Chicago Blue: A Red Riley Adventure

by Stephanie Andrews

  Shelby came back into the room and gathered my things from the floor, putting them back in my handbag.

  “Get up,” he said.

  Well, I tried, but I had no leverage on the soft bed and ended up rolling off it on to the floor. I popped right back up however, intent on looking like a competent professional.

  He picked the wig up off the bed and stuffed it in the purse as well.

  “Follow me.”

  “Can you uncuff me, please?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  Okey-dokey then. We headed upstairs through a forest of lamps and dressers and then up another flight until we stood in front of the door I had noticed earlier. Don shielded the keypad with his hand while I gave my best smile to the camera. The door clicked open and we entered a dark hallway that led to a flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs was another door with another keypad, and then we were in what looked like the waiting room of a very upscale lawyer’s office. Antique furniture, deep carpet, an unoccupied reception desk.

  We went through a big oak door on the far side of the room. Surprisingly, this led to a large, airy loft that took up the rest of the fourth floor. I had expected a smoky office of some kind. Instead, there were worktables, cubicles, a photographic studio and racks of clothing.

  As we crossed the room, an old man came out from behind one of the dividers. He wore a full three-piece suit, which was crazy because who did that nowadays? He had an expensive looking watch and nicely shined leather shoes. His head was bald on top with a fringe of neat grey around the sides and back, and he had a little grey mustache. I’d guess he was about 80 based on the wrinkles and sagging skin, but he carried himself well and his brown eyes were large and bright. They widened when they saw me, scanning the incongruous contrast of my punk hair and my Susie-Q housewife outfit.

  “You’re Kay Riley?” he asked, in a soft, ironic voice that suggested he already knew all about me.

  I straightened up. “I am.”

  “How is your father these days?”

  “He’s dead, has been for 12 years. You sent flowers.”

  “And your Uncle Patrick, do you visit him often?”

  “He’s in Florida.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes,” I said. “A transfer for work. I don’t see him very often at all.”

  “What kind of work?” the old man inquired.

  “Corrections,” I deadpanned.

  “Does he enjoy that?”

  “Mostly, but he doesn’t get out much.”

  His eyes twinkled, but I was losing my patience with his little tests.

  “I had another uncle,” I pressed. “Whom I believe was partners with your son.”

  A pained look crossed his face.

  “Yes,” he replied, in a much more dour tone. “That is why you have been permitted to meet with me. That,” and here he smiled again, “and the fact that your mother sends me a Christmas card every year.”

  “I’m afraid she hasn’t been well for some time.” Now it was my turn to be dour.

  “I know, I know. But a lovely woman. Obviously, your father never saw eye to eye with the boys, but your mother was always so kind, and believed so strongly in family.”

  “I need some help,” I blurted out.

  “I know. Come,” he indicated a dining table surrounded by comfortable looking chairs. He opened my purse, which Don had left on the table, and rooted around in it until he found my handcuff kyes. He moved slowly back around the table toward me, and I turned away so that he could undo the cuffs. Well, that was progress at least.

  He sat down heavily at the table and motioned me to do the same.

  “Eldon will bring us some refreshment, and you will tell me your whole story, though I’m not sure what I can do. I do not have the same influence in the city that I had as a younger man.”

  An hour later, he knew everything that I knew. I’m sure he knew a lot more, but he wasn’t the type of person who shared information easily. After bringing us lemonade, Don, or Eldon—named for his father, I guess—sat down and joined us, occasionally scratching a note on a legal pad.

  “Well, my dear. That is indeed a pickle,” he said kindly. “I see why you thought I might be able to help, and perhaps I can. Our family has long since ceased involvement with most of the criminal element in Chicago. We concern ourselves mostly these days with financial institutions, which is just a better class of criminal, to be honest. But quieter, safer. And, furniture, of course,” he smiled, indicating the room around him. “However, for the right people and the right price, there are certain artistic endeavors that we specialize in.”

  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

  “Payment is going to be a problem.”

  Don snorted, like he had expected as much, but Uncle Elgort just took a sip of lemonade and then gently set the glass onto the table.

  “I don’t want you to worry about that, dear,” he said.

  I knew what was coming, the old, “Sometime in the future I will need a favor from you” line. I was prepared for it, but I didn’t like it. This was exactly how people got pulled in to organized crime. An offer that you can’t refuse, as they say. Still, I needed what I needed, and my situation wasn’t getting any better. I believe there’s an old Czech saying that goes: “When you find yourself in a hole, first stop digging.” That’s easily said, but right now, it seemed, the only way out was through.

  But Uncle Elgort surprised me.

  “I owe your uncle many debts,” he said. “And your mother too, for that matter. Neither of whom I can repay, so you, Miss Riley, will be the lucky recipient of their due. Just this once.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Elgort.”

  He turned to Don.

  “Get Nicky, would you?”

  Don got up at once and headed toward the back of the loft, disappearing behind some large wooden crates. I smiled nervously and sipped my lemonade, not sure what kind of small talk would be appropriate.

  “Quite a little mess, you’ve gotten yourself into,” he chuckled.

  “Wrong place, wrong time, I guess.”

  “Opportunity appears in strange guises.” He leaned forward and raised his glass again. “Or, to put it in more prosaic terms: When life gives you lemons…” and he took a drink.

  I was saved having to respond to this truism by the appearance of a man from around the crates where Don had disappeared.

  I did a double take. It was as if Don had stepped into a time machine and gone backward 10 years. This younger version was thinner, with no grey in his hair, and was a lot paler. Same handsome face though, sharp nosed with dark eyebrows over large brown eyes, with lots of wavy dark hair and black-framed glasses that made him look far more bookish than Don.

  “Ah,” said Elgort. “There you are. This is my other nephew, Nick. This is miss Kay Riley—it is still Miss, is it not?”

  I nodded, then also nodded at Nick. He was a very good-looking guy, but he also looked like he didn’t get out in the sun or the fresh air much. He wore tan chinos and a denim shirt that had flecks of paint all over it. His hands, which were long-fingered and very attractive—what? I like hands—also had traces of paint on them. For some reason, he was barefoot.

  “Miss Riley needs a full set, Nicky, and she needs it right away.”

  “Judging from the TV news, I’d say you’re right about that.” His voice was softer and warmer than his brother’s—for they were clearly brothers—but still had a crisp efficiency to it, as if he would perhaps rather be doing something else.

  “Yes, indeed,” agreed Uncle Elgort. “Can you take care of it now?”

  “Of course, Uncle.”

  “Very good.” Elgort put both palms on the table and pushed himself up to a standing position. He turned to me.

  “I’m sorry it’s been so long, and we don’t really know each other, my dear. But your father…”

  “Yes, my father. I can imagine.”

  “Anyway, strange bedfellows, as they
say. I am happy to meet you now, and hear about your great adventure, but I have to go now and attend to some business. You are in good hands with Nicholas.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  And with that, he ambled across the room to a freight elevator, Don at his side, and a moment later descended out of sight.

  After Uncle Elgort was gone, Nicholas looked me over from head to foot. I smiled my best smile. He sighed.

  “You can’t have that hair,” he said, waving vaguely at my red head.

  “But it’s the only hair I’ve got,” I said, coyly, then stopped myself. “No wait, I’ve got some in here.” I grabbed my bag and pulled out the matted wig I had worn earlier. It looked like a chinchilla that someone had run through a blender.

  “That won’t do,” Nick said. “Come with me.”

  I followed him across the room to where a large white screen was set up, along with cameras and lights. To the right of it were racks of clothing and several dressers. On top of the dressers were Styrofoam heads holding a selection of wigs.

  Nick looked at me again, studying my face, and then reached for a wig made of long, jet black hair. “Try this.”

  I did. It looked amazing. The hair was long and wavy and full of luster, clearly of a better quality than the party store wigs I had been wearing. Nick stepped closer to me and adjusted the wig on my head, smoothing it down around the temples and behind the ears. He was about six feet tall, and standing this close I found myself examining the paint stains on his shirt. There were at least a dozen different colors.

  “Are you building something colorful?” I asked.

  He looked down and followed my sight line.

  “I paint pictures,” he said, nonchalantly, “though I often am called on to paint or draw other things.” I looked up at him, and he licked his finger and used it to smooth down the hairline of the wig. I wasn’t sure if that was erotic or disgusting. I guess things like that can depend on who is doing them.

  “I’m not a messy painter,” he added, stepping back from me. “This is just my favorite work shirt. I’ve had it for years.”

  He turned me toward the mirror and I gasped.

  “It’s amazing.”

  “It’s important to match the skin tone,” he said. “We can’t go with your normal color, because then you’ll look too much like yourself. Which, of course, is normally what you would want, because now you are going to have to wear this wig every time you have to use this ID.”

  “That’s going to be a pain.”

  “Well, I’ll make you another set if you live through the end of July. One that looks just like you byt with a different name.”

  He had been kidding, I think, but the brutality of his statement caught me off guard, and I felt fear and pain welling in my chest. I was so distracted that I thought I heard him tell me to take off my shirt.

  “What?”

  “I said take off your shirt.”

  “Man, you really know how to treat a girl.”

  “We need a different outfit, for the picture. Something more sophisticated.”

  “Now I’m unsophisticated, too. Great. At least I’ll be dead soon.” I started pulling hard at the buttons of my sweater, fighting to keep angry so I wouldn’t start crying.

  “Woah, woah, woah.” He put both hands up in surrender. “You’re right. That was a terrible thing to say.” He dropped his hands and turned toward a rack of clothes. “I was annoyed at getting called away from my regular work.” He pulled out a light grey silk shirt that looked like it would be fantastic under a business suit. “And, I guess I’m used to dealing with slightly more hardened criminals. I forgot your situation.”

  “I’m hard enough,” I sneered, and I pulled my blouse off my shoulders and threw it to the ground.

  I’d learned my lesson on Belinda Blalock’s fence, and was wearing much more impressive underwear today. The bra was still white, but it had some lace to it and pushed me up in the right places. I wouldn’t want to do calisthenics in it, but it looked great, and was just right for showing some jerk how tough you were, unembarrassed to be stripping down in front of a stranger. Hardened? This guy looked like he hadn’t even gone outside in a decade. Don’t give me hardened.

  Nicholas turned away, reddening. “The skirts fine,” he said. “It’s not going to show.”

  I pulled the shirt roughly from his outstretched hand and put it on. It fit beautifully, and when he handed me a string of pearls they looked elegant yet businesslike against my neck.

  He walked to a dresser and opened the top drawer, gesturing me toward him. He pulled out a makeup set and began applying foundation to my face.

  Was I too shiny?

  He read my thoughts. “This is to cover your freckles and darken your complexion a bit.” He pulled out a very light brown pencil and started to draw small lines from the corners of my eyes. “I’m also aging you up about a decade. This is very effective, but it needs to be simple—if I give you the makeup do you think you can replicate it?”

  “Yeah, I think I’m simple enough to handle it.” Now, I was just being a jerk. But I hold a grudge. “Why are you making me look older?”

  “Age is one of the factors that sticks in an eyewitness’s mind. People unconsciously categorize and sort. We want you to be in a different category, so their mind doesn’t make the connection between the new you and the old you. If they are looking for someone who is twenty-five, they will gloss right past someone who is forty.”

  “I’m thirty-three.”

  “Really? I would have said for sure you were mid-twenties.”

  Grudge, officially gone.

  He ushered me over to the white screen, and took some basic mug shot, DMV type photos. Then he brought me over a red sweater and white t-shirt.

  “Change into these,” he said, as he proceeded to roll up the white screen, revealing a bright green one underneath.

  This time I turned away from him as I changed. I pulled the t-shirt carefully over my head, mindful of the wig and makeup, and put the sweater on.

  Nick came up behind me and drew my fake hair into a ponytail, holding it with a clip. He handed me a pair of glasses to put on, and had me stand in front of the green screen, in several poses. Then I took off the sweater and we repeated the process.

  “Okay,” Nick said, standing up from the camera and stretching his back. “Let’s just get your fingerprints and we’ll be done.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “For your police record.”

  “I don’t have a police record.”

  “Sure you do,” he smiled. “Georgette Wrigley, arrested for refusing to co-operate with a police officer. During the Women’s March. It’s my favorite little touch. People who make up new identities never think to add things like arrests. I usually do a drunk driving charge, or shoplifting, but since you are a virtuous civil rights attorney the march seemed like a great fit.”

  “But I’m a police officer. My prints are already on file.”

  He smiled at me like I was a babe in the woods.

  “I think my brother Eldon is already taking care of that.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “He better be an outstanding hacker if he is going to get into the police department.”

  “That’s not necessary. Sometimes it’s just a matter of knowing the right people if you want something to be accidentally deleted.”

  “And the Shelby family knows the right people?”

  “Still.”

  I stepped behind the rack of clothes and removed the costume items, hanging them back on the rack and putting my own clothes back on.

  “Georgette Wrigley?”

  “Sure. You want your alias to be easy to remember, so that you aren’t stumbling over it. You’re not a White Sox fan, are you?”

  I stepped out from behind the rack and smiled at him.

  “No, Cubbies all the way.”

  “Then we’re good.”

  Twenty-two

  “Elgort Shelby!”


  “Ruby, I—“

  “Elgort Fucking Shelby! I do not believe you!”

  “Look, I just…” but Ruby had stomped off, limping over to the swing picnic table and plopping down on one of the benches.

  We were in the grassy park area outside my safehouse. She had taken more than an hour to drive here, doubling back repeatedly to make sure she wasn’t followed. I had insisted on some more stringent protocol since realizing a very talented, possibly psychotic assassin was on my trail. It wouldn’t be safe for anyone if she was able to track Ruby or Martin to me.

  I walked over to Ruby, but instead of sitting at the picnic table I laid down on my back in the grass, about five feet away. I looked up at the big puffy clouds moving slowly across the blue morning sky. The short blades of grass tickled against my crew cut. I was tired, and the more I rested, the more tired I got, which is probably a definition of depression right there. I wanted to be out and doing something, anything to help my case. I didn’t want to be having this argument with Ruby. I watched the silhouette of a bird float lazily across my vision.

  Ruby’s voice came to me quietly.

  “Have I ever told you what happened to my knee?”

  I sighed audibly. “Yes. Yes you have. Two story fall in a carpark during a pursuit.”

  “It was Two Thousand—“

  “—Two, I know.”

  “It was Marco Colatano.”

  I raised my head to look at her, but she was staring off into space.

  “What?”

  “The Colatanos. You know of them, yes?”

  “Of course, everyone does.”

  “They were extorting protection money from a variety of businesses in my precinct. Captain Earl was furious. I mean, pfft, protection money? That went out in the seventies, right? Well, apparently not.

  “I had taken the place of one of Sal Tomaso’s waitresses. I would deliver the payment at the agreed upon spot, I’d have a wire. Other agents would be hidden in cars throughout the car park. Everyone knew the payoffs took place at the car park. Colatano might as well have had a sign out front.” She sighed. “That was the whole strategy, yes? The brazenness. Nobody would ever squeal, because their whole family would be killed. Well, Sal Tomaso squealed. Brave or stupid, who knows.”