, stunning her senseless long enough for Halee to regroup.

  She fell back against the wall for several minutes, exhausted. Every muscle in her body ached; every nerve contracted in pain. She stared at the body lying on the floor next to her, vigilant against the next attack. She should feel for a pulse, check and see if Patrice was okay, but she just didn’t care right now. She pushed her free hand up against her throat. The cut was shallow but bleeding profusely. Her attacker was moaning, coming to.

  Get up, Halee, she coached herself. Her breathing came in spurts. Every move was agony. You have to make it out of here. She tried to stand but fell back against the wall. She heard footsteps approaching and raised the knife.

  A kind face Halee had seen behind the front counter peered cautiously around the corner, surveying the scene without expression as though it were commonplace. “You best get out of here,” the cashier said. She glanced behind her. “They gonna miss her in a hurry and be back for you.”

  “I can’t walk,” said Halee, leaning against the cold wall.

  The cashier stepped forward. She grabbed a paper towel and held it to Halee’s throat. “It ain’t deep. You gonna live. I heard what they said,” she whispered. She glanced behind her. “They called Chantrell.”

  Halee tried to catch her breath. The world was spinning in slow motion. “Where’s Ty?”

  “She ain’t had Ty. You need to go home, forget about it.”

  “She took him away from me,” said Halee. “I need to find him.”

  The cashier gazed on her with pity. Rita came crashing in behind her. “What happened?” she demanded. “Oh, shit! What did they do to you?”

  “Ty’s gone,” said Halee.

  Rita pulled out her cell phone, slammed the bathroom door behind her and flipped the lock. “Bobby! Send a cruiser! Halee’s been cut. There’s no way outa here alive.”

  ***

  “You can’t run around Chicago waiving a gun like some kind of vigilante.”

  J.D. looked down the barrel of a .45 and grunted. “If the law won’t give me justice, I’ll make my own.”

  “You haven’t tried the law.”

  “I got me a lawyer, don’t I? He says there ain’t nothing to do but wait for Chantrell to make another mistake.”

  “From what I understand, that won’t take long.”

  “Ty can’t afford to wait. You got any leads on where she might be?”

  Bobby scratched his balding head. “She uses an address down by Midway for her food stamps,” said Bobby, “but it could be a fake. Or it could be her brother Demarcus’s place. Hard to tell.”

  “Think I’ll drive over and take me a look.”

  “You’d better have a cop with you,” said Bobby. “You’ll get tossed in jail if they pick you up with that gun in your back pocket.”

  “I ain’t afraid of jail.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Bobby’s cell phone rang. His brief smile faded when he heard Rita’s pleas on the other end. “Hang up and call 911,” he said, jumping to his feet. “I’m off duty. I’ll get there as fast as I can.” He grabbed his jacket and badge and headed for the door. “Let’s go!” he called to J.D. “And bring that thing with you!”

  J.D. climbed into Bobby’s old Mustang and locked his seat belt while Bobby pulled away from his apartment complex and out into traffic full throttle. The police radio blared out a series of codes and directives.

  J.D. pulled out his gun and loaded the chamber with six bullets. “You always answer calls on your day off?”

  “I do when a friend’s involved.”

  “Anybody I know?”

  Bobby nodded. “Rita Benedetto.”

  J.D. sat taller. “Rita?”

  “Got herself into a little altercation at a 7 Eleven. Unfriendly territory. Halee’s with her.”

  Bobby glanced over at J.D.’s expression. It was a damn good thing he was in a locked car going eighty miles an hour. It wa
s the only thing containing his explosive reaction right now.

  “Are they ok?” asked J.D. in a controlled voice.

  “We’ll know soon enough.” Bobby pulled into the 7 Eleven parking lot behind three cruisers and an ambulance. Rita sat on a curb flanked by two female officers, rubbing her forehead and giving her story. A crowd of local residents gathered nearby, reporting the incident on their cell phones. J.D. burst from the passenger side of the Mustang and raced toward the ambulance right before the back doors closed.

  “Halee!”

  “Sir, you can’t be in here,” said the attendant.

  Bobby touched her arm and flashed his badge. “One minute.”

  “I don’t care who you are,” said the attendant. “She’s lost a lot of blood. She needs to get to the hospital.”

  Halee lay stretched out on a cot in the back of the ambulance, an I.V. drip already inserted. A spot of blood leaked through the white gauze and tape across her throat. She looked peaceful. J.D. fell to his knees beside the cot, brushing her hair from her face and talking softly to her. “Baby…” he said, kissing her hand. “Baby, I’m gonna find out who did this to you. I’m gonna find Ty. I’m gonna get him back.”

  “She’s been sedated, Sir,” said the attendant.

  “Where are you taking her?”

  “Cook County. It’s the closest.”

  “Take her to University,” J.D. demanded. “I don’t care how much it costs.”

  “Are you riding along?”

  J.D. leaned down and kissed Halee tenderly on the forehead. “No,” he said in a voice that scared Bobby. “I have business here.”

  He took one last look at Halee and jumped out of the ambulance, turning in a 360 degree circle, getting his bearings. He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and reread the address. Bobby came up beside him.

  “I know what you’re thinking, J.D. This is a matter for the Chicago P.D.”

  “Not anymore, it ain’t.”

  “You won’t come out alive.”

  J.D. set his jaw. “Neither will Ty. I’m set on saving us both.”

  “Take someone with you,” Bobby called after him.

  J.D. kept walking. Bobby watched him cross the road and climb the tall fence like Spiderman, his back pocket bulging with deadly steel. “You got a mic on you?” he asked a cop nearby. The cop tossed him a small recorder. He waited till J.D. rounded a corner of the building before he followed.

  It took another minute before Bobby found an opening in the steady stream of traffic and bolted across the four lane highway. Glancing sideways, he searched for an opening that would allow him entry through the six foot fence. He broke into a light jog, scoping the perimeter. Finally he got to a place where the fence had been cut through and rolled back a foot or two. He slipped through.

  All the housing units looked exactly the same, squat dark brown brick trimmed in camel colored concrete. Unit 506 was likely on the fifth floor of one of these buildings, forcing any visitors to take internal stairs patrolled by teenage males up to no good. The same was true for exit. Even if things remained cordial, they’d be lucky to make it back down to the front doors without some type of challenge.

  He radioed to backup. “One of you guys wanna tell me the easiest way to get inside Demarcus Robinson’s apartment?”

  “What, you got a death wish?”

  Another voice came on. “Building 5, sixth door inside. I thought it was your day off, Bob. You doing some socializing?”

  Bobby blew out a breath of relief. At least he could skip the stairs. “It’s a long story.”

  “You need backup?”

  “Hell, yes,” said Bobby. “Get your asses over here. No Rambo shit, either. I don’t want my head blown off.”

  Bobby snuck around the back of Building 5 with his hand placed firmly on the holster hidden beneath his Cubs hoodie. Maybe there was a better way to approach from the outside. He listened as he moved from window to window.

  Then he heard J.D.’s voice. He peered carefully through a first floor window. Bingo.

  J.D. stood in the doorway of the apartment with both hands in the air. A black skinned man the size of an NFL linebacker pointed a gun toward J.D. He was dressed in a wifebeater and low slung shorts. A fresh bruise ringed one eye like a raccoon; a doo-rag capped his head. Row after row of scars tagged his muscular arms, badges of honor in a social structure where repeated survival guaranteed promotion. Bobby recognized him as the notorious gangster Demarcus Robinson, Chantrell’s older brother. Chantrell was nowhere in sight.

  "Mr. Johnny Shaw,” said Demarcus. “Back in Chicago. Well, ain’t that convenient. I get to deal directly with the man.”

  “So let’s do business,” said J.D. “I want the kid.”

  Demarcus grinned. “And I know you can pay for him, too.”

  “What’s your price?” asked J.D.

  “One million cash.”

  J.D. snorted. “Don’t have it.”

  “Sure you do. You top dog now. Federals paid big money for your ass.”

  “Not a million.”

  Demarcus frowned. “You got friends. The price is one million.”

  “I deal directly with Chantrell.”

  “You deal with me.”

  “Chantrell know you’re selling her baby?”

  A thin woman dressed in an oversized tee shirt and flip flops entered from a side door. Her tangled hair looked as though it hadn’t been washed in months. Her skin was grey. Ty dangled over her arm like a sack of potatoes, barely recognizable. His skimpy clothes were filthy and one size too big. He looked thin, pale and scared. He didn’t make a sound.

  “Damn it, Chan!” Demarcus protested, waving his gun. “Get the kid outa here!”

  Chantrell glanced at J.D. “Letitia says some man be looking through the back window.”

  Demarcus backed toward the window. Bobby slid back out of view.

  “I’ll transfer $500,000 into your bank account,” said J.D. quickly. “The kid leaves with me.”

  Ty strained his small head, trying to locate J.D.’s familiar voice. He looked up and caught sight of his protector and let out a wail.

  Chantrell slapped him across the cheek. “Shut the fuck up!” she screamed. Ty bellowed, his cheek red and hot. J.D. lunged toward Chantrell, knocking her to the floor. Ty spilled out of her arms. He grabbed the child and rolled under a table, narrowly ducking the first round of bullets.

  The back window crashed into a dozen shards of glass. Demarcus shifted his aim toward the window long enough for J.D. to reach into his back pocket and take aim. He fired once, sending Demarcus crumbling to the floor. Chantrell screamed and ran for the back door.

  “Chicago P.D. Freeze!”

  Bobby crashed into the kitchen, breathing as if his lungs would explode, circling with his gun cocked forward, looking for any signs of life. Demarcus lay prone on the floor, his breathing labored. J.D. sat with his back to the wall, the child wrapped up against his strong chest. They were both shaking, both clinging to the other.

  “You ok?”

  J.D. nodded. He gestured to Demarcus. “You better get him to the doctor, though.”

  “Think I’ll take my time,” said Bobby. He shook his head. “I’m going to have a hard time explaining why my gun landed a bullet in Mr. Robinson.”

  “You’re a hell of a shot, you know that, Bob?”

  “While I was recording the whole thing.” He held up the small digital recording unit.

  J.D. leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. “And fucking brilliant to boot.

  ~TWENTY~

  Halee lay curled in the big soft bed she’d slept in since her mother had died and her father had set out to drink himself to death. Gus Benedetto’s daughter had insisted her best friend would do better under their roof, and Rita and Halee had been like sisters ever since. Now the comforting aroma of Gus Benedetto’s homemade chili wafted up from the bar downstairs, reminding Halee she was home again. The little apartment upstairs from B
enedetto’s Bar and Grill had been Halee’s refuge from the ravages of a broken home. It remained her sanctuary even now. It would be the place she’d put the pieces back together again, one more time.

  She yawned and stretched her legs, rolling toward the window. An overwhelming sense of peace washed over her, remnants of a dream so real, she could still taste and touch every moment. In her dream J.D. lay beside her, his body warm pressed up along her back. In her arms lay Ty, safe from harm, giggling when J.D. tickled his chubby feet. As the baby fell into a gentle slumber, J.D. kissed her hair, her lips, and breathed the words she longed to hear. “I love you, Halee.”

  She groaned and smiled, falling back into a dreamlike state. The light in the room came and went. She continued to sleep.

  The next time the light returned, so did the dream. Voices surrounded her, Uncle Gus and Rita, people she knew, people she didn’t. Ty began to fuss and push against her, fighting for release from her arms. She pulled him back, but he continued to seek his freedom. He pulled at her hair and screamed. She opened her eyes, blinded by the light of midday. There was a man sitting in a chair next to the bed, a man large enough to block the light from the only window in the room. He set down a magazine, removed his glasses and leaned forward.

  “Uncle Gus?”

  “It’s me, Honey,” said the familiar voice.

  And then she caught sight of a small brown baby. Ty pulled himself up to a stand, gripping Gus’ pant legs. He grinned and released a loud yelp, then lost his balance and crashed back to the floor on his padded behind.

  Halee rolled toward the edge of the bed, desperate to touch her child. “Ty!”

  The child gurgled and giggled, rolling onto his back and kicking.

  “Ty! Baby! You’re here! Oh, Uncle Gus, how did you…?”

  “Wasn’t me,” said Gus. “Your ballplayer managed to spring him loose, nearly got shot in the process.”

  “J.D?” Halee searched the room.

  “He’s gone back to New York,” said Gus. “Only had a few hours left before he broke his contract. Asked me to give you this.”

  Halee took the letter from Gus’ hand tentatively, afraid what she might find. Was this J.D.’s way of finally saying goodbye? Or was it an invitation for the rest of her life?