The South Side Tour Guide

by Shelter Somerset

  Copyright

  Published by

  Dreamspinner Press

  5032 Capital Circle SW

  Ste 2, PMB# 279

  Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

  USA

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The South Side Tour Guide

  Copyright © 2013 by Shelter Somerset

  Cover Art by Brooke Albrecht

  http://brookealbrechtstudio.blogspot.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  ISBN: 978-1-62380-696-5

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-62380-697-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  May 2013

  To J.C.

  Chapter 1

  WITH glares from the streetlamps ricocheting off the windshield, Andy clutched the steering wheel of his van and floored the gas pedal to keep up with the beefed-up Honda Accord careening down Sixty-Third Street. After two months working nights, he’d become accustomed to the bright lights. Three, four gunshots rang out from the Honda’s backseat. Andy smiled. This was the big time. His grand show. “Make sure those seatbelts are strapped tight,” he said to the eight passengers in the backseats. “You’re going to get what you paid for tonight.”

  A half block away, the shooter’s target, a scrawny teenage boy, ran for his life down South Aberdeen Street, a narrow one-way riddled with abandoned homes, vacant lots, and weeds punching through pavement. Idiot, you should’ve taken a one-way street with opposing traffic. Tires screeching, the Accord turned after him. Andy maintained a reasonable distance but made sure to keep the Honda and the youth in view.

  Andy reached for his cell phone and dialed 911 while keeping a tight grip on the steering wheel. He reported into his headset what he saw and the Englewood location. He clicked off the phone and set it aside before the operator had the chance to ask if he wanted to give his name. Of course, he never did. If word hit the streets he was a “snitch,” it might spoil his budding business.

  A golden Buick LeSabre maintained a steady speed alongside Andy’s van. Andy’s detailer had blacked out the passenger windows for added security, so the driver and the Buick’s four or five passengers could not see them. But they could see Andy, and they recognized him from past confrontations. Andy had no fear. The teens knew by now that shooting at his bulletproofed van, already pockmarked from dozens of attempts, wasted their valuable lead slugs.

  One youth lowered the back window and brandished a Glock nonetheless. Behind him, Andy’s passengers gasped. “No worries, folks,” Andy said. “We’re the Fort Knox of security on wheels.”

  He slowed to let the Buick move ahead, where it faced off with the Honda. Andy turned down an alley that connected to a street dotted with elms and bungalows, upscale compared to Aberdeen Street. Pedestrians shot glances Andy’s way. Some hurried to see where he was going, for they knew wherever Andy’s van traveled excitement wasn’t far behind. Others ran inside their homes or ducked behind gutted cars or spindly bushes.

  Andy idled in another darkened alley and allowed his passengers to watch the shooting match on Aberdeen without interfering in the action. He barely noticed the boy running for the alley. The Accord and LeSabre pursued, heading straight for Andy’s van.

  “Hang on!” Andy shifted gears and jolted the van in a swift reverse move to evade a head-on. The drivers hurled expletives at Andy as they maneuvered past. Andy laughed aloud, whooped, and cheered with a few of his passengers.

  He made a U-turn on Aberdeen and trailed the tire tread marks. At the tee, he braked to avoid the Honda shooter targeting the Buick. A stray bullet grazed the side of the van, and two of the passengers screamed.

  One Danish woman kept praying, “Ah, min gud!” while her male companion laughed and patted her shoulder with one hand and held his smartphone to the window to capture the action with the other.

  The runner leaped into a nearby backyard. From there, he’d most likely scale fence after fence, imitating a deer, and disappear into the night. Andy suspected he’d received at least one nonfatal shot. Police would later pick up the blood trail, and he’d be treated and questioned, leaving Andy in the clear on that matter.

  The two drivers sped toward Racine, probably hoping to cut off the runner on Fifty-Ninth Street. Andy aimed to follow, but two Chicago Police cruisers formed a “V” and hindered his passage. Andy recognized the officers, slowed to a stop, and wound down his window. The muggy July air hit his face hard against the cold air conditioning inside the van.

  “Hello, Officers,” he said, grinning. “It’s good to see you again, but you might be more interested in the shooters getting away.”

  “We got other officers pursuing them,” Officer Gonzalez said out the lowered window. He stretched his thick lips under his shot-glass-sized nose and smirked at Andy. “Haven’t we warned you about trailing shooters?”

  “I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  “Sure, and I’m on my way to a dance recital.” Officer Gonzalez rolled his eyes at his colleague. Officer Kenneth Millpairs had already stepped outside his cruiser and was approaching Andy.

  Under his flaming-orange eyebrows, Officer Millpairs’s irises shone like blue headlights. His broad shoulders seemed to shrink the surrounding sycamore trees, but Andy was not about to let him rattle him for information.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have gotten their license plates this time,” Officer Millpairs said to Andy.

  Andy gazed at him and shrugged. “Sorry, didn’t notice.”

  “We can haul you in, Wingal,” Officer Gonzalez hollered. “You bet we can.”

  “For what?”

  Officer Millpairs answered for his colleague. “Obstruction of justice, disturbing the peace, interfering with a crime scene….”

  “I don’t do those things. I’m conducting a free enterprise, that’s all.”

  “We have one of the license plate numbers, Officer,” a female passenger from the backseat said in a small voice. “We captured it on our camera.”

  Andy shot the woman from Evanston a look in the rearview mirror, but he kept his lips in a tight grin. He hopped out of the van and slid open the passenger door for Officer Millpairs with a flourish.

  “You’re going to hurt someone one of these days,” Officer Millpairs whispered to him as he stepped up to the door.

  “I’ve got a business to worry about, just like you,” Andy replied under his breath. “You and I aren’t all that different. Without criminals, we’re both out of business.”

  “Keep your smart mouth shut.”

  Andy watched Officer Kenneth take out his notepad and rest his foot on the step bar, a smooth action which stretched the seat of his trousers to reveal a well-formed butt. Even his bulletproof vest failed to conceal that under his blue uniform lay firm pectoral muscles and a flat stomach. One of the few Chicago cops who didn’t need an extensive stay at a fat farm.

  Officer Millpairs finished jotting down the license plate number from the couple’s digital camera and flashed his bright
blues at Andy. “One of these days, you’re going to be sorry, mark my words. These people might be misguided, but they don’t deserve to die, either in a shooting or a car wreck.”

  “Safety is my number one concern. Always has been.”

  “I want you to head home. Your passengers have seen enough tonight.”

  “Yes, sir, Officer Ken.”

  Officer Millpairs strutted to his cruiser, his round butt snapping at Andy. While he radioed the license plate number to dispatch, Andy climbed back behind the steering wheel of his van and tipped an imaginary cap to the officers. “Have a good night,” he said. He edged forward, and Officer Gonzalez backed up his cruiser so that Andy could maneuver past.

  Five minutes later, he was keeping up with late-night northbound traffic on the Dan Ryan Expressway. The more he neared the exit for Congress Parkway, the taller the Chicago skyline loomed against the sapphire-blue sky. A dazzling kaleidoscope of steel and glass.

  He dropped off the first two passengers at the Hotel Burnham. Andy jumped out, slid open the door, and grinned as they stepped onto the sidewalk. “I’m glad you enjoyed your Friday night. Hope it was everything you had expected.”

  “We take film of action,” the Danish passenger said. “Like in American TV show.”

  His wife piped in, “Ah, min gud! Fun times, ja.”

  Andy pocketed a ten-dollar tip and headed across the Chicago River for the last hotel, the Red Roof Inn on Ontario Street, where two men got off, laughing and shaking their heads.

  “Wild and crazy,” one said in his thick southern drawl.

  “Exceeded my expectations,” his friend added.

  With the remaining four passengers and an additional fifteen-dollar tip, he exited onto Lake Shore Drive for home base. Lake Michigan stood to the east, a shimmering sheet of iron reflecting the sparkling lights of the skyscrapers and late-night boaters. The summer air was warm and thick, and many pedestrians strolled arm in arm along the lakefront beaches and bike path, spotlighted with orange orbs from the occasional streetlamps.

  “More exciting than a roller coaster,” the man from Evanston said once Andy pulled into the Clock Tower parking lot in Lakeview ten minutes later. His wife, nudging him out of the van, nodded in agreement.

  “I still can’t catch my breath,” she said, her hand cupped to her breast.

  “There’s no doubting that,” the Wisconsinite added, climbing out after them. “What a ride.”

  “Amazing,” the man from Elk Grove Village uttered.

  Andy pointed to the fresh bullet indent directly under the “y” in “Andy Wingal’s South Side Tours.” The logo and phone number underneath were painted on both sides of the sleek black Ford Econoline in bold white and yellow lettering, evoking the sense of moonlight. Next to that was a silhouette of a man pointing a gun sideways, like those found on old gangster movie posters. His glossy black van with the tinted windows possessed an edginess that even gave Andy goose pimples. “Take a look,” he said. “That’s from our excursion tonight.”

  The four passengers ran their fingers over the fresh bullet marking, oohing and ahing in disbelief.

  “Glad you enjoyed the tour, folks. Don’t hesitate to come back, and make sure you tell your friends about it.”

  Andy recounted his tips, a total of fifty-five dollars, in addition to the two hundred eighty he’d made from his thirty-five dollar per person fee. Happy for another eventful night, he watched the passengers head for their parked cars, their voices fading as they continued to chatter about their adventure.

  “This is how you make a living,” he whispered to the upscale condominiums rising above Lake Shore Drive. “This is how you grab life by the balls and yank hard.”

  Chapter 2

  OFFICER Kenneth Millpairs gripped the fitted sheets of the futon mattress and pumped Andy until Andy worried Ken might push him through the wall into his neighbor’s apartment. Andy clutched onto Ken’s flexing butt muscles and copied his rhythm. Perspiring and breathing heavily, Ken tensed, grunted, and collapsed with a final spasm.

  He lay motionless for several minutes, his shaved chest scratching Andy’s nipples.

  “You better get up,” Andy said, struggling for breath. “You’re about thirty pounds heavier than me.”

  Ken raised his head, sweat trickling from his temples. “You love it. You know it.” He jumped up, stripped off the loaded condom with his fingertips, and strolled into the bathroom, where Andy heard the toilet flush, followed by the shower pipes screeching.

  Exhausted from his long night, Andy pulled his knees to his chin and fiddled with the blond hairs on his toe knuckles. Another fervent session with Officer Ken. Almost two months they’d officially dated, and they were still no more emotionally connected than that first time they had fooled around. And fool around was the perfect term to describe their sexual interludes.

  He had figured Ken for a starchy control freak when he’d first run into him on his second week of giving South Side tours. Like earlier that night, he had impeded Andy on a hot pursuit. He’d lectured him about his “recklessness” and endangering the passengers. But Officer Ken’s cockiness had failed to discourage Andy. Nor had he dissuaded Andy from finding him hotter than a Maserati in sixth gear.

  They’d crossed paths a second time, a week later at a Halsted Street bar. Standing well over six feet, Ken had swaggered his masculine physique to where Andy and his friend Skeet had been sipping cocktails against the wall, enjoying a midweek respite during “video night.”

  “Having a good time?” Ken had asked in his gravelly baritone, as if he hadn’t been the slightest bit surprised to find the infamous Andrew Wingal at a gay bar—the man who had become one of the South Side’s most notorious operators and the police department’s biggest pest.

  Andy had acted unsurprised to see Ken, but Ken had taken his teasing in stride. Gay men of his bulk were probably used to playful games. Skeet, taking the hint, had vanished into the smattering of posing men and fruit flies, and Andy and Ken had spent the next three hours getting to know each other, ending up at Andy’s Uptown studio apartment, where they’d thrashed and tossed about on his futon until the sun rose over Lake Michigan.

  Andy would have liked more from Ken than sexual gratification. But the sex was rather enjoyable, he had to admit. Their passion pulsed like a steady stream—on Ken’s terms. Loving emotions escaped Ken. Andy had concluded police officers learned to repress their true feelings to cope with their volatile jobs.

  Andy stood naked outside the shower stall and hollered above the rush of water. “You mind if I jump in with you?”

  “You know I hate that. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Didn’t hurt to give it another try. One of Ken’s peeves—he loathed showering with anyone. Perhaps it had to do with his military and police background. He’d spent half his twenty-nine years showering with other males.

  Andy didn’t mind that Ken was seven years younger than him. Despite the age difference, Ken had become the more dominant partner. Andy had accepted it. He preferred stronger men. Ken sometimes stepped over the lines of aggression, and that had added to Andy’s questioning what might come from a long-term relationship with him.

  He pulled on his robe and started the coffee brewing in the galley kitchen, mere steps away. He liked his small studio but longed for something grander. Why should others have all the fun?

  Such thinking had led him to start his tour guide business. He’d invested more than fifteen thousand bucks for the scheme—bulletproofing, tinting, and painting the used van he’d bought for four thousand dollars—and applied the effort required for his CDL and public utilities license. Once word had spread, a mêlée of media attention sprang up. Five interviews his first week of operations, including a scornful Sun-Times write-up.

  “He seeks to profit off the unfortunate,” the reporter had written. Hate mail and threats came next. But so did the flow of tourist dollars.

  For the first time since his layoff from the pub
lic relations firm a year ago, Andy had a surplus in his bank account.

  The diminutive studio was dark, for he kept the curtains drawn to block the bright sunlight and the city noise that seeped through his second-floor window. His days were his nights, and he usually slept from six until about two in the afternoon. He thought it fortunate that he and Ken worked the same hours. He’d been asleep when Ken had stepped inside his apartment at eleven o’clock in the morning, the keys Andy had given him a week after they’d begun dating clenched in hand. The redheaded Chicago native from a southwest Irish neighborhood resembled Thor in his irresistible police uniform. Andy couldn’t wait to strip it off him.

  The window air conditioner hummed and rattled, beating back the heat that accumulated in his small studio at night, while the police scanner on his laptop murmured with sporadic reports. Although few street criminals were awake during the day, Andy had acquired the habit of turning on the scanner at home. The crack of incoming dispatches—mostly minor disturbances—and the air conditioner mingled with the prattling old woman who lived in the studio above him. Her sneezing came so loudly through the ventilation system Andy swore she was standing by his ear.

  He grabbed a mug, poured the coffee. The hot liquid flowing down his throat refreshed his tired limbs.

  “Pour me a cup, will you?” Ken said, toweling off his football-sized calves.

  Andy poured Ken some coffee and left the steaming mug for him on the counter. “You want to hang out a while?”

  “I think I’ll just get dressed, finish off this coffee—” He took a swig. “—and be on my way.”

  “I can cook us up a nice dinner before work later, or we could go out and—”

  “Told you I can’t. Got too much to do. I need some good sleep at home before my shift starts.”

  “How would you know you couldn’t get good sleep here? You’ve never tried.”

  Ken pulled on his tight whites. “Don’t start.”

  “I guess I need my sleep too,” Andy said, shuffling to the dining table. “I have another full booking tonight.”