Start Shooting

by Charlie Newton

  Don’t be here, Robbie …

  I slow-walk out of the kitchen into the hall, three steps, then four. My apartment wasn’t electric dangerous before—Noise. Was that a creak? The front door? Forget the clothes—no have to have the clothes—Don’t be here, Robbie. Don’t make me shoot you.

  “Arleen?” Front door, ten feet away.

  I freeze. Someone knocks—knuckles or a gun barrel. “Arleen? We gotta talk. Your neighbor called me, said you were home.”

  The front door arcs open. I stiff-arm the .38 and brace into the wall—

  “Whoa … Niña …”

  Ruben Vargas sitting on my living-room couch is world-class scary, but not as scary as Robbie Steffen. Ruben adds smooth to his pimp smile and voice. “Baby, I know Robbie’s nuts. What can I tell you? Grew up with too much money.”

  I show Ruben composure I don’t feel. “Nuts? Robbie’s a murderer, slight difference—”

  “Hey, now. How could you know? You weren’t up there on Lawrence Avenue. Maybe you heard something somewhere, but … ’Cause if you were up there, then you’re an accessory and just as guilty as the shooter. Whoever that was.”

  “I’m out, Ruben. If that means you try to take Streetcar away, use my phone, take your best shot. Koreatown, you, and Steffen are a train wreck I’m done riding.”

  “Why would I take your dream? Robbie’s a problem we can fix.”

  “We can fix?” I bluff a small femme-fatale smile. “The next time you say ‘we,’ I’m using your .38 or calling the U.S. attorney. Either way you’re dead.”

  Ruben glances at my hands, then the Streetcar pages on my table. He sits back and removes his toothpick. “And tell Jo Ann Merica what? That your whole life is my fault, or Robbie’s? We made all your decisions for you?”

  “Threaten somebody else. I’m out.”

  Ruben’s eyes narrow. “I have friends in California, detectives.”

  California? Heat burns my skin red. California?

  Ruben smiles, tracing the long scar at his mouth. “But why would I want to take your dream?”

  Take my dream? Like Ruben owns it, like he paid twenty years of soul poison for it. I grab the Streetcar pages and shake them at his chin. “I’ll be at the Shubert tomorrow, you monumental asshole—on time, ready for my chance—go ahead, do your threats. Steffen and you want a goddamn fight, I’ll give you one.”

  Ruben shakes his head and replaces the toothpick. “Arleen, baby. Work with us—sort it out so everybody’s happy. Tomorrow morning you probably get the part at the Shubert, become a big star, and put all your worries behind you.” The toothpick changes sides. “Or … you’ll have to deal with the Koreans on your own, same with Robbie and everyone else you harm. All for the good of who? The U.S. attorney? So the bitch can be governor?”

  “Your partner shot that Korean. Dead.”

  Shrug. “Our partner. One less gangster who was probably illegal anyway.”

  “He’s not my goddamn partner and neither are you.”

  Shrug. “Maybe I’m not, but Robbie is for sure … if you were there … and if he pulled the trigger. Accessory before and after, twenty to life. Even with immunity, Robbie’s father can’t let you bury his son—”

  “Leave me alone!” I jump halfway into Ruben’s face, grabbing for anything that might scare him. “What about the Herald? Want me to—”

  “What? Feed Moens a story you know isn’t true? C’mon. Read what Moens says. If she exhumes your sister’s body and they find new DNA, we both know it ain’t gonna be mine. Then where are you?”

  I will read Moens’s exposé, if for no other reason than to use the lies against Ruben. My head starts to pound. “I’m out, Ruben, done. I worked my whole life for a chance—”

  “And I gave it to you. Didn’t I?”

  Balk. “You said it was Toddy Pete Steffen. He asked the director to call me in.”

  Headshake, teacher to child. “I told that director to give you a fair shake. Not a ride, just an honest shot. She was undecided on her Blanche—owes me big for keeping her cocaine headliners out of jail—and you aced your chance. I’m happy for you.” Pause. “So we calm Robbie down, convince Choa to be cool, and the rest doesn’t matter.”

  “Doesn’t matter? The Korean’s dead—two of ’em—counting the one Robbie cut up.”

  “Did Sinatra have a fifty-year career?”

  “What? You’re saying … What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying calm the fuck down. This isn’t the first time somebody from my world helped somebody in yours. The Koreans don’t know your real name, yet. We have a situation, that’s all, one that’s manageable in my world.”

  “Manage two dead members of the Korean mafia?”

  “We don’t deal in face paint and scenery. This is what we do, then there’s tomorrow and we do it again.”

  I stand there, lost in the insanity. Ruben points me back to my chair, and like an angry child, that’s where I go.

  He points at a copy of Rolling Stone with soldiers on the cover. “Collateral damage. We killed seventeen people in Afghanistan today, you gonna be all crazy about that, too?” Ruben waits for a response. “Choa wants his property returned, a package, and I want to give it to him, but we deserve something for finding it. Choa decided he could pay less than agreed. Robbie and I ain’t doing that. So there was an argument. Choa tried to clip Robbie.” Headshake. “Toddy Pete Steffen’s son. And Choa’s real lucky he missed.” Ruben smiles, but it’s cold, reptilian, like the smile that went with “California.” “The ramifications have been mentioned to Mr. Choa, who now sees the error of his ways.”

  Not that I believe a word of Ruben’s story, but killing Toddy Pete Steffen’s only son could never have been a good idea; all the proof anyone would require to be scared of the Koreans. “A package of what?”

  “Not important to us, but a big deal to the Japs and Koreans.” Ruben sits back. “So before becoming a star tomorrow, you gotta behave today. Meet with Robbie—”

  “The hell I am.”

  Ruben leans forward. “Explain to Robbie—”

  “You explain. I’m not getting within fifty miles of him.”

  “Arleen, I’m trying to help. If you wanna die or rot in prison on dyke patrol, be my guest.”

  “Do I need to say it in Spanish? The answer’s no. Your lies got me into—”

  “And I’ll get you out.” He taps at my Streetcar pages. “But you’re in and you better get a grip on that … too.”

  We stare. I send him as much hate and as little fear as I can.

  “Things are a little warm out there for Robbie and me, U.S. attorney–wise. I got something you have to give Robbie and something you have to tell him.”

  “No. Chance. Never. Happen.”

  “Till we get this done, Arleen, you’ll be carrying the mail. Robbie’s not gonna hurt you; you gotta get past that. He’d have been here waiting and he wasn’t. We need you; you need us. Feds can’t help you. Simple as that.”

  SATURDAY, 3:00 PM

  “Calm and cool.” Me mumbling to me. “Just another audition.” Gun in my purse, walking toward suicide or prison. Jackhammers and diesel engines shake the ground. Steel skeletons of unfinished mid-rises checkerboard the sky above the “new” Greektown. Deep breath, right turn into the alley, and …

  Thirty feet down the alley at the T junction, six-foot-two TAC cop Robbie Steffen waits in the shadows. Half his body armor and gun belt are hidden by the brick corner. Behind his right leg he has a handful of metal that glints. A crane boom crosses the narrow sky above the alley. The air tastes like concrete dust and throat bile. Robbie flinches at the crane moving above him, then glares at me and the street beyond my back. He was expecting his crime-partner Ruben Vargas. Robbie wants the package he and Ruben owe the Koreans, not additions or explanations to a story that can only get him killed. He hugs his brick corner and fast-eyes the alley to his left, then right, waiting to see if I’m alone.

  A rat runs between tra
sh cans. Overheated July breeze skitters homeless debris past my feet and excrement stench past my nose. Robbie stays protected by the brick corner and waves me closer. I don’t want to be any closer; the Valium I took has had thirty minutes to work but my heart’s pounding louder than the jackhammers.

  Robbie waves again, more of his gun visible. When I’m ten feet from him, his gun comes all the way out. Robbie focuses on my hands, then my purse with the pistol in it. He locks on my eyes, but comes no closer.

  “Who’s with you?”

  Swallow. “No one.”

  Robbie does not look or sound good.

  “Drop the purse. Pull up your shirt. Do a circle.”

  “What?”

  “Pull up your fucking shirt. If you got a bra on take it off.”

  I show him my bare chest, then my back.

  “Where’s Vargas?”

  “Too much heat. He gave me—Wants me to—”

  Robbie leaps out halfway to me and stiff-arms his pistol at my forehead.

  “Don’t!” My hands jump up between us. “I’m just a messenger. I saw nothing in Koreatown; honest, if anyone ever asks, I wasn’t there. All I want is away from you two maniacs.”

  Robbie’s head jerks three directions, comes back to me, and he squeezes tighter on the trigger.

  “Do you have to point that at me? I’m an actress, not a—”

  “What’d Ruben tell you?”

  “Nothing. Honest. He wants me to give you something. In my purse. Said things were too hot—the U.S. attorney—for him to come.”

  “And you believe that?” Robbie jabs with the pistol. I duck left and away but bump into a trash can. Robbie hard-eyes the alley, then comes right at me. “Put your hand in that purse; come out with anything but my share of the White Flower money, and you’re dead.”

  “Jesus, Robbie, take is easy. I know zero about flowers or money. Ruben said—”

  Robbie’s pistol cracks me in the ear. Lights go black and bright and I tumble over the trash can. Blink; stars, blink, a voice talking—“Goddamn set up. Ruben made a deal with the Koreans, didn’t he? Serve me up as an apology.”

  “No, Robbie, I …” I palm and heel the alley, scooting back on my butt, try to stand.

  “No? Then Ruben made a side deal with Furukawa’s boss, motherfuckers cut me out. Ruben and his Vietcong bitch cut me out, didn’t they. Send you to kill me and they cut you loose. Right?” Robbie swings. I cringe under the punch.

  “No!”

  Robbie jams his gun in my face, looking everywhere at once, then back at me. “Fuckin’ cunt. I ain’t the one dying here.”

  “Not a setup—” I crab backward through trash cans, palm and heel more alley until a brick wall bangs my head. Robbie’s gun barrel is a giant O in my face. “Stop it, Robbie—”

  “Got a gun in that purse, don’t you? Uh-huh, got Ruben thinking with his dick. The goddamn Brennan sisters. You think if I die, Ruben’s strong enough to fade Furukawa? Jap motherfuckers will eat you three alive.”

  “Robbie, c’mon, I know nothing about that. Honest to God—”

  Robbie ducks, spins, and two-hands his pistol at the alley’s other end. Concussion and roar bangs off the walls. I jolt into the trash cans and Robbie fires again. The alley flashes red-white from both directions. Robbie blows backward in cordite smoke. I curl in the trash cans. A blinding explosion splatters me with heat. Can’t see, can’t hear—

  Eyes open, eyes open. Trash cans and smoke; no gun pointed in my face. Has to be Koreans. Please, God, no gun in my face, no rose tattoos. Please. Not like Coleen. Koreans will kidnap me, torture me to talk, cut me up—My hand fumbles. Purse, get the gun. Vibration? They’re coming. A trash can kicks away. My hand fumbles for the purse; I grab the .38. Heavy black shoes appear in the refuse, then pant legs to the knee—oh, God—then the square head bending down. His eyes are predator intense, set deep in a wide pocked face. A pistol smokes in his bloody fingers. Please don’t. The pistol rises into my face. NOT COLEEN. Flame-thunder explodes between us. He leaps straight back into the other wall, then slides down, mouth torn apart, eyes and forehead gone. I squeeze the gun with both hands until it shoots him again. His face and head are inside out, blood spraying everywhere. I’m frozen in a horror movie, aiming a gun at a … headless gushing monster. I try to scream and can’t. My feet won’t move; both arms are locked—

  SIREN.

  My head bangs brick wall, I suck a breath, then another, see the gun in my hands and jump to my feet; both shoes slip in the blood and trash. Robbie Steffen moans on his back. A second Korean is sprawled in the puddles. I jump Robbie’s torso, run blind, bounce off the alley’s T junction, veer left, and sprint, gun in hand, aiming for the next … Korean. No one charges. Car, where’s my car? BREATHE. The alley ends at a street. Construction workers. Hide the gun. Cars pass in both directions. MOVE. RUN … siren, coming this way? My feet tangle; I stumble, palm the building for balance, don’t fall, and run for my car.

  Drive; c’mon, drive! Two CTA buses block the intersection. I jam second gear, veer into a side street. Rearview mirror, nothing, look left—Robbie had a vest on; he could be alive. Steer, both hands on the wheel, think later. And the Koreans don’t know me, do they? Brake lights. Somehow they followed Robbie to that alley. Or me? If they followed me, then they know me and that I shot their man. Arleen Brennan just a shot a man. To death. Blew his head off. Vomit rises in my throat. Hooorn. Brake lights—

  “Sorry, sorry.” Bile, swallow, grimace. Right turn. Shift. Breathe. Residential; trees. North Side. The gun bounces on my seat—not a gun, a murder weapon. Mine. Yesterday I was an actress … now I’m a … oh, no. No, I’m not. I shot that monster in self-defense. He had a gun; he shot Robbie Steffen and would have killed or grabbed me.

  Slow down; this is a side street.

  Slow down? Ruben Vargas just tried to kill me—

  Oh. My. God. The alley was a setup. Ruben put Robbie and me together, tied a bow on us, and called Mr. Choa.

  But why? Why have the Koreans kill us? I fumble out Ruben’s envelope and tear it open.

  Blank paper. Machiavellian. A setup from go. Robbie and I die so Ruben can settle an eye-for-an-eye debt in mafia world. Ruben also has one less share to pay in the scam he and Robbie are running. And most important, the psycho Koreans and Mr. Choa are now real busy surviving Toddy Pete Steffen’s wrath.

  Plain as day. And Ruben wins the bonus round, too: both potential witnesses—me and a cop partner who’s facing a retrial by the U.S. attorney—aren’t available to roll after the scam is complete. Headshake. I’ve been expendable since this started, one of the reasons I’m sure I got the job. Gotta hide. Maybe upstairs above the L7? My best friend’s bar. Julie’s hideout room, the Butch and Sundance suite.

  Traffic bunches ten deep at the light on Ashland Avenue; all four directions? I’m trapped—Calm down, calm down. Wrigley Field is eight blocks up; must be a Cubs home game; shit, the L7 will be packed with visiting-team fans wondering why are all these women in here? No, it won’t—Wrigley traffic this late means a national TV game—watch check—they’re ready to start. I’ll hide my car—that’s the plan—then walk to Clark Street mixed in with the fans, call Julie on the way in—my anchor, a smart, fearless, tough man in a pretty-girl suit—Julie will know what to do. She left me a voice mail on Friday when the Herald came out with their exposé and their support for exhuming Coleen, said she’d go with me to beat the shit out of Tracy Moens for writing it.

  The Streetcar pages stare from the passenger seat. That’s what I’ll do—me and Streetcar. We’ll rehearse in Julie’s hideout suite. Then, then in nineteen hours I’ll take the stage at the Shubert Theater … and save the Brennan sisters.

  Right. Be Blanche DuBois; that’s who you are; she wasn’t in that alley. Ruben’s not trying to kill her. Make that work. Find a parking place; be invisible. Coleen and I win this one.

  I brake for two girls in the street. They’re wearing bright yellow 2016 Chicago Oly
mpics 10K T-shirts, walking down the street’s center line. Passing out bumper stickers. One girl turns her back. Across her shoulders the font is big, bold, and Japanese: Furukawa.

  My breath catches. Robbie said, “Jap motherfuckers will eat you three alive.” Then everyone started shooting.

  SATURDAY, 4:15 PM

  Walking. Took another hit of Valium and changed my bloody shirt in the car. Been over an hour since I shot a man, think I’m in shock—floaty like after a car wreck that demolished your car but not you. The two hits of Valium are working better than one. Red VW is parked, blue tablets swallowed—I think I covered that—journey to friendship and safety begun. Just stay away from Koreans and Jap motherfuckers who will eat me alive.

  Block three of a five-block walk to the L7 begins to feel good—me floating through leafy normal world—anonymous—with happy people in Cubs blue-and-white preparing to drink beer and eat peanuts. People who haven’t murdered anyone. The not-so-good part is everything else. At block five, Bushmills or Jameson will level what the Valium hasn’t. I flip my phone open with some difficulty and dial a large, athletic, saloonkeeper who loves me.

  Bagpipes and singing answer. Julie McCoy yells, “Blanche! Did we get it?”

  “The audition’s tomorrow. I’m three blocks from you. Is there room at the inn?”

  Over the din she yells: “For a star? Any bed she wants.” Riot noise. “We won the Chicago 7s! Beat South Africa—the natural-blond bitches—Chicago RULES. Boo-yah!”

  She means women’s rugby. “Any men in there … asking for me?”

  “Men? What are they for?”

  My foot skips a sidewalk crack, don’t want to break your mother’s back. We loved our ma, most of the time; our da not so much. “Never mind. Be there in a sec.”

  I fold the phone, walk two more blocks, and hit Clark Street at Addison, the Valium OD beginning to numb-shuffle my feet and knees, weird feeling for a dancer. I loop fifty pregame revelers out front of the Cubby Bear Lounge and sidestep into Clark Street’s game-day Mardi Gras—car horns, cops with Cubs hats directing traffic, fans in the street, flags, banners. They don’t care if they win, the North Side’s past that; this is ritual. Must be wonderful to belong to this kind of world.