Say Goodbye

by Brett M. Wiscons

  “I’m no rat, Bear. You know that. I owed you a favor and here we are.”

  “Yes, we are here. I appreciate your concern, but my mind is made up. Let’s move on.” I stared right into his eyes.

  “Fine. Okay, I’ve got the prints pulled, let’s plug them into the CIA database I have loaded onto my laptop.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Shouldn’t be more than a couple of minutes.” He stood up and stretched his back.

  The record on in the background was onto track three—“The Lemon Song.”

  “God, Plant could sing, couldn’t he?” I said, tapping my foot.

  “You bet your ass. Poor guy, he’s probably been suffocating in broads for the last fifty years.”

  “Yeah, poor guy.”

  Westwood’s laptop pinged. “We have a hit. Are you ready?”

  “Let me have it.”

  “It’s coming back as an Alexander William Hicks.”

  “Alexander William Hicks, you say?” I closed my eyes and went back into my dusty files contained in the storage room in my brain that hadn’t been visited in quite some time. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. “Wait. Hicks? As in a relation to Cal Hicks? The former deputy Mayor of Chicago who has now been very dead for five years?”

  “Yes. Cal is listed as his next of kin. Also listed as deceased.”

  “What’s the relation?” I rubbed my knees with my hands.

  “It says it’s his brother.”

  I got up off the Swedish-looking couch and stretched my legs. “So an eye for an eye? Brother for a brother?”

  He nodded. “It would appear so.”

  “Except this is more than an even trade. First off, Chill dropped Cal off the roof—I had walked away at that point. Secondly, by my count, A.W. has out-killed me three-to-one.”

  “It seems he holds you responsible for the death of his brother. Even if you didn’t do the actual killing.”

  “He’s taking it too far. He’s marked my daughter next. He has to be stopped by any means necessary. The horse is out of the barn now.”

  “I agree. What’s our plan?”

  I shook my head. “Your part of the plan has come and gone. You’ve done your share. Besides, it’s almost Christmas. You need to get back to that wife of yours and start a family. It’s a rewarding lifestyle.”

  He gave me a look. “Bear, come on. Let me help.”

  “I almost forgot. Is there a picture of this dreg?”

  “Yeah. Here you go. He was dishonorably discharged from the Air Force in ninety-nine. He’s listed as forty-three-years-old. Six foot two and two hundred and twenty-four pounds. Picture is from a couple of years ago. He was picked up for a DUI out in Santa Fe. I don’t know how accurate the weight is now though.”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care.” I stared into the brown eyes of my brother’s killer. He stared back with an intensity that pierced my soul.

  “Can you print this for me?” I asked, looking up.

  “Yeah.” He handed me a single piece of paper—one side was the mug shot of A.W., the other was his height, weight, last known address, and phone number and whatnot. “Hey, it’s after eleven. Do you think Martina and her friend will ever show?”

  “At this point, I couldn’t care less,” I said. “She told me she had some peacock feather tattoos hidden away and a motorcycle. Both of which she was eager to show me, though.”

  He gave me a contemplative look. “Maybe it’s for the best, Bear?”

  “You’re probably right. Hey, bartender, I need a refill and you need to flip to side B of this record.”

  He smiled and took our empty glasses into the kitchen for round two. I heard the ice clink into the empty glasses. But I never heard a knock on the door.

  TWENTY

  I woke up one eye at a time on the deck of the yacht. It was one day closer to Christmas. While there was a polar vortex back in Chicago, at 9:30 in the morning in Sarasota it was already a comfortable sixty two degrees. Westwood was up banging pots and pans together in the not-too-far-away distance. I shielded my eyes from the morning sun and attempted to make my way down into the cabin of the ship.

  “Morning, sunshine. Hope you’re hungry,” Westwood said.

  “Ravenous. What’s on the menu?”

  “Sausage and eggs. Oatmeal too, if you want.”

  “I’ll start with black coffee if you’ve got it.” I noticed some women’s shoes and clothes strewn on the floor. I raised my eyebrows. “Am I hallucinating, or are we not alone?”

  “Well, as it turned out, Martina and her friend Izzy came by at around twelve thirty last night. You’d already dozed off so I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Why not, damn it?” I tried sitting upright.

  “You looked so peaceful there in the sun chair with the lampshade on your head. But don’t worry. Nothing happened. Nothing of substance anyway.”

  I sipped my coffee and gritted my teeth in pain. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. They’d both had a long day, so they smoked some joints and drank some wine. We listened to some more records and then I let them both sleep in the master bed.”

  “I’ll bet you did. A little Westwood sandwich with a side of threesome?” I scratched my left shoulder with my right hand.

  “Bear, those days are gone. Not that I wasn’t interested had it come up. I’m just doing my dandiest to be a different version of myself. The best version.”

  “I’ve heard that in therapy before. I’m still inconsistent in that department.”

  “Here, have some eggs. They’ll probably be out cold for a while. We were up until sunrise. I caught a few winks.”

  “And yet you look like you could go out and shuck corn all day and run a marathon after.”

  He brushed the compliment aside. “So what’s the plan for you, Bear?”

  “Well, I think it’s time I get back to Chicago. I need to check flights.” I took a big bite of eggs.

  “I’ve got you covered. I have my jet over at Hidden River airport. You remember Lucy, don’t you?”

  “I seem to recall that was the name of your plane, yes.”

  “Well, you’re welcome to take her back up north. Steve said I can keep the yacht for as long as I want. He’s in Maine anyway. He likes the cold and snow.”

  “No shit? Well, that’s mighty kind of you, Brent. I’ll get my act together and mosey over that way.”

  “There’s a driver waiting for you up at the marina.”

  I nodded. We finished our breakfast with the waves smacking into the hull and the gulls overhead as our soundtrack. The girls slept it off and we didn’t talk much. I was starting to come out of my fog after my second cup of coffee and fourth sausage link. I shook hands with Westwood and thanked him again for his service to our country and for the personal matter at hand. I was well aware of how convenient it was to have a former CIA operative on my side of the battle. He told me to be careful and never hesitate to call if I needed anything else. He hoped we’d get the wives together for a dinner or a jaunt down through the Caribbean someday. I told him that would be splendid and that it would give me a little extra motivation to finish the job concerning A.W. Maybe I’d even overcome all of this guilt involving my selfish thoughts and actions by then.

  I jumped in the black Yukon XL with the heavy tint and told the driver to take me to the airport. I slapped on my sunglasses. I bypassed going back to the hotel to grab my travel bag. It dawned on me then that I never told Brent about how I was held up by Julian and his friend and that a shot was fired in the penthouse suite. Some things were better left unsaid. Some business, though, had to be finished.

  When I boarded Lucy, there was a leather briefcase that the pilot said was for me—compliments of Mr. Westwood. We taxied and then took off towards the biggest battle of my life. I sipped on some Perrier and downed four Advil before opening the briefcase. There was a note from Westwood on top, informing me of what was contained therein. A burner phone, a 9mm handgu
n with plenty of extra rounds and the last known location of A.W. “I had my guy ping his phone this morning,” the note read. “His number is the only one that’s programmed in. Hit *1 and it’ll dial the big fish. Hit *2 and you’ll get my direct line. Look, I know you’re not big on guns, but it never hurts to carry a piece in a situation like this.”

  I took the gun out and held it in my hand. The steel was cold but comforting in my large hand. I looked at the mug shot of A.W. and I could envision emptying the clip between his eyes and then reloading and trying to separate his genitalia from the rest of him.

  I stared out the window for a few minutes and thought of my family. I wanted to call them. To know they were safe. I hadn’t heard anything to the contrary, so I hoped for the best. I had a burning in me at that moment that would not be squelched. I thought of Vinny again. While he may have recently said that he fully expected to die young, this wasn’t what he had in mind. I closed my eyes but couldn’t sleep.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I landed back in Illinois at the Executive Airport in Wheeling around two o’clock in the afternoon. Westwood had arranged for a car to take me where I needed to go, except I wasn’t sure where that should be. I couldn’t go to the storage unit, I couldn’t go to my house on Fullerton either. I decided I’d go somewhere more public and blend in in plain sight. I instructed the driver to drop me at the corners of Clark and Waveland. I’d get my bearings at one of my old haunts. It was an hour later when he dropped me in front of Casey Moran’s pub. It had been a couple years, but I knew I was safe there. The lunch crowd had thinned out, so I had no trouble getting a seat at the bar. I ordered a tall Guinness, a short club soda and the Jameson burger cooked to medium.

  I’d moved the burner phone to my pocket in the car ride over and now I felt it buzz. How the fuck? But there was a text message alert on the screen.

  “Welcome back, Barry.”

  I knew who it was.

  I typed in a response. “I’m looking forward to crushing your skull later, Alex.”

  “Oh, so you got my name. Look at you. All clever and curious. That’s what killed the cat, is it not?”

  “It’s what’s going to kill you. Tonight. Eight o’clock. Roof of Sears Tower. Be there.”

  “It’s the Willis Tower, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t get into semantics with me, shit stain.”

  “See you tonight. Be alone.”

  “You do the same. Not even Rufus or I’ll kill him, too.”

  I took a huge bite of my burger and nonchalantly wiped my mouth. I looked around and wondered if anyone even had the slightest idea of what was transpiring.

  I finished my lunch and washed it down with another Guinness and shot of Jameson. If the weather prognosticators were right, this would be one of the coldest run ups to Christmas Chicagoans had ever seen. At least in a generation. Crazy, since it was so warm just a few days ago. The sun would be down by five and the thermometer would read negative zero shortly after. There was talk of wind-chills bringing it down to forty below by midnight. I paid my tab and grabbed the briefcase and wandered around Wrigleyville for a little while to kill time. I walked south down Clark past Rizzo’s Bar and Inn. No relation to the Cub player with the same last name. Past Big Star. Past The Cubby Bear. As I ambled past Chen’s Chinese restaurant, I noticed a sign on the door that read, “We open on the Christmas.” I made a note to visit them if I was still alive. The arctic air helped knock off the remaining cobwebs from the morning’s hangover. I was primed for battle.

  I kept walking south on Clark. I turned left on Belmont and saw two signs that beaconed me. One for Our Lady of Mount Carmel Catholic Church. The other for the Chicago Athletic Club. I walked past the church and went inside the CAC. I signed up a few years ago at the Lincoln Park location but had reciprocity at all of them. I didn’t have my membership card, but a quick search in the database allowed my easy entrance. I took a long shower and then sat in the steam room for 20 minutes. I repeated those two steps, only the second time through the rotation I steamed for 10 minutes.

  I was reinvigorated as I left the CAC, and for reasons I would never be able to explain, I walked directly towards and then up the front steps and into Our Lady of Mount Carmel. I trekked up the aisle a bit and snuck into a pew six rows from the back. There were a few elderly folks closer to the front. I don’t know why people pray. I guess it’s just a way for them to cope with the craziness of this life. Some folks drink, some smoke, some fuck, some gamble and some pray. I imagined that talking to a wall would generate nearly the same result as talking to a god. Yet people do it every day at alarming levels. I decided now would be as good a time as any to get a few things off my chest.

  While it had been years, if not decades, since I’d gone to confession, I felt compelled to do so. I don’t know what ultimately guided me in there. Maybe it was the incessant prayers my mother said on my behalf. All she ever wanted was for her kids to have a nice life and attend church every week. I waited in the wings for my turn and then when I saw a little old black lady exit the confessional, I reluctantly went inside and knelt in front of the screen. The opening lines of the ritual came right back like a batch of song lyrics.

  “Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It has been way too long since my last confession.”

  “My son, God loves you and has never left your side. How long has it been?”

  “If I had to guess, probably twenty-five, twenty-six years. I guess I felt like I could figure things out on my own.”

  “And now?”

  “Well, now I’m confused.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, first of all, I’m mystified as to why I’m even in this church. I swore off Catholicism decades ago, probably even before my last confession.”

  “And yet, here you are. What else confuses you, my son?”

  I let five seconds of dead air pass.

  “Look. This may come out wrong, but I don’t think I can stay much longer if you’re going to continue to call me ‘my son,’ Okay?”

  I could hear him shuffling a bit on the bench. “I can adapt. Why the confusion?”

  “Well, for starters, all of the sex crimes against children that have been levied by you people.”

  “Sir, I am in agreement with you. I’m on a committee to prosecute the wrongful parties. It is a tragic situation.”

  “Well, that’s a start, I guess.”

  “Please keep in mind that these are human beings who are sinners. We are all sinners, black, white, woman, man. Yourself included. Myself included.”

  “That’s all fine and dandy. Look, the reason I’m here is to get a few things off my chest and maybe have you administer my last rites.”

  “Are you sick? Are you dying?”

  “I might be dead by the morning, yes. Let me get through this, I don’t have a lot of time. My name is Bear Whitman. I’ve developed a reputation around town. It’s not always a sterling reputation, either. Do you know who I am?”

  “It doesn’t matter. God knows who you are. He knows all. What would you like to unload?”

  “Well, my brother recently died. Strike that, he was murdered.”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for your loss, Bear.”

  “Well whaddya gonna do, right? What’s done is done. I want to atone for his death since I feel a million percent responsible.”

  “Did you actually put an end to your brother’s life?”

  “Well, not specifically, but I played a massive role. I have a chance to end the life of the man who did.”

  “It is not our job as mortal men to play God. This is not your cross to bear.”

  “But I feel it is. No amount of praying or faith on your part or mine will change that. Just please, tell my family I love them. I have a wife and two kids, with one on the way. I have two great sisters and nieces and nephews.” I started getting choked up but continued. “My mother…I…I tried to do the right thing more often than not, but I somehow fell short too many time
s to count. As a husband, a father, a son and most recently as a brother. My pride and selfishness will be my downfall. If I don’t make it back from tonight’s meeting and you read about me in the papers, just please promise me you’ll tell them that I love them and I’m sorry. We live at three-five-four Fullerton.”

  He cleared his throat again. “Okay, I promise. Now, please, listen to me. There are alternatives…”

  I wondered how long he kept talking as I walked out the door and got into a cab headed towards Willis Tower.

  TWENTY-TWO

  It was close to eight o’clock when I arrived at 233 South Wacker Avenue. There was a dense fog rolling in as I disembarked from the cab. I looked straight up at the eighth largest building in the world but could only see a quarter of the way up or so. My neck hurt. I entered the lobby and made my way towards the elevators. They were updating everything, including the elevators, since the structure was, according to some folks in the construction world, a bit antiquated. The initial project began in 1970 with the final touches done in 1973. The broadcast antennas were added eleven years later. I remember what it looked like before those were affixed.

  The elevators were being modernized so some of them weren’t functioning. I found one that was and pressed the button to take me to the top floor. After about a minute of shooting upward, I was spit out on the 103rd level. The Skydeck was open for business. But I didn’t come here to be a tourist and gaze out at the city skyline like some schmuck. I did take a peek out, though. The fog had settled somewhere below me— maybe at the 90th floor—so one could get a nice view of the city lights. If one was into that sort of thing. Somehow, someway, I needed to gain rooftop access.

  Down the hall from the Sky deck, I saw the employee access doors that led to the roof. Of course, the sign on the door made it clear that if you didn’t have a key card, you wouldn’t be able to pass through. There were a few uniformed security guards and actual police officers strewn about the 103rd floor. For all I knew, there were a dozen plainclothes guards blending in as well. I scanned the area for a target that I could disable quickly and out of sight to swipe their key card. It didn’t take long to set my eyes on a guy wearing a name-tag that said Zak. From my point of view, he was late 50s and a little worse for wear. I noticed his droopy eyes and how the ring finger on his left hand had indentations from where his wedding band had recently been housed. So he was recently separated or divorced. Whatever the case, he was my best bet. I ducked into a dark alcove and waited a little while. He was twenty feet away. I threw my burner phone out onto the floor in hopes he’d see it and have his interest piqued enough to get close enough for me to nab him. It worked. He came moseying my way and as he bent down to pick it up, I took him from behind with a bent arm around his neck and an open hand over his mouth. I backed up until we were alone in the dark. I tightened the grip around his neck but removed my hand from his mouth.