Buff says, “Give me your weapons. Everybody.”
We stare.
“On the bar. Those of you with two, put ’em all up here.”
We do; ten weapons total. Buff puts them in a box, then strips his nickel-plated pimp rig and drops it in the box. The box goes on the floor between his barstool and the wall. He nods at the polygraph and says, “Alphabetical. Three baseline-control questions about nothing, then the Toyota. Nothing else.”
No cop likes polygraphs; our eyes bounce from face to face. Before yesterday I knew everything there was to know about these guys. Buff taps the rolled-up Herald against his jeans. They may or may not have thought the same about me.
Alphabetically, Buff goes first (Anderson). He sits in the chair and straps himself into the clips and pads. The operator asks him if he’s ready.
“Yeah, c’mon.”
“State your name.”
“Bob Anderson.”
Seven sets of cop eyes watch our sergeant. We can’t read the screen that shows his reactions, the infinitesimal changes in pulse, respiration, and skin conductivity that some say are bullshit anyway.
When Buff finishes, Humberto Candelario goes next—Candy’s got private-security jobs all over, for all kinds of weird people, worked dope for the DEA. Jason is strapped in next—he drives a new car, rides a $15,000 Harley, buys $80 Cubs tickets like he has a trust fund.
Then Rick Gonzalez—Pretty Ricky buys borderline-ghetto three-flats and rehabs them to sell as yuppie condos when the yuppies are ready to take another block. Ricky’s money is always working right up against the gangsters, one midnight fire away from losing it all.
John “Fez” Kelyana is next. Fez is from Syria and has family desperate to get out of harm’s way. What isn’t spent on food and rent, Fez spends on immigration lawyers. One by one we take the chair. The basement becomes a bullpen, not enough room for our shoulders and nervous feet. No one is told if they pass or fail. The air worsens as each cop is put on trial, all of us wondering who sold us out to die.
I’m last to be strapped in. Other than Buff, my team has backed away, flexing their hands, their necks, working the tension out, wondering.
“State your name.”
“Bobby Vargas.”
“What is your legal name?”
“Roberto Vargas Ruiz.”
“Are you a woman?”
“No.”
“Are you a member of the Chicago Police Department.”
“Yes.”
“Last night Officer Sheila Lopez was shot to death in a red Toyota on the corner of Ashland Avenue and Twenty-first Street. Were you present?”
“Yes.”
“Prior to the murder of Officer Lopez, whom did you tell about the red Toyota?”
“No one.”
The polygraph operator looks up. “Did you discuss the red Toyota with members of your team?”
The headache kicks in. “Well, yeah. Yes.” Behind the operator and Buff, all seven are looking at me.
“Did you discuss the red Toyota with anyone else?”
“No.”
I am not asked about Coleen Brennan. Or Little Paul. The polygraph operator nods at his machine, then me, and says, “Done.”
I unclip and remove the waist strap. The polygraph operator gathers papers from his printer, then begins to pack his equipment.
Buff says, “Well?”
“Oh, sorry.” The operator hands Buff the results. “Everybody passed.”
“BOOYAH!” Big grins, backslaps. Gang Team 1269 just won the World Series. Half are on duty but all grab beers with both hands. Somebody fucked us—the commander, the feds—but it wasn’t us, and for the next twenty-four ounces that’s what matters.
Buff rolls up the polygraph results, backs me away from the others, loses his grin, and says, “Leave Danny Vacco alone.”
I toast with beer. “Can’t.”
“Listen, shithead, I’m telling you to leave Vacco alone, not that he’s being left alone, it’s just not you who’s doing anything … if something were to happen.”
“Thanks, but Vacco’s not your fight.”
“He’s not? I don’t work the Four Corners? Some day Danny Vacco don’t pull Little Paul on me when I’m in the box?”
“You’re retiring next year. And you’re smarter than that.”
“I’m smarter than you, that’s for fucking sure.” Buff fixes me with his steel-blue stare. “Somebody close gave up that Toyota.”
I toast again. “Wasn’t us.”
Buff bangs his beer against the Hamm’s I’m holding, eyes staying on mine an extra second too long, then pulls out the box with all our weapons. “Wasn’t us, but it’s somebody who knows us.”
I grab my Airweight. Buff grabs his pimp rig.
“Something’s out there.” Buff chins at the wall as he slides his pistol and holster into his belt. “A wild card, and it ain’t working well for those involved. How do I know this? We have a dead undercover fed in our team that no federal agency wants to claim. Our commander isn’t talking to me, and my one friend in OPS—the investigator who took your statement at the scene—poor guy’s married to my cousin, the loud one who likes to eat. My friend in OPS and I go way back, knew him in ’Nam, and last night all he says to me is ‘Shadowland’ and walks away.”
“Shadowland?”
“A box-canyon plateau up above the A Shau Valley, between Hue and Khe Sanh. For the whole of the war—ours, and the French before us—neither side could hold it more than a year. The CIA/SOG guys operated in there with the LRRPs.” Buff’s fingers snake-paint his face. “The long-range recon, special operations people.”
I don’t speak Sergeant, Chicago OPS, or Vietnam, and ask Buff to explain.
“My friend’s telling me to stop being stupid. Hahn and Lopez aren’t who or what they say; their mission and ours isn’t what we think it is; and we better figure Shadowland before we take another half step into the jungle.”
“Kinda what Ruben said. The feds have to be after us for something else, ’cause when Coleen was killed none of us were on the job.”
“I was.” Buff sips the beer. “And two hours ago Dupree’s lawyers noticed me for Monday’s depositions.”
“You? Why?”
“Back in the day I worked with Ruben and the other three coppers who put Dupree in the gas chamber. Lawyers must think I can tell ’em something. Your brother say anything else?”
“Nah. Ruben’s focused on the depositions and the Herald. He’s hooking me up with a downtown lawyer, big hitter, who I guess already got an injunction against the Herald. They go to court Monday when I’m at IAD and you guys are being deposed.”
“This guy your lawyer or Ruben’s lawyer?”
“What’s the difference?”
“You know the fucking difference.”
I lean back. “He’s my brother, Buff.”
“Yeah, I know. Answer the question.”
Heat rises on my neck. Deep breath. I am real tired of being prodded, questioned, doubted, threatened, and pushed around, friend or foe. Tired enough that I—Deep breath … another. Buff’s my friend, I know that, and my boss. “Why”—I swallow beer—“do you think I need a different lawyer than my brother?”
Buff says, “Why aren’t you looking at me?”
My eyes cut to his. I want to leave.
Buff says, “That’s why you need a different lawyer.”
I stand; so does Buff. From behind, Jason throws his arm around me. Buff tells him to give us a minute. Jason slaps my back, grabs his gun and yells, “Pole party at Jewboy’s. Then we find the rat who fucked us.”
Buff waits for Jason to turn, then says, “Ruben’s a legend, but he’s a player. Doesn’t make him guilty of shit, but it for sure doesn’t make him innocent, either. He has history, your brother. People talk about him—who he knows, how he operates. I’m a blue-collar guy; people say shit about me, too, but it’s different. And you know it’s different.”
We stare
at the polygraph results Buff holds between us. Buff’s telling me something he won’t say.
“Everybody passed, right? That’s what the guy said.”
Buff nods, but his eyes don’t. “Your brother could be a federal target for something other than Coleen Brennan. I underline ‘could,’ Bobby. I’m not saying he is. I’m saying maybe he is.”
Target doesn’t mean guilty.
“He’s my brother, Buff, my only brother.”
Buff starts to say something but stops, then: “Robbie Steffen and your brother are friends. Ruben was in his wedding. The dead gangsters in our alley with Robbie were Korean mafia from up on Lawrence Avenue—rose tats on the arms, evil sons a bitches, I promise you. I knew some in Saigon.”
“I still don’t see—”
“Robbie was off duty and wearing a vest.”
Buff lets me think about that, then adds:
“IAD don’t convict Robbie on a vest, but I do. Then there’s you. Interesting how fast Danny Vacco put you together. After the ten years you been jerking with him, all of a sudden Danny V picks a fight to the death?” Buff shrugs. “Could be all your shit lined up so perfect Danny took a flyer.” Pause. “But I doubt it. I see shadows, Bobby. Don’t know that they belong to your brother or Robbie, but I see shadows.”
“Ruben’s my brother. He’d take a bullet for me.”
Buff nods, but not with conviction. “Your lawyer won’t. Bobby Vargas don’t mean shit to him.”
I turn to leave. Buff stops me.
“No Danny Vacco. The rest is up to you. But as your friend”—he points the rolled-up polygraph results in my face—“I advise you to at least get a different attorney for the Child Services charge.”
“Charge?”
Nod. “Child Services will try to set the Little Paul interview for tomorrow, Sunday, like they’re investigating the Little Paul complaint on the straight-up, not connected to IAD interviewing you on Monday for Coleen Brennan. When their interview’s over, Child Services will have the ASA charge you for Little Paul in time to make the next primetime newscasts. When IAD interviews you on Monday for Coleen Brennan, you’ll already be in handcuffs and a jumpsuit. Whoever used Danny Vacco to put you together knew what they were doing.”
“You honestly think Robbie and Lopez being shot has something to do with all the shit falling on me and Ruben?”
“I don’t believe in coincidence, and I sure as fuck don’t believe in explanations that require three ifs in them.” Buff glances our team. “The G’s got their bankroll; the bad guys got theirs. We got each other.” Buff extends his fist to knock mine. “Even if some of us ain’t going directly to Heaven.”
SATURDAY, 9:00 PM
Whatever Moens said to her, Arleen hasn’t called back and it’s been an hour. I only resist calling again because the phone isn’t in my hand. River North revelers herd across Clark Street wearing T-shirts for tomorrow afternoon’s 2016 Olympics 10K through downtown. I brake, then pull up at the Mambo on North Clark.
My plan is: meet Barlow, get Arleen to call back and say we’re okay, then hunt down Danny Vacco. I don’t know what I’ll say to Barlow or Ruben; Danny Vacco’s different—he’ll have an epiphany or a funeral.
Tania Hahn steps out from the alley by the valet stand. She limps to my passenger window, leans on the sill, and smiles with three lines of stitches on her face and round Band-Aids on her arms. “Wanted to say thanks.”
I fish-eye her, then the street for how she knew I was coming here. “You lost?”
“Nope.”
I check the street again. “Sorry about Lopez.”
Hahn nods. “Good girl, worked with her in Miami; liked her a lot.”
“Undercover there, too?”
Sad smile. “That’s what we do.”
“Who gave us up?”
“Thought maybe we should talk about that.”
I wait for her to do that but she doesn’t.
Hahn looks south down Clark Street. “We—you and I—should talk first.”
“I’m the guy you’re after?”
Instead of answering, Hahn reaches for her back pocket, pulls out an ID wallet. It unfolds on the sill. CIA in capital letters, emblem, her picture. “This ID’s true. Mind if I get in?”
“You’re a spy? Working the West Side of Chicago?”
“Sort of.”
“Why Chicago? Why me?”
“Mind if I get in?” She opens the door, slides in with a wince, and sits back, the door still open, the interior light on us.
“Close that.”
She laughs and pats at the stitches. “Painkillers make a girl brave and forgetful.”
Frown. “Sure thing.”
Her eyes brighten. “You’re smarter than you look. Lots smarter than you act.”
“Why am I talking to the CIA?”
“I have a problem; you have multiple problems. Possibly we can help each other.”
The Mambo’s front door is where I should be. “I’m gonna kill Danny Vacco in a few minutes. Wanna help with that?”
“Maybe.” Smile, both eyes blink. “We occasionally step over the line.” The smile remains. “Allegedly.”
I make it fifty-fifty she actually means it, or it could be that Danny’s already on her payroll. “You were with me on Little Paul’s porch. You know I didn’t do shit.”
“I was there.” She doesn’t agree that I did nothing wrong.
“What do you want, Tania?”
“Help.”
“With what?”
She studies me. “How well do you know Robbie Steffen?”
“Never spoken to him.”
“Robbie Steffen has something I want.”
“Guess the Korean mafia wants it, too.”
Her eyes widen again. “Can’t wait to hear how you know that.”
“The two dead guys with him in the alley, rose tattoos on the forearms, that’s the Lawrence Avenue pedigree.”
“Right, right, you’re a policeman.” Wider smile. “Definitely should try some of these painkillers, stuff works. Now I understand why dope’s all over everywhere.”
“You were saying … Robbie Steffen?”
“Robbie’s father is kind of important, too.”
I stare, confused. I’m worthy of the CIA infiltrating a CPD gang team? Makes no sense, not if she wants Robbie Steffen and his father, Toddy Pete. “You live?”
She shows me her wrist, then tugs a mic and wire through her sleeve, and hands it to me. “I won’t tape you; you have my word.”
I accept the equipment because I’m curious, not because I believe her.
She says, “If we’re working together, you’ll have to trust me.”
“Now we’re partners?”
“Barlow and your brother can’t help you. I can.”
“I’m a child molester, maybe the rapist murderer of a thirteen-year-old.”
She shrugs. “Some of the people I work with have faults.”
Silence. Cars pass on Clark Street. We stare for a moment. I don’t ask her how she knows who I’m here to meet. “What the fuck do you want?”
“First, you wear a wire. On Robbie Steffen; then your sergeant, Buff Anderson; and maybe Toddy Pete Steffen if I can get you close enough—”
“Buff’s got nothing to do with those guys.”
Hahn holds up her hand. “Along the way, maybe we have to shoot a corporate CEO and a couple of girls who work for him—collateral damage, we call it. If we’re successful and don’t die, I’ll make Child Services go away; I’ll make Tracy Moens and the Herald print a retraction; and I’ll kill Danny Vacco while you watch.” Her face goes cherubic even with the stitch blotches. “Then we’ll pop down to the D.R., dance with some topless Latinas, smoke a Cohiba or two. Lopez and I used to do it every Christmas, lotta fun.”
I focus tighter on her eyes, a bit of sadness masked in the happy ever after. “How much of that shit did you take?”
The cherubic mask remains, but the sales pitch hardens t
o the original. “They don’t give these jobs to the Spice Girls. Lopez and I were the Wicked Witches of the East, we just didn’t look like sisters.”
ARLEEN BRENNAN
SATURDAY, 9:00 PM
The Shubert marquee is twenty blocks behind me.
Rush Street vibrates with its Saturday-night expectations. Limos and taxis crowd the curbs; revelers parade the European-style sidewalks under festive pole banners for the 2016 Olympics. Cole Porter drifts out from inside the Whiskey; Sinatra from Jilly’s. The tables out front are full and will be till closing. Soft neon and high-limit credit cards blush everybody beautiful.
Everyone but Ruben Vargas.
Ruben eyes the valets at Hugo’s eighty feet north, then tells me what we’re about to do—what I’m about to do. He says it matter-of-fact, but his posture is caged-animal calm, now both predator and prey. Ruben explains how he and I and his unnamed partner are going to “clean this up with Robbie and the Koreans.” Ruben says I’ll deliver a small package to two Japanese women who have, in the past, attempted to kill Ruben’s unnamed Vietcong partner. Not to worry; should these women misbehave again, Ruben and his partner will kill them.
More murders, like we’re discussing spoiled fruit. Robbie’s warning: Jap motherfuckers will eat you three alive. I’m considering those futures four feet from a cop who set me up to die six hours ago. My feet want to sprint but I force them not to move. Coleen and I win this time. The Olympics banners flutter above Ruben and me. I look and a slow, knowing smile breaks across Ruben’s face.
Ruben tosses me my purse. “Technically, if we drop the two Japs we’d be committing murder, but that’d be for a jury to decide.” He shrugs a summer-weight jacket that doesn’t hide his gun or his hand near it. “Get a good lawyer who can sell you as a non-player? Then it’s self-defense.” Pause. “But Robbie’s alley in Greektown …”
My purse is light; Ruben kept the gun.
I step away from the bank’s shadows and into the only streetlight so Ruben can’t grab me and can’t misunderstand. “I’m calling Choa—your psycho Korean mob boss—how’s that? Telling him you’re selling his package to some Japanese women. Then I’ll call the Herald and tell them you’re threatening me with all kinds of frame-ups so I won’t talk to Tracy Moens about her exposé. Then you and I can go to the U.S. attorney, spill our guts about the Ruben-Robbie show. I’ll give her your envelope and we’ll see who wins.”
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