The Color of Fear

by Thomas Laird

  She nods. She remembers. Celia knows about this place far better than I do.

  “Why don’t you come move in with—”

  “No, Jimmy. I got my own place, and this... this animal is not making me move from the best apartment I ever lived in. He isn’t gonna make me run and hide.”

  “Then I’m putting some uniforms on you twenty-four a day until we pinch this little prick.”

  She looks at me and suddenly her face goes frightened.

  “I never saw the pistol ‘til he pulled on Mr. Wendell. I didn’t realize he—”

  “The nine milimeter?”

  She nods.

  “He could’ve shot us both, Jimmy. He was about to do it to me when Mr. Wendell—”

  “You don’t know that for sure, Celia. I’m glad this guy got here before anything happened, but it could be the way the kid said it was. He just wants to intimidate you.”

  “He’s doin’ a great job, Jimmy.”

  “No. You can’t let him. We’re going to grab him, girl. You got my word on it. And you’re not going anywhere without an escort from here on out.”

  “It isn’t necessary.”

  When I bring up the twenty-four hour guard, another look of concern or fear or something crosses her countenance.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want police all over me. It might make the people I work with suspicious, that I’ve got policemen following me all over the place.”

  “I don’t care what they think. You don’t owe them an explanation. And it’s not forever. We’re going to get him. We got Wendell’s eyewitness to the killing of Karen Nathan and the shooting of Keesha, the little girl. We’ve got you, to get him on assault and stalking. He’s going away for a long long time. This guy Brego downtown can’t wait to sink his claws into Chaka’s—”

  “I want it to end, Jimmy. That’s all I want. I want this to be over with.”

  Then she breaks down altogether, and I’m clutching her as I did before. There’s no air between us.

  “Jimmy, make it end. Please make it be over.”

  I tell her I will, that I’ll see to it, but she keeps on sobbing as if I don’t have the right words to offer her, as if I don’t really understand what she’s asking me to do.

  *

  I take my frustrations out on the shooting range. Instead of pulling on the target with one gun at a time, I find myself aiming the .44 Bulldog and the .38 service revolver at the target at the same time, and it sounds like Dodge City on a heavy Saturday night as the pistols explode, round after round, in unison.

  There’s a rookie uniform in the next lane to mine and he’s just staring at me. I look back at him, and then he realizes his mouth is open. He goes back to his own shooting gallery.

  *

  I trade in the .38 for a nine milimeter. I’ve been holding off on going modern for too long. Perhaps it was Celia’s mention of the automatic pistol that Chaka carried, the evening that punk fuck scared hell out of her. But I need an edge. I used to think the two pistols I carry were that tie breaker, but I have my doubts, now. Street punks are better armed than we are. We hear that all the time at Division. The Commander wants us all to be state of the art out in the streets, so I caught hell for years about my stubbornness to change.

  I’m not stubborn anymore. The .38’s going to Celia. I’m getting her help in speeding a permit through, but she’s keeping it illegally until the paperwork comes down. I don’t give a shit. She’s not sleeping in that place without an equalizer when I’m not there.

  I’ll teach Celia how to handle the piece. I’ll teach her how to use hollow loads in order to stop any son of a bitch who tires to touch her. I’ll explain that the hollow load’ll blow a hole out a man’s back end about the size of a volleyball. Nobody gets back up when he gets nailed with one of those rounds.

  Look out for me, Chaka. I’m coming for you. If you think your environment’s been harsh before, you’ve just landed on the fucking planet Venus. That sizzling sound is me, lighting you up.

  *

  Celia hesitates about my old .38, but then she gives in and allows me to instruct her about the gun. I take her to the police firing range as my guest, and she very quickly learns to squeeze off the rounds. She becomes a passable shot in just two or three tries at the gallery.

  “Make sure you don’t shoot me when I come into the apartment at night.”

  She squeezes my hand. We’re sitting on her couch, here on the southside.

  “If Andres were still alive, I wouldn’t have allowed that pistol in my house.”

  “I know. I told you all the shit I do at my house so the kids can’t get a hold of my weapons. At least you don’t have to go through all that locking up crap. Anybody ever invaded my house, it’d take me twenty minutes to get hold of a loaded piece.”

  “I’ll put the gun in my nightstand.”

  “Just make sure you shoot the son of a bitch inside the apartment.”

  “I know, Jimmy. You done told me eight times.”

  “Here’s number nine. Make sure it’s him just before you blow the back of his fucking head against the wall.”

  She looks squarely at me.

  “I love you, Jimmy P. I love you more than I ever loved any man. That’s the truth and I want you to know it.”

  She kisses me again, and then she begins to prepare me for her. It’s the first time we’ve made love since Chaka threatened her.

  *

  The Chicago Transit Police makes Chaka three days later. Doc and I are on shift when we get the message from dispatch.

  We speed away from a homicide scene on the northside. A white woman gets herself bludgeoned to death with a tire iron because her boyfriend caught her with another woman in the boyfriend’s bed. Then the girlfriend caught the boyfriend in the commission of the crime, and the lesbian partner damn near cuts the boyfriend’s throat clean to the bone. Amazingly enough he’s still alive. The female lover missed the jugular, but the male member of the triangle nearly bleeds to death before we pinch him for the homicide. Then we pinch the woman with the bloody razor in hand. What a fucking theatre of the absurd.

  Homicide. It’s my life.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  He’s on an El, an elevated train, headed for the Loop. One of the CTA cops sees him and makes the call. We’re waiting for him at the Monroe Street Station. Doc and I and five uniforms await the northbound train he’s on. We stand on the platform and we are being watched by the El riders who’re wondering why all the troops are assembled.

  “Here it comes,” my partner says.

  We’ve got our weapons in our holsters. We can’t start a panic that might get Chaka nervous enough to pull whatever he’s carrying.

  The train screeches to a halt and the attendant sparks crackle off the tracks. The El rests for the moment, the doors swoosh open, and Doc and I enter the middle car. The uniforms spread out and enter at various other entrance doors.

  I see him as soon as I enter, and he sees us as well. Chaka is sitting next to an old black woman — she must be in her seventies — and he’s got the standard banger coat on in spite of the upper eighties temperature. Fall has still not arrived, but this jacket is an all seasons piece of attire for our man.

  We can’t approach him because he’s got his right hand inside the left front of that leather coat. He’s also smiling at us.

  “You think he’s bluffing?” Doc smiles at the gangster.

  “I don’t think so. I think we’ll have to wait until we come to the next stop and then we’ll make something happen.”

  The train lurches into forward, and Doc and I grab hold of the bar overhead to keep from falling on our faces. We’re just inside the exit doors.

  I don’t have a faint notion what we’re going to do to separate Chaka from this little old lady he’s threatening. She doesn’t even see his threat, yet. His glare was aimed at me and my partner only.

  Doc gets on his walky talky and tells the uniforms the situation
. They’re to hold up the train at the next stop until we get everyone off. We’ll tell them there’s a bomb threat. Something. But we’ve got to stop and we’ve got to get the civilians away from us if we’re going to take him.

  There’s a white teenager sitting next to us who’s got his boom box turned to the max. He’s listening to Hammer, Doc explains by yelling in my ear.

  I tell the kid to turn the sound down or I’ll bust him. The kid wants to see my shield and I tell him to fuck himself and I jerk the sound button down to low. He’s so surprised with my move that he appears to be thinking about urinating in his drawers.

  Doc smiles.

  “You’re a music lover, I see.”

  “Yeah. That was exactly why I turned that rap crap down.”

  “Kid’s a wigger.”

  “What the hell’s a wigger?” I ask.

  “White kid who really wants to be black. Like with these suburban dudes who run around with the backwards baseball caps and the overlong shorts. You know, white niggers. Wiggers.”

  His eyes have never left Chaka’s. The gangbanger is sitting four rows from us, and he and the old lady are facing Doc and me.

  I’m wondering how much longer it’ll take before we reach the next station. I’m also wondering if that little bastard is getting an itch to use whatever he’s carrying today. Is it the Uzi or is it the nine M he pulled on Wendell?

  The conductor announces the stop, but there’s no way you can understand these El drivers. They must chew on the fucking microphones. I’m looking at Chaka and so is Doc. Chaka returns the stare, but he’s not leering anymore.

  I’ve got the nine in my holster and the .44 Bulldog strapped to my right ankle. It’s a little heavy to wear that low, but it’s too hot to wear jackets to conceal it. I’ve got a light spring windbreaker covering the standard shoulder holster. Wearing a coat, I must appear as goofy as Chaka with his leather garment.

  Finally the buzz of the speaker comes on and the dude at the wheel burbles something or other. I suppose you have to be a frequent El rider to know where the hell we’re about to arrive. I know I’ve got no clue, but I do know that we’re somewhere on the northside by now.

  The train comes squealing to a stop. The sound cuts to your bones and grates your marrow to powder. I don’t know how the everyday riders tolerate it.

  I step out into the aisle and I raise my right hand into the air. When the noise subsides, I flash the detective’s shield in all four directions and I yell out that I’m the police and that there’s been a bomb threat and that everybody has to vacate the train. I turn to Doc, and beyond him I see the uniforms on the platform standing together in a group. The patrons of the Elevated begin to hurriedly file out of the car. Some of them are muttering obscenities. I don’t blame them; I feel like joining them.

  Chaka doesn’t rise. He grabs hold of the old woman and yanks her back into the seat next to him. Then he whips out the nine milimeter he almost used on Celia and Wendell. He points the barrel toward her head. The old girl is so petrified that she can’t even cry out.

  Doc aims his piece at the banger, and I’ve got my nine aimed at Chaka’s skull, too.

  “Let her go. You’re not getting off this train with her,” I warn him.

  He yanks the old lady to her feet. She wobbles but she doesn’t go down.

  “All you got to do is let me get out of this train. Otherwise I’m gonna blow her brains all over this car.”

  He starts to move toward the double doors. Doc apprises the uniforms outside to clear away.

  “You get out that door, you let her go. I see your finger even twitch on that trigger I’ll kill you no matter what happens next,” I tell him.

  He edges toward us and the door and we back off, our guns still aimed squarely at his melon.

  Then he’s outside. We’re right behind him. He walks the old woman maybe thirty paces toward the down ramp where the exit lies, and then he shoves the old woman onto her face and takes off down the stairs. One of the uniforms goes to the aid of the old lady, but the rest of us are after him.

  We fared poorly in that previous foot race, but this time it’s going to have to be a heart attack or a stroke to stop me from getting to him. I’m leading the pack, but Doc and the other remaining uniformed officers are right behind me. We’re headed east as we bolt out onto the street in close pursuit. Chaka has at least a hundred meters on us, but I feel like I’m shortening his lead after about a half block sprint.

  The kid is in good shape for a piece of shit. I train regularly at the gym. I run five miles at least three or four times a week. I’m in much better shape than I was the first time this little prick outran the two of us.

  Doc stops off. I look over my shoulder and I see him halt and then get on the walky talky. He’s calling for reinforcements. The other few patrolmen are right there with me.

  It’s been a quarter mile when I see him still headed east toward the Lake. We’ll be into the water if he keeps it up much longer.

  Then I know where he’s headed. It’s the Oak Street Beach. The yuppie haven for sun worshippers.

  All the training at the gym seems to be paying off. I haven’t lost my breath yet. I’m still moving fluidly after this killer, and he hasn’t gained any ground on me at the half mile point. I’m in full stride nearing the three quarters of a mile juncture — I’m estimating these distances as we pass each city block — when one of the coppers behind me goes down in a heap. The other three are still with me. I wonder where the hell Doc might be at the moment. He’s probably setting up a ride.

  When I’ve run eight blocks, give or take, I feel the tug at my left arm. It frightens me at first, but I catch sight of the black jacket bobbing in and out of all the pedestrians on this east bound street, and I’m compelled by something deep in my guts to turn up the speed, to hit the accelerator. This kid has to be tiring, I tell myself. He doesn’t spend any time doing laps at any sweaty muscle parlor. I’m the one who’s invested the perspiration and the sore muscles to still be in this chase.

  I’m beginning to puff when I reach the mile and a half mark —

  I see the beach. I see the water. And I see Julius Johnson. He’s down to a trot and he’s apparently gasping for oxygen.

  I put myself in one gear higher, and suddenly the distance between us is reduced by one third. I’m really gaining on him. The sand has slowed him down.

  There is a sparse crowd at Oak Street today, but there are still sun bathers stretched out on the sand. There are swimmers in the water, too, although there are no life guards on duty.

  Chaka kicks sand on some white teenager who’s lying on a blanket with a nicely put together female, and the boy stands up and is about to shout something at the black leather jacket.

  “Sit the fuck back down!” I manage to blurt at him as I pass.

  The other three coppers are a full football field behind me. They must be wondering how the hell I’m able to be where I’m at because I’m wondering the same thing. It must be adrenaline. It must be some kind of magical juice that is spurring me on to catch a punk who’s easily young enough to be my son. But I’m still plugging away. I got my second wind back in the first half mile.

  Chaka’s legs chum in the sand, and now some of the female voices from this beach begin to shriek. They’ve seen the nine millimeters in both our hands, so everyone starts to fly in the opposite direction as we pass them. I’m afraid he’ll stop and grab somebody again, like he did the old lady, but he seems determined to simply outlast me. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll shoot him even if he does try to snatch a hostage. I don’t know what he read in my face when we were still aboard the El train.

  I’m beginning to feel a new tugging in my left arm. A sharp pain is moving up on the inside of that limb and I’m scared I’ll die before I catch up with him. But I’m pushed to go on when I see in my mind the fear on Celia’s face after he assaulted her at the Green. I’m shoved on after him when I remember the pictures Celia showed me of her son’s first c
ommunion. She’s a Catholic, like me. Her little boy would’ve been confirmed just like my son Michael will be someday soon. I cannot let him win again. I won’t let him dodge me this time.

  There are more screams up ahead as Chaka passes more sun bathers. People regard me with the same fear as they do this child killer, I notice as I pass their retreating forms.

  I’m within a hundred feet of him. He’s headed toward the water where the more solid sand lies. He can’t get any traction in the hot, light sand of the beach, so he’s headed for a faster track.

  And in front of him still farther down the way is the pier that juts out into Lake Michigan. He must be making for that concrete slab. I just hope I have enough left to meet him out there. We’ve passed the three mile mark by now. I can feel the distance in my aching legs.

  I’m gasping for air at this point, and when I look over my shoulder behind me, there are no brother policemen with me any longer. I see one cop on his knees trying to introduce oxygen into his seared lungs, but he’s a good block behind me.

  Chaka makes a direct line for the pier, but he’s only that same 35 yards ahead of me. I’m wondering why he doesn’t turn and pop a round my way. Perhaps he doesn’t want to break stride. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll do the same damn thing to him. But he must sense that I want him alive. He must intuitively understand that his death would be too generous a punishment for him. He knows me better than I supposed, I’m reasoning.

  We’re on the pier, finally. He seems to have found his second wind as well, but he begins to figure out he’s at a dead end. The Chicago Police boat is already speeding toward this tiny concrete peninsula. I can see them headed our way.

  I hear the siren attached to the police Jeep they use on the beach. I turn in stride and see the vehicle headed our way also.

  If my legs can only sustain the chase for one more block.

  The pain is in my chest, now. When Chaka stops dead in his tracks at the end of the pier out by the deeper waters of the Lake, I minor his halt. With great trembling I raise the nine milimeter pistol I’ve been clutching all the way since the train station. All four of my limbs are quivering and I’m battling to try and breathe, all at the same moment.