Campanelli: Sentinel

by Frederick H. Crook

  “Aft’noon to ya,” the white bearded man called in a strange accent. The dog did not stir, but his watery eyes followed Frank’s every move.

  “Good afternoon,” Campanelli returned as he accessed the building’s security computer via implant.

  “You the detective?” the old man pried and stuck out a shaky, bony hand.

  “Yes, I am,” Frank replied. He stopped and shook the hand. “Frank Campanelli.”

  “Luke McKay,” the old man said.

  “Good to meet ya. Are you the new tenant?” Frank smiled.

  “Yessir,” the man said as he grinned toothily. “I’m up from Mississip’ with Old Bill here.”

  “Well, welcome to Chicago.”

  “Thankee kindly,” Luke nodded.

  “What made you leave Mississippi?”

  “Well, things got bad at home so me and Old Bill went a’walkin’.”

  “You walked here?”

  “Well, we got help on a‘casion. Left ‘bout a month ago. Damn hooligans went tearin’ up my place. Burnt it down one night. Didn’t have nuthin’ left so, here me and Old Bill are.”

  “Sorry to hear that. I would have thought urban areas like Chicago were more lawless.”

  “Can’t rightly say if’n they are or ain’t,” Luke said thoughtfully. “All I know is, my home’s gone and here we is,” he finished with a smile and a wink.

  “Well, again, welcome,” Frank wished and opened the front door.

  “If’n you need some work up there, give a holler,” McKay added. “I promised the landlord my handy work in exchange for some rent off. I do plumbin’, paintin’, resto-work, what-have-you. If’n ever’thin’s fine, drop on by my place here,” he indicated the first floor unit to Frank’s left, “anytime for a nip or a toke.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks!” Frank said and went upstairs. Luke McKay in his torn up flannel shirt, denim pants and holey shoes did not look the type that would know anything about handy work, but there was that leaking sink in the kitchen that he had not taken the time to fix. Campanelli uttered a short laugh once inside his top floor residence, “Ha…a nip or a toke.”

  Frank tried to link with the CPD computer with his implant, but he could not. The satellite service was down again with the familiar message, “We’re sorry, but we are experiencing a technical issue. Please try again later.”

  “Damn it,” the detective muttered and stepped out to his patio to link directly with District One’s server across the street. Although the range was at the extreme for his bio-electronic transceiver, the height of the station’s antenna and the fact that he was on the third floor would help. On occasion, the steel “L” tracks between his condo and the station would interfere depending on atmospheric conditions, but the direct approach was proving to be more reliable of late than trying to connect with the satellite service’s repeater towers.

  The connection made, Frank uploaded the picture of Luke McKay and entered the man’s name. In moments, the wanderer’s story was confirmed insofar as where he had come from. There was no report of the burned home, but it was possible that McKay had been truthful about the lawlessness of the area and that the incident had gone by unnoticed by authorities.

  Campanelli also found that the man had been in trouble with the law many times over the years for one of the oldest crimes on the books: Moonshining. The most recent arrest had been three years earlier. Why the state had been stubborn about the private distillation of liquor, Frank could not answer, but that was the extent of his new neighbor’s troublemaking.

  Frank discontinued the connection and went about his lazy afternoon, trying hard not to think about work but failing miserably until he forced a nap upon himself in his favorite spot, his lounger on the patio. He awoke to darkness as always and initiated his implant to restore his sight. Finding the time, he realized that Tamara was probably on her way for their date. He no sooner had changed his clothes than the door chimed, announcing her arrival.

  “I met your new neighbor,” Tam stated with wide eyes that suggested the encounter had been strange.

  “What do you think?” Frank said as he put on a sport coat that was light in color and not intended for work.

  “I dunno. Have you checked him out?” she asked, impressing Frank at her knowledge of his habits.

  “Sure did,” Frank answered and held her gaze for a moment in faux sincerity that she did not pick up on. “Repeat offender,” he commented as he shook his head and closed his eyes briefly as if to say that she did not want to know.

  “Frank,” Billingsley almost exclaimed, “what did he do?” He said nothing, only glanced into her eyes and then away quickly as he made his way to the door. “Frank? Frank?!”

  Campanelli left her behind as he headed down the stairwell, leaving her to shut his condo door. She scrambled quickly after him, conflicted that she was also hurrying to meet with the mysterious new tenant for a second time.

  At the lobby, she gave his sleeve a hard tug. “Frank,” she hissed, knowing that McKay was just outside the door. “What is he?”

  Campanelli turned with an unlit cigarette in his mouth held tight by quivering lips. She saw his laughing eyes take in her horrified expression, so she smacked him on the bicep.

  “A career moonshiner from Mississippi,” he chuckled.

  She hit him again, though she smiled.

  The two stepped out and exchanged ‘good evenings’ with McKay and Old Bill and made their way to her car, a fifty-year-old convertible of German manufacture. The machine was long overdue for the boneyard, but it worked okay. The car was a gasoline/electric hybrid and though fuel was strictly rationed, Tam used it only once or twice a week.

  The doors creaked loudly as they shut them. The electric motor whined irritatingly in reverse, but quieted as it headed to the street. The springs cried like a frightened family of boars as the car leaned on the right turn, which made Frank smile and cringe at the same time.

  The drive was just over two miles to the theater, a vast complex of large viewing rooms on East Illinois Street, on the north side of the Chicago River. The building was once quite beautiful, featuring great vaulted windows upon its street side façade. Most were boarded up, leaving only one such window to hint at what once was.

  Tam parked the roadster and between the two of them, they got the top up and crossed the street. “Not very busy for a Friday night,” Tam commented.

  Frank grunted in agreement as they walked, his eyes taking in the view of the great building which once contained a hotel, a bowling alley and who remembers what else. It stood amongst a group of the last skyscrapers in the area; a collection of empty or almost empty hotels and office buildings. Like a great forest cut down for their wood, Chicago had been heavily harvested for its steel at the behest of the starship building firms. This neighborhood survived, but was in such a state that it brought about sentimentality to anyone over the age of thirty that remembered how the city once looked. Campanelli, though a native New Yorker, experienced the same harvesting of historic constructs there and looked upon every cordoned off foundation as if it was a grave.

  The city was still alive, but like someone in a coma stuffed away in some corner private room of a convalescent home, it suffered from memory loss and was unaware of what it used to be. Frank owned several photography books featuring Chicago as it once appeared; logs of black & white, grainy squares depicting people, buildings and car-filled streets. The publications ranged from the late nineteenth century to photos taken a couple of decades after Alethea was discovered. Even the most recent pictures hinted at a much more vibrant life than that of current day.

  Frank had always disagreed with the anti-migration law, but every day he saw the reasons for the continued defiance of it. Like their ancestors who thumbed their noses as they drank their illegal alcohol during the prohibition years of the early twentieth century, Americans wanted out and were leaving.

  “Frank,” Tam almost shouted from his left side as she tugge
d his sleeve.

  “Huh?” he said as he blinked himself to the now. He had stopped at the curb, pondering as he took in the sight of the building jutting high into the sky above him.

  “The show is going to start,” she smiled though her eyes questioned his hesitation.

  Frank smiled and the two of them hurried their pace to buy tickets. Once in the grand lobby, his melancholy could not be shaken as his eyes danced over the mural-covered walls. Chipped and faded as they were, the actors of old that had been painted there could still be recognized. He knew quite a few of them, but many had yet to be rediscovered. It was for another time, however as they grabbed their popcorn, candy and soda on their way into one of the four viewing rooms that were still in use.

  There was no time for conversation, for the film rolled almost as soon as the couple sat down. Looking about in his police-trained habit, Frank noted that there were only eighteen other attendees, couples like themselves and most were similar in age.

  Both Tam and Frank had seen Key Largo many times, but it made it no less enjoyable. The story took place in a hotel in the Florida Keys, a string of islands off the southern tip of the state. A hurricane was taking place, becoming another character as its influence manipulated the other characters to react to it. The sounds of the wind and rain were soothing to Frank, balancing the intense drama unfolding between the innocents, the protagonist and the gangsters. The ending was exciting, confirming Humphrey Bogart as the victor yet again, but it all came too soon and before he knew it, he and Tam were on their way back to the car, this time, dodging a welcomed, wind-driven rain.

  The two of them jumped in the roadster, laughing at the circumstance and their instant sogginess. Tam started the vehicle and, working her way out onto the street, pulled an illegal U-turn and sped away. The car’s lights barely cut through the comforting blanket of rain.

  Lightning blitzed through the darkness, giving Tam no help to see. She was forced to slow down, no longer able to differentiate between good stretches of road and potholes. In time, she made it, though there were a few hard jars to the car that made the both of them doubt the journey’s completion. But complete it they did and Tamara parked the beaten old automobile and settled back into the seat hard, relieved that the tension-filled drive was over.

  “Whew,” she spat, “sometimes I wish I had one of those computer cars.”

  “It wouldn’t have helped much, trust me,” Frank confirmed.

  “Okay, so a sprint to the door?” Tam urged, grasping the door handle and daring Frank with her eyes.

  “Sure. Ready?” he accepted and grasped the handle, “One, two…,” he cheated and threw the door open without reaching three. He sprinted to the condominium’s door, Tam screaming after him, calling him a fink and some other things that thunder censored.

  Luke and Old Bill were absent from the front door, though a light was on in their window facing the courtyard. Quickly, he stuck his card in the lock and it released, so he held the door open for Tam. Their speed mattered not at all, for the both of them were soaked through their clothes in mere seconds. Fortunately, since it had been such a warm day, the water was not at first cold.

  “Bastard!” Billingsley accused once inside with a loud whisper. She was aware of McKay’s presence and wished not to alert the man or the odd-looking dog.

  Frank merely smiled, shut the door and made his way squeakily to the stairs. Tam’s sneakers squished along behind him. Once inside the residence, Frank brought Tam a robe and let her remove her wet clothes in the bedroom while he did the same in the bathroom. Hanging their clothes upon the shower rod to dry, Frank found Tam on the couch in the living room, passing her hands through her damp hair. Her smile lit her face in a most youthful way.

  “Well, that was fun,” she announced and took a deep breath and exhaled it with a loud huff.

  “You know, you have to get that roof fixed,” Campanelli advised lightly as he sat next to her. “I almost drowned before we even got out of the car.”

  Lightning flashed around the edges of the shaded living room window. Frank counted the seconds before the report of thunder, counting three before it rumbled.

  “What do we do now?” Tam asked as she moved closer to him.

  “Wait for our clothes to dry.”

  “They’re pretty soaked,” she replied, tilting her head and implying a long wait.

  “It might take all night,” he said and kissed her. It was then he discovered that a chill was creeping into her. “You’re cold. You know, I have a pretty warm blanket in the bedroom.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Come help me find it,” he said as he took her hands and led her from the couch.

  ***

  Frank awoke some hours later, having slept a most satisfying sleep. He wondered what had awakened him and was quickly reminded of the thunderstorm that was still assaulting the city beyond his walls. The roof hummed with the persistent rainfall, sounding rather pleasant in its rhythm. He lay awake in his natural state of darkness, where the flashing of lightning could not be perceived, but was proven by the thunderclaps which followed. In between them, he could hear Tamara’s light snoring beside him. An exceptionally loud and close thunder strike startled him, but the woman’s breath missed not a beat. Over time, Frank had discovered that Tam could sleep through almost anything.

  Realizing that he needed the bathroom, Campanelli rose gently and scooted his feet along the bedroom floor to find the robe he had so quickly discarded. The room was chilly and Tam had once again thieved the blankets for herself in her unconsciousness. His little toe located the robe, so Frank put it on and quietly left the room, navigating along his practiced path to the toilet without his implants activated.

  He took a detour on the way back to the bedroom, heading instead to the patio door. Its glass thrummed with the blasts of raindrops, hitting the panes at a harsh, wind driven angle. This too, was a soothing sound to a normally preoccupied mind, so Frank placed a hand out in front of him to meet it gently. The glass was cold, giving witness to the low temperature beyond. Thunder rolled almost continuously, giving Frank the idea of activating his implant to view the light show. He was not disappointed by the brilliant blue and white flashes that he discovered.

  He passed his eyes from one part of the room to the other, seeing the entire place catch the light from the electrical storm. Unconsciously, his mouth dropped open in delight of the display. At that moment, he felt utterly at peace as he witnessed the storm. He had no jurisdiction over it, had no responsibility for it and, even if someone said that he did, he was powerless to affect it. Frank was free to enjoy it and he did so happily for several minutes before heading back to bed. The thoughts of Sam Whethers and his daughter would not return until the morning.

  ***

  The rest of Campanelli’s weekend had slipped leisurely by, giving him the rest he had needed. His tenacious thoughts of the shooting incident persisted, however, and the guilt remained painfully strong. Eventually, he hoped, he would come to accept Jimmy Antony’s role in the man’s death.

  Monday, the twelfth of May, was sunny and already warm by seven that morning. Frank prepared for work and drank his coffee at his dining room table as he perused his messages on the CPD server. Marcus Williams had sent a message the previous afternoon and Frank cussed to an empty room. He wished that he had checked the server, but at the same time, he was grateful that he had not for it would have ruined the day.

  Dmitri Vanek had thought it wise to assign detectives to keep Jimmy Antony under surveillance in an effort to keep the man from fleeing, having been certain that a warrant for his arrest would be forthcoming. The video recordings of Campanelli, Williams and another officer proved that he had indeed fired his weapon with intent to kill. This resulted in the bail being revoked and the warrant issued, but once officers converged on the man’s home, he was not inside.

  Jimmy Antony had somehow eluded the surveillance team and jumped bail.

  Frank was to m
eet Williams in Vanek’s office in a few minutes, so he departed. As he reached the ground floor lobby, he could see that McKay and Old Bill were already sitting outside enjoying the morning air. Campanelli reached for his lighter and a cigarette, placing the latter in his mouth as he swung the door out of his way.

  “Mornin’ to ya, young feller,” Luke called without turning to see who it was.

  “Mornin’,” Campanelli returned as he lit his cigarette.

  “Back to work, eh?”

  “Yep.”

  “Stay safe now,” McKay wished brightly but sincerely.

  Frank gave his neighbor his two-fingered boy scout salute and took a few steps away toward his parking space. He stopped on a whim and turned back to him. “Say, Luke?”

  “Yessir.”

  “How are you at leaky sinks?”

  “Aces. Got one?”

  “I do.”

  “Which?” Luke asked. Old Bill was as always, outwardly uninterested, though his eyes were steadily trained on Campanelli.

  “Kitchen.”

  “I’ll look in on her. Thankee for givin’ me sumpin’ ta do ta’day. Old Bill here was fidgety and ‘a gettin’ on my nerves.”

  “I see that,” Frank said, though certain that he had not. “Thanks and have a good day.”

  Luke gave a wave and Frank headed to his car. In moments, the cruiser had parked across the street and he entered the District One building, finding Williams loitering in the lobby.

  “Good mornin’, Frank,” Marcus greeted with a faint smile.

  “Mornin’,” the Captain returned. “Anything new on Antony?”

  “Nope,” Williams said as he fell into step alongside his partner. “I’m hoping Vanek has something new.”

  With a cursory knock, Frank opened the door and looked to the man behind the desk. Vanek was alone but on the telephone, which, as it was a secure line, meant that it was most likely a conversation with someone higher up. Campanelli was about to back out of the room when Dmitri waved him inside.