by Jackson Neta
I turned back to my family and took a deep breath. “All right. But you saw what Corky can do. She’s amazing, absolutely amazing. Let this be a lesson—no one, and I mean no one, can enter this house with any drugs. She’ll detect ’em. It’s her job.”
Rodney looked at me, his eyes betraying a mixture of relief and skepticism.
I picked up the joint. “I’m gonna flush this. Estelle, you think this jacket’s washable?”
She checked the tag on the collar. “Says, ‘Cold water wash. Tumble dry warm.’ ”
I handed it to Rodney. “Why don’t you take it on down to the basement and put it in the washer, son. And when can we eat, Estelle?”
Estelle’s smile seemed to stretch ear to ear. “As soon as DaShawn sets the table.”
Chapter 14
Rodney and DaShawn were on dish duty Wednesday evening, so after supper I used Corky as an excuse to slip out for a walk. The moment I was out the back door and hit the cold air, I sighed so deeply, it was as though I’d been holding my breath ever since I’d come home. “What have we gotten ourselves into, Corky?” I said once we were in the alley. She hunched up and backed into a bush. Her embarrassed eyes said she didn’t want me to watch, so I looked away.
The door of the garage next to ours was open, light shining out into the alley, and from within came a loud banging. Once I’d bagged Corky’s recyclable contribution and dropped it into our trash can, I wandered over and looked into the open garage.
The big lawn-service pickup was nosed into the garage and someone was underneath beating on the snowplow attached to the front. When the banging stopped, I said, “How’s it goin’?”
“Not bad,” came a strained voice. In a moment our neighbor scooted out from under his vehicle and stood up. He transferred a two-pound sledge from his right hand to his left and extended his hand to shake mine, then realized it was dirty and pulled it back.
I extended mine a little farther. “No problem, man. No problem. I’m Harry Bentley. Just moved in on Saturday.”
“Farid Jalili.” He gave my hand a good shake. “Yeah. Saw the truck and all those people. Sorry I couldn’t help, but I had to go to work.”
He had a slight accent, not Spanish or Indian, so I figured that my earlier guess of Middle Eastern was right. “Ah, that’s okay,” I said. “Had a bunch of folks from church helping us.”
“Church, huh? What church?”
“SouledOut Community, over in the mall on the corner of Howard and Clark.”
“Hmm.” His eyebrows went up. “Didn’t know there was a church in there.”
“Yeah. It’s a storefront, pretty big but tucked back in the corner.” I’d seen his wife wearing one of those scarves over her head, so I didn’t want to push the church thing too much and moved on to a safer subject. “I’ve seen your truck out front. You own your own business?”
“Oh yes. I got tired of working for other people, so I took the—how do you say it?—the plunge.”
“Great. Bet you had lots of work with the storm.”
“Ha! More than I could manage, and I hit a curb and bent the blade a little.” He held up his hammer. “Unfortunately, this won’t do it.”
“Hey, I got a hydraulic jack somewhere. It might do the job if you can get an angle and find something to push against.” I shrugged. “That’s if I can find the thing.”
“Oh no, no. I would not want to bother you. A jack’s a good idea, but I can rent one from Home Depot.”
“Hey, what are neighbors for?”
He nodded and smiled broadly. “Right now I have to go in the house. My wife has already come out twice to retrieve me to eat.”
“Oh yeah? Well, see ya around, then.”
I gave him a wave and walked on down the alley. “She’s gonna retrieve him to eat, huh? Whaddaya think of that, Corky?” But Corky was more interested in sniffing who had been down the alley before us.
The next morning I took Gilson’s advice and stayed home long enough to go to PetSmart and outfit Corky with a nice bed, a couple of pans, some treats, and bags of food. Creston had told me that all the dogs were on a very strict diet. Estelle had complained about Dandy, that yellow dog at the shelter, stealing things out of the garbage in her kitchen, but I knew I’d have to watch that she didn’t slip Corky treats here at home.
After I’d arranged everything for Corky in our apartment, I went downstairs to see how Rodney was doing with painting the bedroom, Corky following my every step.
“Hey, Harry,” Rodney said when I stood at the door to the bedroom. “I should finish this today. You said there was a bed out in the garage?” His tone was cordial enough, but there was still a gulf between us.
“Yeah. Bed’s out there. I can help you bring it in this evening, if you want.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it.” He dismissed my offer with a wave of his hand. “I can manage. Or DaShawn can help when he gets home from school. I want to get everything set up so I can get back to the job hunt tomorrow, if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure. Best of luck.” I started to leave but turned back. “Oh, that reminds me. I meant to speak to one of my Bible study buddies. He owns a business, could ask if he has any jobs open. I’ll try to give him a call today. Hey, you oughta come with me next Tuesday. You might like it.”
Rodney just nodded and went back to painting. I snapped my fingers for Corky and headed out the back way and stopped to inspect the kitchen. It was looking beautiful—counters and sink in, mosaic tile backsplash installed, ceramic floor down. “Hey, Rodney,” I called toward the bedroom, “those guys say when they’ll be back to finish the kitchen?”
“This afternoon. They’re pickin’ up the appliances.”
Wow! Those guys work fast.
Corky and I went on out to the SUV and headed down to the Loop. It took me an hour to get three uniforms from the store on Wabash, but I arrived at work in time to check in with Gilson just after he got back from a late lunch. I spent the rest of the day getting acquainted with the other APD officers and exploring the station with Corky. I didn’t attempt the blind man cover but wore my shield prominently on my belt and kept Corky on a standard leash.
In the middle of the afternoon, Corky sat down and signaled one of the backpacks carried by three college-age kids who were sitting on the floor next to the wall in the boarding lounge. For a moment, I didn’t know what I should do. Corky and I had at least a week of training before Gilson expected us to be on duty.
Wait a minute! Why was I hesitating? They were breaking the law.
I flashed my shield. “Any of you carrying dope on you?”
“Who? Us? No way, man. We’re clean.”
“Corky here doesn’t think so.” When the guy started to get up, I held up my hand. “Stay put. And all of you keep your hands where I can see ’em.” I studied all three—a long, lanky kid with blue eyes and dark-blond hair so limp it simply fell straight down from where it grew. At least it was neatly cut. One arm was through a strap of the backpack Corky was identifying as dirty. The two girls appeared younger and embarrassed, a flush rising up their necks like matching temperature gauges. Their intentionally ripped jeans were offset by a stylish pea jacket for one and a high-end ski jacket for the other that probably cost daddy over a grand.
“Where you headed?” I asked.
They looked at each other until the girl in the ski jacket said, “Urbana. Heading back to the university after spring break.”
I glanced up at the board. “So you’d be taking the Illini, huh?”
All three nodded.
“Well then, you got a little time here. Mind if I search your backpack?” I ask the guy.
“Huh?” He pulled it a little closer. “What for? You gotta have a warrant first, don’tcha?”
I gestured at Corky with my thumb. “She’s my warrant. Law says I don’t need a warrant for drugs in plain sight.” I waited until he got a smug expression on his face. “It also says that identification by a certified drug det
ection dog is the equivalent of seeing them in plain sight. Corky’s got a badge. You want to see it?”
He didn’t know whether to believe me or not.
“So, you gonna let me look in your pack?” We were attracting an audience. “Hurry up, man. Open it up before I take you into custody.”
“Hey, I ain’t got nothin’ in there but a little packet of grass. I swear.”
“You better hope that’s all I find. Now unzip it and hand it up here to me. No, you stay on the floor.” I reached down to touch my dog’s head. “Corky, free.” She took a step back, watching and wagging her tail vigorously as though she’d cornered a rabbit in its hole.
The kid unzipped his backpack and handed it up to me, a sour look on his face.
I fished around in the compartments until I found a packet of marijuana, just a baggy with an ounce or two in it. “Is this all?” I shielded it from the onlookers.
“Yeah, man. That’s it. I’m tellin’ ya.”
I dug around a little more without finding anything else that appeared suspicious. “All right. Hang on a minute.” I pulled out my radio and called for a couple of uniforms to come and help me.
“Hey, I thought you said if I opened my pack you wouldn’t take us into custody.”
“Just for questioning in the office . . . and to check out these girls’ packs.”
“I thought you said you needed a warrant unless the dog was doin’ whatever she does.”
“That’s right. But she gets a second chance. She might have been distracted by your little stash.”
“Hey, they’re clean. I’m tellin’ ya.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” My backup arrived. “You can get up now and follow this officer. I’ll be right behind you.”
All three started off, heads down like they were already part of a chain gang. But as we went through the station, the girls started complaining that they were going to miss their train. In the questioning room, I dumped everything out from the guy’s backpack and patted him down while the girls stood off to the side with terrified looks on their faces. Probably the first time they’d been busted.
Nothing else incriminating turned up in the backpack. “All right, you can reload your pack, except for your baggy of weed. Ladies, would you put your backpacks on the floor, one there and one over there.” Then I turned to my eager Lab. “Corky, seek!”
It was obvious that we’d placed the most suspicious items on the floor, but Corky first went to the girls and sniffed around them before checking out their backpacks. Very interesting, I thought. But nothing got signaled.
“Looks like you two were a little smarter than your friend here.” I turned to the kid, who stood as tall as I did, though he carried himself with slightly stooped shoulders. “All right, tell you what we’re gonna do. You pick up your little bag of weed and follow Officer Kramer down the hall to our own private restroom where he’ll watch you flush it—all of it, every leaf—down the toilet and then rinse out the baggy and put it in the trash. When you’re done, come back here and get your stuff. Then the three of you can go catch your train.” I glanced at my watch. “Almost four o’clock. You got about five minutes before the Illini pulls out.”
He grabbed the baggy and started pushing Kramer toward the door. Kramer planted his feet. “Hey, hey, hey, don’t you be touchin’ a police officer or I’ll arrest you for assault and resisting.”
“I ain’t resistin’ nothing. Come on, man, let’s go.”
The girls picked up their backpacks, and the one in the fancy ski jacket looked at me. All the embarrassment and fear were out of her face. “If you make us miss our train, I’m gonna file a complaint.”
“Yeah, you do that, you little ingrate. Now get outta here.”
Once the kids were gone, I looked at the two officers. “Thanks for the backup. Ha! Big deal for my first day on the job with Corky.” I glanced at my watch again, as though I didn’t already know what it said. “Nearly quittin’ time. See y’all tomorrow.”
As I drove home, I wondered if the day had been a foretaste of what my job would be like—penny-ante busts that would have no impact on the drug trade or the lifeblood of the gangs in Chicago. What was I doing?
Chapter 15
Friday I wore a uniform—it had been a long time—and saw Gilson only briefly. He’d heard about Corky and me bustin’ the college students, as had most of the other APD officers. It had become something of a joke, but Gilson said, “No, no. It was good. Shows you and Corky can work together just fine. Next week’s your training out in Des Plaines. It’ll be a good tune-up for the both of you. And by the way, they have a trainer out there who used to work with guide dogs. She’ll be able to help you two with your cover. Pretty cool, huh?”
I just nodded. The more I thought about Gilson’s undercover blind man idea, the more I had to admit it might work, so I held my peace and got the paperwork from Phyllis, along with the address of the CPD K-9 training center and the name of the person we were to report to on Monday morning.
When I got home that evening, Estelle was all in a rush to get us fed. “And then,” she announced, “I want you to go shopping with me, Harry. I got a lot of baking to do this evening, and need you to help me pick up the supplies.”
I mentally clicked through all the things I could remember—knowing I often forgot events Estelle scheduled—church, work, school. But I drew a blank. “Uh . . . what’s up? It seems to have slipped my mind.”
“I’m gonna bake cinnamon rolls for all our neighbors. Remember, ‘if you want to have friends, you have to show yourself friendly’? It’s in the Bible. Got my kitchen set up, so tonight’s the night . . . and probably most of tomorrow too.”
“And I’m supposed to do what?”
“Help me with the shopping. And tomorrow I want you to come with me to meet the neighbors. I don’t like not knowing who’s living around us.”
“We didn’t know everyone back in the apartment building, and . . . and I already met Farid next door. Seemed like a great guy. Oh, that reminds me, I need to find my hydraulic jack for him to use.”
“Well, you can do that tomorrow while I finish up the baking.”
There was no stopping Estelle when she got a bee in her hairdo. The next morning I found my jack, and though the smell of those fresh cinnamon rolls almost kept me housebound with the hope of a taste, I carried it to my neighbor’s house.
A woman I assumed was his wife answered the door, smiled, and said Farid was out in the garage. I thanked her and headed around to the back. Should have tried the garage first.
“Farid?” I pushed the side door open. “You in here? I found my jack.”
“Harry? Come on in. I never got over to Home Depot. Many thanks.”
We spent the next hour rolling around on the floor of his garage, trying to position that jack so he’d have the right angle and a strong enough purchase to push his plow back into shape. Finally, we positioned the truck over an inch-high lip in the concrete floor and started jacking.
“I think that’s got it. Look.” Farid measured the two sides of his plow and they were identical. “Oh, man. I can’t thank you enough. You’re really a godsend.”
“No problem. Glad I could help.”
We crawled out from under the big pickup, and he rolled up the cord for his droplight. “Say, where was that church you said you went to?”
I told him again and watched as he nodded his head while he hung up the light. “It’s been a long time since we’ve been to church. I don’t know. Do you think . . . I mean, this is a Christian church, right?”
“Oh yeah, Christian. We believe in Jesus and follow the Bible.”
He shrugged. “We tried a couple of churches years ago when we first came to America, but I don’t know . . .” He shrugged again.
“So, you’re Christians?”
“Yes, yes. That’s why we left Iran.”
“From Iran. Wow! You know, I don’t think I remember your last name.”
“Jal
ili . . . Farid and Lily Jalili. Yeah, we had to flee Iran after they firebombed my store.”
“No way! What happened?”
“Well, I had this little boutique in Tehran—women’s clothes, handbags, shoes. Police said it was because we were selling Western designer stuff.” He shrugged again in his characteristic fashion. “But I know it was because we were Christians, ’cause that’s what the guy yelled when he threw the Molotov cocktail through the window.”
“Oh, man, so sorry to hear that. Musta been terrifying.” I paused, thinking he might tell me more of his story, but instead he just thanked me for my help and told me to let him know any time he could return the favor. He seemed eager to get back in to his family, so I went on home to see how Estelle was doing.
I spent the next hour helping her package batches of six cinnamon rolls each in plastic wrap with a ribbon around them and a little tag with our name on it. Of course, we had to sample a cinnamon roll or two . . . with a good cup of coffee. When Estelle had warmed up my cup for the second time, I said, “Hey, you know that family next door? I thought they might be Muslim, but they’re not.”
“Oh?” She paused in the middle of pouring her own coffee.
“Their names are Farid and Lily Jalili, and they are from Iran, but Farid says they were forced to flee because of their Christian faith. They had a little store—women’s clothes and stuff—that got torched by Islamic extremists.”
“Oh no! How scary. When did all this happen?”
“I dunno.” I thought for a moment. “Must’ve been quite awhile ago, ’cause he said something about not being able to find a good church when they first came to the States. But he said that was years ago.” I shrugged.