Trigger City

by Sean Chercover

  “Naw, man, it was yesterday. We get, like, a lot of customers.” No one had come in since I’d been there. I looked around the empty little office.

  “Yeah, I can see that.”

  “Well, most of ’em come in at the end of the day. There’s a lunch rush, too.”

  “When did he come in?”

  “Oh, he came in early. Like, nine, ten in the a-m. Wait!” The kid’s eyes rolled to the top of his head as he brought a memory into focus. “His name was John. John, something.” He thought some more. “Dude, I’m drawing a blank on the dude’s last name.”

  “All right, what about mannerisms or anything unusual he said, or—”

  “Wait! I got it! Smith. His name was John Smith. I’m sure of it.” He seemed proud to have remembered.

  “Tell me you’re kidding.”

  “No, I swear. That was the dude’s name, on his driver’s license. Credit card, too. John Smith. I remember now, for sure.”

  He didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with the name John Smith and it’s true enough that there are plenty of John Smiths in the world. But I’d bet a week’s worth of City Hall graft that this particular dude was not really named John Smith. I was striking out.

  “Anything else? Scars, tattoos, anything?”

  The kid broke into a wide smile. “Yeah, man, good thinking. Right on. Dude had a tattoo on his forearm. Kinda like a bird or something.”

  I grabbed a pen from the counter and sketched the Hawk River logo on a scrap of paper. “Like this?”

  “Shit! Yeah, dude. Right on! That’s it exactly.”

  I left the kid with the fifty and headed back to the parking garage. I’d learned exactly what I’d expected to learn and learning it didn’t make me happy.

  Amy had speculated that if I were working for Hawk River, I’d report that she couldn’t be trusted. Right now Malibu Man was reporting that I’d spent the night with Amy. Which meant they might send someone to lean on her and make her tell them what she told me. I didn’t think she’d handle that meeting very well.

  But if they killed her, I’d still be around to alert the cops, so they’d probably want to take care of me first. That probably gave me a little time to work.

  Probably.

  I started for the garage of the 900 North Michigan building and then remembered that I hadn’t eaten today. I cut through Bloomingdale’s and into the building’s expansive atrium, which stretches six stories high and boasts a lot of sand-colored marble and chrome accents and long-hanging ferns. A bright and luxurious shopping mall, for bright and luxurious shoppers.

  I bought a ham and cheese panini and a bag of plantain chips from King Café, sat near the green marble fountain and watched people buy things they didn’t need at Gucci and Christofle as I ate.

  My phone rang. The call display told me it was Vince.

  “Vince, I need you on something.”

  “Okay, but I gotta tell you what’s going on here.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Wabash, just south of the office. In the diamond district.”

  “Look, doesn’t matter. I need—”

  “Ray, you’re gonna want to hear this first.”

  “Go.”

  “I’m shadowing Dr. Glassman. He’s shopping for an engagement ring.”

  Shit. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  Vince said, “Sorry. But I figured you’d want to know.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Maybe I can get over there and talk to her…is she on days or nights? I couldn’t remember.

  I snapped out of it, said, “Write down this address…”

  “Hold on.” There was a pause on the line. “Okay, hit me.”

  I gave him the address. “A woman lives there. Amy Zhang. Chinese. Five-one, one hundred pounds, midthirties. Pretty. Don’t approach her. Just park out front and watch the place. If any bad guys show up, don’t let them get to her.”

  “We expecting bad guys?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Vince?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Take your gun.”

  I broke the connection and dialed Amy Zhang. She answered on the second ring.

  “It’s Ray. Just listen. I’m sending someone over. He’ll be driving a blue Ford Escort. His name is Vince Cosimo. Black hair, about six-four, big guy. He works for me. He’s going to watch out for you until I can get back.”

  “Okay.” Her voice was very small and I knew what she was thinking. If I was working for Hawk River, Vince was the guy sent to kill her.

  “I told him not to approach you. He’ll just sit in his car outside. You don’t have to invite him in.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.” I hung up and started for the garage. It occurred to me that I might be spending a few nights sitting in Amy Zhang’s recliner. I needed a new book. I turned around and headed up the escalators to the Waldenbooks on the sixth level.

  I browsed through the Current Events section, focused on books covering the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. I flipped through the indexes, looking for Hawk River and the names of the other private military corporations. Found a few. I took one of the more promising titles to the cash register and paid for it, then crossed to the other side of the atrium and took the escalators back down to the ground floor.

  I stopped again at King Café and bought a large black coffee to go. In the little parking garage lobby I stuck a credit card into one of those machines that most garages now have so they don’t have to pay a cashier. The machine charged my card $18. I’d been there just over an hour.

  About ten yards into the garage, I remembered that I’d left my credit card in the machine, went back to get it. You have got to get some sleep, you’re not twenty anymore. I’d gotten maybe three hours on Amy’s recliner, and I was feeling it in a big way. The coffee would help.

  I headed back to my car, thinking about the miracle that is coffee. I was practically nose to nose with the guy when he spoke.

  “Ray Dudgeon.”

  I stopped dead. There was a fighting knife in his right hand. The tanto blade was anodized black but the sharpened edge glinted in the fluorescent light of the garage.

  He said, “You’re coming with me.”

  It took some effort to tear my eyes away from the blade. I looked up to a face I’d never seen before, tried to smile, and said, “Sure, I’ll come along, just don’t cut me.”

  My right thumb flicked the plastic lid off the Styrofoam cup and I threw twenty ounces of steaming coffee at his face and ran like hell. His scream echoed through the garage as I flew down the ramp and jerked open the door to the lobby. I cut back into the mall, where there were civilians. Witnesses. Security guards.

  It wasn’t until I was into the mall that I realized I’d been cut. No pain, I just felt the blood trickling down my left arm.

  Fuck it, worry about it later, keep running…

  Faces of startled shoppers blurred past as I tore through the mall but no security guards came into view. I heard his footfalls echoing off the marble floor as he ran into the mall behind me and I realized I wouldn’t make it out onto Michigan Avenue. My lead wasn’t big enough. I’d have to stop and heave the door open and he’d catch up and sink the blade between my ribs.

  I turned and ran up the escalator, took the metal steps two at a time. Clang-clang-clang. I didn’t dare slow to turn and look back.

  At the top I pivoted and ran for the next up-escalator, chanced a look down. He was coming up the escalator, fast. Clang-clang-clang-clang-clang. His face was bright red from the burning coffee but he was still faster than me. My lead was shrinking.

  I yelled, “He’s got a knife! Call the police!” into the open atrium. My voice reverberated through the place, bouncing off flat slabs of polished marble. A woman down below screamed. Another woman’s voice echoed, “Call the police!”

  I hit the next escalator and continued my frantic climb. When I got to Level 3, I took an
other quick look back. My call for help hadn’t made him give up the chase and he was gaining. He ran into a man on the escalator, knocked him facedown on the metal steps, and scrambled right over him.

  The place was filling up as people came out of shops to see what the commotion was about. I crashed into a woman and sent her and a half-dozen bags flying in all directions. I didn’t stop to help her.

  I just kept running, climbing, frantic, out of my mind, no destination, running, climbing, thinking Too crowded to draw your gun…why are the cops taking so long?…he’s gaining ground…don’t look back, keep going, faster…. My lungs were fire and my thighs were rubber and I could feel myself slowing but I pressed on.

  I reached Level 6 and collapsed against a pillar to the right of the escalator, my chest heaving. I realized I was still clutching my book.

  Clang-clang-clang-clang-clang…. He was coming fast up the final escalator. I couldn’t run anymore. I got into a crouch, held the book like a shield, and turned so my left shoulder was facing the escalator.

  From the legs, Dudgeon. From the legs….

  He hit the metal landing at the top of the escalator and I tossed the book at his face and he raised his hands to protect his face. His hands were empty. I sprung upright, using all the remaining strength in my legs. My left shoulder slammed into his chest in an upward trajectory, knocked him off-balance. His arms flailed at the air and he started to fall backward down the escalator. But as he twisted his torso to try and right himself, he fell against the handrail and flipped over.

  I lurched toward the railing and grabbed handfuls of air.

  He fell six stories with nothing along the way to break his fall. There was a terrible popping sound as his head hit the marble floor and burst open like a watermelon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Okay, tell me again. What exactly did the man say to you in the parking garage?”

  “He said, ‘Ray Dudgeon. You’re coming with me.’ He had a knife in his hand.”

  I’d already told it twice. My story was: I’d stopped at the mall to grab a sandwich and maybe do a little shopping. I’d decided to buy a book, picked up a coffee for the road, and then I’d been confronted on the way back to my car. I saw no reason to say anything about my visit to the car rental agency, so I’d left that out.

  Now we were going over it a third time.

  “He menaced you with the knife?”

  “Yes, he menaced me with the knife.”

  “But you had your gun…” The detective gestured to my gun, in an evidence bag on the table.

  The interview was being conducted in a Thai restaurant on Level 6 of the shopping mall. The mall had been shut down and sealed off and witnesses were being interviewed in another restaurant on another level.

  The restaurant was empty of customers and staff. There were a bunch of cops milling around. A Latino EMS guy was examining the cut on my left arm. My shirt was off.

  “Yes, I had a gun. But I didn’t notice the guy until he was right in front of me. I had a book in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. And knives scare the shit out of me.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said. Unimpressed.

  “I’m telling you, the guy had a knife.”

  “Relax. We know. The knife was in a sheath on his belt.”

  I nodded at the horizontal cut on the outside of my arm, a few inches above the elbow. “You’ll find my blood on it.”

  A uniform came into the restaurant, signaled to the detective. The detective looked at me without expression. “Be right back,” he said. He picked up the bag with my gun in it and left.

  The EMS guy had flushed the cut with hydrogen peroxide and was dabbing at it with sterile gauze. He said, “You’ll need stitches for this. Better go to the hospital when you’re done here. I’ll put some butterflies on it for now.” A trip to the hospital would mean a three-hour wait in the emergency room. I didn’t have time for that.

  “Can’t you stitch it?”

  “They’ll do a neater job of it at the hospital. Less scar.”

  “Look, these guys may need to take me in, it could be a long time. Don’t worry about making it neat, just stitch it good so it won’t open up.” I leaned in close, added, “Fifty bucks.”

  The EMS guy stiffened. “I’m a professional, have some respect.”

  “Hey, no offense. I’m just trying to get it done. Please?”

  He sighed and rustled around in his tackle box. “I don’t want to hear complaints if it leaves a ridge.”

  “Thanks.”

  I lit a cigarette and smoked while the EMS guy stitched my arm. Smoking wasn’t allowed in the mall. Under the circumstances, I figured the chances of getting busted for it were slim. The cops had given me coffee and I used the ceramic mug as an ashtray.

  The detective returned along with another cop in a brown suit. The detective said, “This is Captain Samberch.”

  Captain. CPD captains don’t normally hang out at crime scenes. Crime scenes are populated by officers and detectives and sergeants, and an occasional lieutenant if the stiff is someone really important or if the case looks like a heater. But a captain?

  Samberch said, “The famous Ray Dudgeon. Chicago’s own Goo-Goo private eye.” Goo-Goo comes from good government. It’s a dismissive term for a government reformer, or any foolish idealist who thinks he can clean up public corruption. But Samberch said it without any real edge.

  I dragged on my cigarette, said, “Yeah, I was thinking of adding it to my business cards. That a good idea?”

  Samberch chuckled, pulled up a chair. “And you can put it in red neon in your window, above a big flashing eye.” Still no edge. Just friendly teasing. Just a couple of guys, shooting the shit. He signaled to a cop near the bar and the cop brought a couple fresh mugs of coffee. Samberch reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a flask, and unscrewed the top. It was brushed stainless steel like Mike Angelo’s flask, but Mike’s was a lot bigger. Then again, Mike was a lot bigger than Samberch, rank notwithstanding.

  Samberch held the flask over my coffee mug. “A little Irish?”

  I nodded. “Much obliged, Captain.”

  He poured a good double shot into my coffee, screwed the top back on the flask, and returned it to his pocket. I drank some, nodded my thanks to him. I was still feeling shaky and sick from the postadrena-line hangover, and it felt good going down.

  He looked wistfully at his own mug, shrugged. “On duty,” he said by way of explanation.

  The EMS guy was done stitching my arm. He put a strip of gauze over his handiwork and taped it in place, packed up his tackle box.

  “That’ll hold.”

  “Thanks, man,” I said. He left and I buttoned my shirt. Now it was just Captain Samberch and the detective whose name I’d forgotten. And me. I drank some more boozy coffee. Lit a new cigarette.

  Samberch spoke first. “Detective Oliva brought me up to speed on your statement. We’re downloading video from the building’s security system. You have any idea how many security cameras there are in a place like this?”

  “Lots?”

  “Good guess. So it’s taking a while. But I think we’ll find that you’re telling it straight.” He offered a reassuring smile. “We’ve interviewed most of the witnesses and they tell it like you told it. I mean with all the contradictions and inconsistencies that you get from eyewitnesses. So far, they all say he was the aggressor, you ran, you called for police. Some say he had a knife, some say no. Some say he had a gun. One guy swears he had a hammer. You know how it is.”

  I did know how it was. What I didn’t know was why Captain Samberch was being so collegial. “Will I get my gun back?”

  “It’s being tested now. Doesn’t smell like it’s been fired and nobody was shot. You may get it back when we’re done, if it tests clean.” He sipped some coffee. “But I’m curious why you didn’t use it, if your life was in imminent danger. I would’ve shot the guy.”

  “I was just asking him about that, Captain,” said
Detective Oliva.

  I said, “The thing is, we were too close at first and my hands were occupied. In retrospect, after I threw the coffee on him and put some distance between us, I should’ve turned and drawn my gun. But I thought I could get away. Thought I could get out to Michigan. I didn’t think he’d chase me through a crowded mall. He did.” Samberch watched my eyes intently as I spoke and I didn’t look away. “And then there were just too many civilians in the way so I couldn’t draw on him, couldn’t risk it. Not only was my gun not fired, it never even cleared leather.”

  Samberch nodded. “Makes sense,” he said. “But you should’ve taken him out in the garage.”

  “Yeah, I said that. It was a mistake.”

  “Would you say that you panicked?” Trick question. For lethal force to be justified, you must be in reasonable fear for your life. But if you admit to panic, you can’t claim that you were reasonable.

  “No, I didn’t panic. I just tried to find a way out where nobody gets hurt. Unfortunately, he pressed me into a corner by giving chase, until I had no options.”

  Truth is, I panicked.

  He nodded again. “Very good. A lot of people in this town would love to see you busted,” he said.

  “So I’ve gathered.”

  “I’m not one of them. And neither is Detective Oliva.”

  “Thank you,” I said, “I appreciate that.”

  “Okay. Tell me what you know about the dead guy.”

  “I don’t know anything about the dead guy.”

  “Come on, Dudgeon. We’re helping you out here. Now you have to help us out.”

  “Believe me, I’d love to know who he was. But I have no idea.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Samberch sighed, “Then you are in some serious shit, my Goo-Goo friend.” I shrugged my lack of understanding to him. He said, “Because the guy with his brains splattered all over the floor out there isn’t just some thug.”

  “You know who he is?”

  “I don’t know who he is. I know what he is.” He snapped his fingers and got the attention of a uniform who brought a couple of evidence bags to the table. In one bag was the knife in a leather belt sheath. In the other bag was a diving watch.