The Keepers

by Jeffrey B. Burton

  “I’ve never been to Hawaii.”

  “You haven’t lived until you’ve done the islands,” Kippy said. “You and Bob have got to go someday.”

  “Brian.”

  “What?”

  “My fiancé’s name is Brian.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Kippy said. “When you and Brian go there, you have to swim with the sea turtles. It’s a must. And you won’t believe the fish—they’re all green and blue and neon and look like they were drawn by Dr. Seuss.” Kippy playfully patted my chest. “Mace and I will bring you back some brochures.”

  “Too much fun.” Mickie twirled her car keys. “I would definitely take your parents up on that invite.” Mickie retreated a step back toward her convertible. “Anyway, I should probably get a move on.”

  “Absolutely not,” Kippy said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” She gave my bicep a quick squeeze. “I’ll go feed the kids and you two get caught up.”

  On that note, Kippy disappeared back inside the doublewide with Vira again at her heels, leaving Mickie and me to discover newfangled manners in which to fidget.

  “Your girlfriend’s very pretty,” Mickie said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”

  I shrugged. I hadn’t known, either.

  “And what’s up with the shower?” Mickie said, smiling now. “You were always such a neat freak.”

  “I may have let things slide.”

  Mickie opened her car door. “I’m happy for you, Mace.”

  “Mickie?”

  “What?”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “I hope you and Brian have a wonderful wedding.”

  * * *

  “I apologize,” Kippy said immediately. “I’m paranoid about Feist and Superintendent Callum, so when I heard a car drive up, I peeked outside and … I guess I did a bit of eavesdropping.” She shook her head. “I should not have done that.”

  I’d noticed Kippy’s holstered Beretta on the end table next to the door when I stepped back inside.

  “To be honest, it sounded like your ex showed up to throw a pity party with you as the guest of honor. ‘Poor Mace. Poor, sweet, broken Mace.’ I’m sorry, but that kind of stuff really pisses me off.” Kippy held my eye and continued, “You may have a screw loose, Mace, like the rest of us, but you’re not a charity case, you’re no one to be pitied … and you sure as hell are no one to be condescended to.”

  All five of my dogs sat quietly on the couch, scrunched close together, and stared my way. I noted that neither Delta Dawn nor Maggie May nor Sue had scampered outside to come see Mickie at the sound of her voice.

  It appears I’d truly won custody.

  “If you’d like,” Kippy said, “I can give Mickie a call and set her straight.”

  I stepped around the kitchen table, leaned in, and kissed Kippy on the mouth. Her lips were soft and, on my end, sparks flew and fireworks blew holes in the atmosphere, but an instant later there was a hand between us.

  I backed away.

  “Mace,” Kippy said.

  “I know,” I replied, realizing I had broken our just-friends covenant. “You’re off guys and all that other BS, but what you did … that was the sweetest thing … and I didn’t feel it should go unkissed.”

  This time the dead air lingered between us for most of a minute before I asked, “Your parents got a timeshare in Hawaii?”

  Kippy shook her head. “Of course not.”

  CHAPTER 21

  “Okay, gang,” I said, standing in front of my five dogs who were lined up evenly—all comfy and relaxed—across my or, to be more accurate, Sue’s living room sofa. “I’ve been in the backyard scooping up your piles and I saw something I didn’t care for.” I paused for the words and stern tone to sink in. “Which one of you ate at the dead squirrel?”

  I was met with stares and stillness. Omertà—the code of silence.

  “So that’s how you’re going to play it? Quite frankly, I thought I’d raised all of you better than this. I was hoping for a little honesty, but we can do it the hard way. A half cup of pretzels for whoever tells me who gnawed on the squirrel.”

  Vira caught my eye, hesitated, and then glanced away. “Really, Vira?” I said. “You’d rat out murderers but keep mum on the squirrel-eater among us?” I stared at each of my dogs individually. “Look, if I have to smell your breath, the five of you are going to be in a hell of a lot of hot water. And, by the way, what’s all this about me never getting a spot on the couch anymore?” I looked at Sue. “You know none of this shit would have flown before you retired.”

  My sister collies looked quickly at one another and then back at me. Maggie and Delta were gaslighters from the get-go—it was in their genes—always sharing sideways glances as though they were privy to top-secret information I wasn’t. They got their kicks trying to make me feel all crazy and unhinged. The sad thing of it was that I fell for their con game nearly every time, always checking myself in the mirror, wiping my nose, double-checking my wallet and car keys and pockets—trying to noodle out whatever the hell it was I appeared to be overlooking.

  If we were around when President Kennedy was assassinated, they’d have had me confessing to being the man on the grassy knoll.

  “That won’t work today, girls,” I told my farm collies. Then I took a long breath and stared at my bloodhound. “We all know it was you, Bill, so don’t act like you’ve gotten away with anything.”

  Bill smiled in a manner only a bloodhound could, as if to say don’t knock dead squirrels until you’ve tried one.

  My cell phone vibrated.

  “Hello.”

  “You got a suit?” It was Kippy.

  “I do.” A few years ago Mickie had me buy a discounted navy blue at a JCPenney factory outlet, back when many of our friends were tying the knot. I knew it was still hiding in a dry-cleaning bag at the rear of the guest room’s closet.

  “Put it on,” Kippy said. “Wabs and I will be at your place in five minutes.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re going to a funeral.”

  * * *

  “It is with a heavy heart and a tortured soul that I stand before you today. We have lost a beloved husband, a caring father, a precious son, a brilliant colleague, and a dedicated public servant. Peter Feist touched many lives and was a treasured friend to everyone who knew him. How then do we say goodbye to someone who meant so much to so many?”

  Mayor Carter Weeks commenced his eulogy as I slid into a back pew of the Holy Name Cathedral, tap-danced between dress shoes, and did my best to cram into a three-inch gap between what was likely a husband and wife. I did so as quietly as possible but still suffered the slings and arrows of irate frowns and annoyed glances. Holy Name Cathedral is one of the largest Roman Catholic dioceses in the United States as well as being the seat of the Archdiocese of Chicago. And today’s funeral mass—much like Jonny Whiting’s had been—was standing room only except for the occasional dunderhead who, not unlike me, invaded the personal proximities of his fellow parishioners.

  Holy Name Cathedral dominates the corner of State and Superior Streets, a half-block south of Chicago Avenue, and the traffic on Chicago had been a bear—stop-and-go the entire way. Wabiszewski dropped Kippy and me off on State Street and then went in search of a spot to stash his car. Once inside the cathedral, I’d lost sight of Kippy as we both swam upstream to find a seat, any seat, for the service that had already begun.

  In other words, it was every man for himself.

  The chief executive of Chicago looked out over the packed cathedral and continued his tribute, “It’s important to remember Peter Feist lives on, not just in the hearts and minds, souls and DNA of his beautiful daughters, but in the good deeds that Peter performed, and in the thoughts and feelings and memories of Peter that we all hold dear. Please forgive me if I get a little misty-eyed as Peter was a dear personal friend, in fact my best friend. To be honest, Peter was the big brother I ne
ver had. Frankly, I idolized the man and knew he was what this city needed, what this city required, as head of the Special Prosecutions Bureau inside the Cook County State’s Attorney’s Office. Peter’s was a recommendation I made without a moment’s hesitation, and with a great deal of pride. You see, Peter was committed to making a difference for the people of our great city. And make a difference Special Prosecutor Peter Feist did.”

  Mayor Weeks was young, on the cusp of forty—black hair and thin features—boyishly photogenic like a high school senior voted most likely to succeed, of which I’ve no doubt Weeks once was. The mayor had been a well-liked two-and-a-half-term alderman representing Ward 25, a seat on the City Council he’d more or less inherited when a massive heart attack cut short his father’s fourth term.

  In the mayoral race, Weeks edged out the competition with nearly fifty-one percent of the vote, a razor-thin majority that put him over the top and saved Chicagoans from another pain-in-the-ass runoff election. Weeks’s shocking upset came on a populist platform of restoring public trust via reform—the usual suspects, such as education reform, tax reform, police reform; unfortunately, based on recent news coverage, the existing bureaucracy had yet to forgive him.

  What I personally believe got Carter Weeks his mayorship was his continual hammering of The Keepers.

  The Keepers, if I was bright enough to decipher the mayor’s rhetoric, was an allegory or metaphor regarding what kept the populace of the Windy City down, what kept all of us worker bees subservient, in our place and forever under their thumb, whether our Keepers be political corruption (aldermen abusing power for their own monetary gain, misusing campaign funds on luxurious lifestyles); or operating in the guise of an overpowering bureaucracy, with us held hostage to an endless and suffocating red tape, a deep state ripe with inefficiency—after all, you can’t fight City Hall; or flagrant cronyism (favoritism in awarding jobs or appointments); or even appearing as police corruption—good lord, where to begin. A major part of the mayor’s reform platform was to promote integrity and accountability and transparency to a city that’s often been dubbed the Corruption Capital of America. Mayor Carter Weeks pounded his podium and railed away at the Keepers—at our Keepers—in every speech, interview, or campaign event he logged. Weeks couldn’t have crushed this theme more if he’d used a jackhammer, and though he’d not been the first candidate to run in such a fashion, evidently enough voters took him at his word and he took office in a squeaker.

  Mayor Weeks dabbed at wet eyes with a handkerchief. “Peter Feist was a hero, a shining exemplar of what a special prosecutor should be. Peter was fearless; Peter was methodical, unswerving, relentless, and dedicated. A gentleman of extraordinary intellect, and he was deeply committed in his quest—like a modern-day Galahad of the Round Table. The man never wavered. Peter even looked the part, a handsome Gary Cooper setting about to save the city he so loved. Many question whether ours is a city that can be saved. Others question whether it deserves to be. But never Peter. No … never Peter.” Weeks took a long breath before continuing, “To Marilyn and David, he was a dearly loved son. To Laura—or Eggs as Peter affectionately and playfully called her—he was a devoted, adoring, and loving husband. To Annika and Kiley, he was a doting father.”

  Mayor Weeks looked down at the front pew where Feist’s parents, widow, and his two little girls sat, all of them weeping. Tears began to stream down his face. “Words fail me—Laura and Annika and Kiley—to tell you how much Peter loved you. Peter loved you with all his heart. You were Peter’s world.”

  The mayor abandoned his damp handkerchief and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his suit jacket. “To all of Peter’s family, we send our thoughts, our prayers, and our deepest sympathies. May God bless you, Peter. And may your memory never leave our thoughts, may your spirit never leave our hearts, and may your commitment to public service inspire all of us. On behalf of the Office of the Mayor, on behalf of the men and women of the State’s Attorney’s Office, and on behalf of Chicago’s law enforcement community, I conclude by saying thank you, Peter—thank you for making a difference … thank you for your last full measure of devotion.”

  * * *

  I liked Mayor Weeks’s eulogy. In fact, I liked Mayor Weeks. I would probably have gotten around to voting for him had I the wherewithal to figure out what precinct I was supposed to show up at, what time I had to be there, and what in hell being registered meant. Since it is Chicago, I imagine there were plenty of dead folks vying for my spot in the polling booth.

  I know, I know—I should take my civic duty more seriously than I take flossing.

  Some attorney that worked for Feist named Marty Kolles stood up next and talked of how Peter had been much more a mentor and dear friend than boss, and that everyone in the Special Prosecutions Bureau was devastated at Peter’s death. It looked as if Kolles had more to say, but he began to shudder and stare at his notes on the podium a long moment before his wife stepped up beside him and took his hand. At that point, Kolles cleared his throat, thanked everyone for attending, and the couple returned to their seats in the second row.

  The priest then came to his pulpit and spoke of how death brings grief and sorrow, of how God provides hope, and how we receive comfort from each other. I would have enjoyed the priest’s sermon more had I not drank coffee all morning and, in my frenzy to shave, gargle, and toss on the only suit I owned, I’d forgotten to relieve myself before darting outside as my associates pulled up in Wabiszewski’s spotless Dodge Charger. After my disconcerting arrival, I sat in fear of further riling my pew-mates via a premature exit. I now knew how my dogs felt after I’d left them at home for a twelve-hour stretch with the pet door closed. With minutes left in the funeral service, my discomfort built to such an agonizing nature that, in order to take pressure off my bladder, I loosened my belt a notch and unhitched the top button on my suit pants. The female half of the couple I’d slivered myself between shot dagger eyes my way as though she’d caught me committing a blasphemy.

  Since we sat in back, it took another millennium for the ushers to dismiss our row, and then I had to locate a hallway that might lead to one of the cathedral’s restrooms. I couldn’t spot Kippy in the swarming horde, but I caught Wabiszewski’s eye as, evidently, he’d spent the service standing in back. I flashed him five fingers and pointed toward where I was headed. I think he understood.

  I quickened my pace, hit the men’s room door at a near-jog, palmed it open, took a stride inside and … Chicago’s handsome young mayor stood, red-faced, by the sink, sideways, not staring into the mirror but into the eyes of Police Superintendent Gerald Callum. Callum, in full-dress uniform, stood stone-faced as the mayor finished shaking a forefinger at his chest as if he’d just recited chapter and verse as to why Callum must now march straight up to his room without dinner. Both heads swiveled in my direction—Mayor Weeks looked steamed; Superintendent Callum expressionless.

  I headed immediately to the nearest urinal and unzipped.

  “To be continued,” Weeks said, and I heard the mayor’s footsteps on the tile floor behind me as he exited the restroom.

  Next came the sound of hands washing in a sink, long and drawn-out, then a towel dispenser in use, and then silence. After a billion years of being chased by lions and tigers and bears, we Homo sapiens have some sort of evolutionary warning system hardwired into us. A rapid heartbeat began to drum in my chest and the hairs on the back of my neck informed me that Superintendent Callum was watching me, and not in any amiable manner. I faced the wall, too cowardly to twist my head sideways and confront the stillness out of sheer terror of what I might witness. My imagination made a sturdy case I’d behold the superintendent’s service revolver aimed at my skull.

  Nothing like a massive dose of fight-or-flight at the church urinal.

  I nearly wept with joy when a couple more gentlemen entered the lavatory, one heading for a stall, the other stepping to the urinal at the end of the row. A moment later I listened as Superintendent Call
um stepped to the door and exited the men’s room.

  Needless to say, I suffered stage fright and found myself temporarily unable to accomplish what I’d come there to perform.

  Damnit.

  It took me thirty seconds of focus, eyes shut, before my bladder relaxed and I finally began to relieve myself. The guy who’d arrived at the row of urinals after me took care of business, cleaned his hands, and left. Other men came and went, several generations passed. I’m not sure if there’s a Guinness World Record for taking a leak, but I’m sure I’d at least have made runner-up. Afterward, I washed my hands quickly, dried off, and pulled open the door.

  “Well, I’ll be goddamned.” The mountain-sized man I’d seen at Washington Park towered above me, blocking my way. “If it ain’t the dog man.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “That was one hell of a ruckus the other morning.” He stuck a hand out; when I reached to shake it, he clasped my forearm with a free hand the size of a baseball mitt and steered me into an alcove adjacent to the men’s room. “The barking really woke my ass up.”

  “Happy Jack gets nervous at crime scenes,” I said. “He sometimes gets loud.”

  “Happy Jack?”

  “I name my dogs after songs,” I said. “You know, ‘Happy Jack’? The Who?”

  The man-mountain narrowed his eyes in thought. “‘Happy Jack wasn’t old, but he was a man. He lived in the sand at the Isle of Man.’”

  “That’s the one,” I said. “Great song.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense?”

  “What?” My neck already ached from craning up at him. His broad features—the lantern jaw and thick nose—looked like something carved out of a hillside.

  “The dog I saw you with was a bitch,” Man-mountain said. “A golden retriever bitch.”

  Damn—even across the parking lot he’d been able to see under Vira’s hood.