Start Shooting

by Charlie Newton

  Danny Vacco shows nothing but street armor.

  I keep staring, hoping he’ll do something that will help me commit my first murder. “This spic right here is a gutless cocksucker coward, that’s a hundred percent positive, but I’m not murdering him. Not today.”

  He and Hahn and I wait to see if I mean it, then, seemingly surprised, Hahn waves for the Beretta. I hesitate at a second opportunity lost, then drop the hammer and give the Beretta to her, afraid that if I keep the gun I’ll use it. Hahn points the Beretta over the seat. With her other hand she rips the duct tape off Danny Vacco’s mouth and slaps it on his shoulder.

  “Here’s the deal, Danny. I have some bigger business to do.” She taps her watch. “So you tell me where Little Paul’s mother is, and she better not be dead. Then we go see her and you tell her to get her kid back from Child Services. Two, you tell Little Paul to say he lied. Three, you get the two debs who think they’re witnesses to recant. Four, you tell me who gave up my girlfriend and me in the red Toyota.” Pause. “We do this right now and real fast. Any questions?”

  Danny eyes me, then our location, then the little blonde pointing the 9-millimeter at him. “Esta puta loca.”

  Hahn blinks, then thin-lines her lips. “I work in Miami. Cuba, too, sometimes.” She pulls her ID and shows it to Danny. “We have different rules than cops.”

  Danny smirks.

  FLASH; EXPLOSION. The Beretta kicks in her hand. Danny bounces into the door, a hole smoking above where his left shoulder was.

  “Jesus.” I reach for my door handle and miss. “There’s a gas tank back there.”

  The car’s air is cordite. Hahn drops the hammer and holds up one finger to me, asking me to sit tight. I do, sort of frozen.

  She speaks street Spanish to Danny. “Bro, not fuckin’ ’round. My dog here has to focus on my business, you know? Big business.” She waits, then slides back into English. “Give me what I want or I will paint my backseat with your little Mexican heart. Then I’ll give your two debs five grand each to recant. Then I’ll give your two street captains ten grand each to say it’s okay, tell ’em to get Little Paul to do the same.” Pause. “ ’Cause that how it work, homes, in CIA land.”

  Hahn glances me, waits, then shakes her head at Danny acting unafraid. “Bro, you’re dead, right now, right here at breakfast time, instead of walking tall, selling rock, killing Latin Kings. I’m out thirty grand, but to my bosses that’s lunch money. Then—and here’s the good part—after you’re dead and your two captains roll for me, get my dog here cleaned up, I’ll grab both your captains, put ’em in the very same backseat you’re in, and ask, ‘Who gave up the Toyota?’ They won’t want to tell me, so I’ll shoot one. The other one talks, but I’ll shoot him, too.” Smile. “My dog’s clean. I know who to kill for the Toyota, and your hated rivals, the Latin Kings, now own the Four Corners and chicken-fuck all your girlfriends.”

  Danny’s listening, adding up if it could happen. For sure he’s only seen the CIA in movies, but Danny’s a Twenty-Trey, stone-killer street king, and he didn’t get there by birth. If he’s in any way responsible for Sheila Lopez dying, Danny Vacco isn’t showing it. He cocks a one-inch smile. “Soldado ain’t doin’ none of that.”

  “See, the Latin Kings can’t fuck my girlfriend ’cause she dead.” Hahn un-cocks, then re-cocks the Beretta, looks at it, then Danny. “We both know this 9-millimeter is double action, but cocking it is what they do in the movies to say ‘last chance.’ And since you’re a cold-rolled, twelve-inch dick who gets his life lessons from rap videos, I thought I’d give you one last chance. Comprende, amigo?”

  Danny smooches at her.

  Hahn fires twice. Danny’s heart explodes through his shirt. His handcuffed hands flap once in the cordite smoke. Hahn already has her door open.

  I yell: “What the fuck!” and jump halfway out the other side.

  Hahn drops the Beretta in an evidence bag held by the now-standing homeless man. She peels almost-invisible gloves, gives them to him, and turns to me. “I know Danny deserved it, but you shouldn’t have shot him. And all that stuff I told Danny I was planning for your witnesses? It’s already done. That’s the good news: Bobby Vargas just bought two slices of public redemption—you’re no longer Little Paul’s child molester and Danny Vacco’s too dead to throw any altar boys at you. Bad news is, you’re Danny Vacco’s killer.”

  Dan Ryan traffic rumbles overhead. I’m backing away from the car, into bridging and deep shadows on three sides. The homeless man disappears with the murder weapon. Hahn loops the Pontiac and stops ten feet from me. “Now you help me corner Ruben and your sergeant—”

  “Are you crazy! You just murdered a guy!”

  She squints like she doesn’t understand. “Not me. I didn’t shoot him.”

  I scan one-eighty for her phantom partners, at the very least the other homeless man who has to be watching. A Mrs Baird’s bread truck slow-rolls outside the fence on Wells. My prints are on the gun. I told at least two people I was going to kill Danny Vacco. Hahn’s face has no expression. I step forward. “How’d you get Danny in your car? Danny Vacco’s a gangster, street smart times a hundred. You didn’t grab him, he got in your car … because you and him were already doing business.”

  Hahn shrugs, but doesn’t step back. “That’s a stretch, but possible.”

  “You put him up to Little Paul. Conned Vacco into your car today and—”

  “And I had him shoot my girlfriend and me in the Toyota?” Hahn’s eyes harden. “Your brother’s in way over his head, Bobby, screwing with people who aren’t street, who aren’t stupid, and who have all the money in the world.” She points toward downtown. “Furukawa’s 10K starts in eight hours. I’m not privy to your brother’s blackmail negotiations, but I know I’d threaten it.”

  I glance at Danny dead in the backseat of her Pontiac. “That how Ruben finishes?”

  “Not if he gives me a choice. Dead cops cause a lot more heat than dead gangsters.”

  “Tell me where he is. I’ll talk to him first, then you can—”

  Hahn shakes her head. “We go together. You wear a wire, if he doesn’t cooperate, we grab him.”

  “Fuck you.”

  SIREN.

  Red, blue, and white lights careen onto Wells a block north at Twenty-sixth Street. I spin into the deep shadows and concrete bridging. Hahn yells, “Bobby!” Tires squeal and crunch the gravel as I sprint down a chain-link fence line crowded with wrecked cars. The siren quits. The fence turns ninety degrees. I slam into it, bounce big, land on one foot and fall. I crawl between cars to a far concrete column, climb twelve feet of chain link, teeter, bear-hugging the column, twist over, rip my pants from knee to hip, and jump.

  I land hard, roll, jump up, hear squad cars, then sprint west, running three blocks of Twenty-seventh—all-out, past kids, cars, trucks—to the Norfolk Southern tracks, jump the fence, and flatten in the trash and overgrown grass.

  More sirens. Gasping. Dogs bark, flies buzz. Hundred-degree air.

  Maybe Tania Hahn is the devil. My heart slows to gunfight, then twenty over normal. Sirens, but no squad-car lights over here. Window curtains pull back in a third-floor six-flat and a head sticks out. The dogs won’t shut up.

  My car’s a mile away in Chinatown. Can’t stay here. I crouch, then tramp weeds north, hugging the tracks’ embankment. At the first cross street viaduct I have no choice but to climb to the tracks and walk silhouetted against the sky. In this neighborhood I’m a transient the barking dogs know shouldn’t be here. At the viaduct’s other side I drop and skitter down the embankment.

  My phone beeps that I have a message. I duck to my haunches. The phone is bloody and slips in my hand, a long cut on my leg. The message—finally—is from Ruben: “Buey, where you been? Took some magic, but Barlow’s straightened out; he’ll take care of that little girl in your building. But, vato, hey, we gotta talk about who you seein’. These people fillin’ your head; sendin’ you places you gotta stop arri
ving. Call me. We can make what’s chasing you stop, but you have to help.”

  I punch Ruben’s number; it rings through to voice mail. My phone beeps call-waiting. I answer, “Ruben?”

  Jason Cowin says, “What in the fuck are you and Ruben into?”

  A squad car turns northbound onto Stewart Avenue, nothing between me and their handcuffs but a low fence and high grass. The cop eyes the grass that hides me, then the embankment as he rolls north.

  Jason barks, “Bobby?”

  “Yeah. I have to find Buff and Ruben.”

  “What the fuck is goin’ on? Buff and Jewboy fighting Ruben? Little girls pointing at your dick? Federal judges bailing you out? You ain’t talking to us. The truth, for chrissake.”

  I watch the squad car turn. “Is Buff at work? There’s something chasing him and me.”

  “No shit. He was looking for you. Went to meet somebody and some psycho Asian bitch shot him four times.”

  “What?”

  “Still alive, but barely.” Breath. “Jewboy was in the car with him.” Jason chokes, breathing short in the phone. “DOA when they got Walter to Mercy.”

  A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE

  ARLEEN BRENNAN

  SUNDAY, 9:00 AM

  “Nine o’clock!”

  Julie jumps back. I throw the sheet and leap out of bed. “I had to be up two hours ago.” Blink, scramble. “You promised—”

  “You were out cold. I made an executive decision.” She grabs my shoulders. “Plenty of time. Everything’s in the bathroom. Blanche’s clothes are hanging right here.” She points at the door. “Clean up, catch a cab ninety minutes from now. Even you can’t take that long to get ready.”

  “Sorry.” I kiss her, then push her to the door. “Me. Get ready. Bye.” Julie backs through and I throw the deadbolt her key opened. My script’s on the floor. I’ll clean up, make up, dress up … then speed-read what I already know by heart. Then I’ll … big exhale … then I’ll do the absolute best I can.

  I take the 9-millimeter to the bathroom and lock the door. The shower works wonders; clean is almost an orgasm. The clothes, not so much. I “Blanche” them up, belt the slip dress that’s too big, and wish for bodice frills I don’t have. Ruben’s knuckles left bumps I can’t cover but color that I can. The strawberry blond hair goes into the semi-bun that I can release mid-scene. Blanche drank; Blanche flirted; Blanche wielded a biting snobbery to lie about her lost social standing. Underneath it all, Blanche was desperate, only a gentleman of means could save her.

  The 9-millimeter is on the bed. I do a turn for Julie’s antique mirror. The veined, aging silver reflects a tragic calculated lie in a cheap evening dress; a desperate woman unraveling toward suicide or a mental-institution future. My hand gently strokes my hair; I will not unravel, I’m a Mississippi Southern belle aging much too fast due to unreasonable circumstances, standing in my sister’s squalid French Quarter apartment. I can smell Stanley, her apish husband, his friends; their lack of culture, their coarseness and vulgarity—

  Door knock.

  I jolt out of the French Quarter, grab the 9-millimeter, and two-hand it at the door.

  Julie wouldn’t tell anyone I’m hiding here. Would she? Unless … they made her. I step to the door. In the peephole is Tracy Moens—jeans, Nirvana T-shirt, ponytail, ball cap—she appears to be alone in the tiny section of hallway I can see. Can’t tell if she’s nervous. I grab Ruben’s .38 from my purse, slide the gun under the mattress, unlock the door, then jerk it open using the door’s blind side as cover.

  Moens walks in, peeking around the door as she does. I slam the door behind her, expecting a shoulder crash that doesn’t come. Moens squares up, sees my 9-millimeter aimed at her face, and stumbles back. “That, ah … for me?”

  One hand lowers the 9-millimeter, the other locks the door. “I was in Blanche DuBois; you scared me.” I lay the 9-millimeter on the leatherette table by the chair.

  Moens sits on the bed; spreads her fingers on my script, rubbing the pages. Then nods like we’re on the actress journey together. “I asked Patti Black to run the prints on your pistol grips.”

  “And?”

  “Are you trying to kill Ruben Vargas? For Coleen?”

  “What?”

  “Ruben Vargas is a dangerous fellow, Arleen; not someone I’d threaten … if that’s what you’re doing. And Robbie Steffen is almost as bad.”

  “Your exposé isn’t a threat? Exhuming my sister isn’t a threat?”

  “The Herald and I are different. I have protection you don’t.”

  I snatch my script from under her hand. “You don’t have act three, do you? Your story’s a sham without an ending, a grandstand to save the Herald.”

  “We’re way deeper into the story than that.” She pauses, but her green eyes stay on me. “Lots of secrets, Arleen.”

  “One of ’em is you’re a fraud who’s run out of brilliance and innuendo. Show me the grips or get out.”

  “Something’s up, Arleen, something new that involves you, Robbie Steffen, and Ruben. Ruben was in a fistfight with a sergeant early this morning, a sergeant who was on the job when Coleen was killed, a sergeant who’s being deposed by the Duprees tomorrow. We could talk about that instead.”

  I point her to the door.

  Moens stands but not to leave. “Seven hours ago you gave me pistol grips from a .38 Detective Special. The gun they came from was fired within the last twenty-four hours. The same caliber gun was used in Greektown in the Robbie Steffen shootings. Robbie Steffen and Ruben Vargas helped you with the Streetcar audition, according to Anne Johns, your director.”

  My phone vibrates.

  “Yesterday you were downstairs in Julie’s office thirty minutes after the shooting in Greektown, and so was Bobby Vargas. Five minutes after you and I left for the Shubert Theater, Ruben came by the L7. Maybe he was looking for his brother, maybe he was looking for you.”

  “Get out.”

  “An hour later you were assaulted on Rush Street just south of Hugo’s by an ‘unnamed assailant.’ The valets described a man who could easily have been Ruben. They said the two of you were talking, then bang, you hit him and he hit you. He was dragging you toward a car when they yelled him off.”

  I jerk open the door. “Are you leaving, or do I throw you out?”

  Moens stares. “Bad news, Arleen. The only prints on the grips … are yours. Your parents filed them when Coleen was murdered.”

  “Out, goddamnit!”

  “I can help you. The cops aren’t reaching under the right rocks yet, but they will be. The secrets in the Four Corners won’t stay buried, Arleen. It’s too late. And whatever you’re into with Ruben and Robbie—”

  “If you have proof someone other than Anton Dupree murdered my sister, show me.” My phone vibrates again.

  “I will. First we finish last night’s conversation. About your mother and father; your mother’s brother. How the secrets in the Four Corners—”

  “My sister’s dead. I’m not.” I grab my purse, stuff the 9-millimeter in it, then the script. “Coleen’s at Holy Sepulchre where she’s staying. I’ll be at the Shubert. When you and your tabloid have proof, call me.”

  Moens follows me out, talking to my back. “Detective Richard A. Hirshbeck worked Anton Dupree’s third and final trial. Hirshbeck kept an informal file, sometimes called a ‘street file,’ on all the cases he worked. I have his file. After Anton Dupree was executed, Detective Hirshbeck wrote a letter to the state’s attorney’s office asking that they reopen the case. Two days before he was to meet with the state’s attorney, Detective Hirshbeck died in a gang-related drive-by.” Moens jumps the last three steps to the bottom. “A gang-related drive-by, Arleen, seven years after Hirshbeck had retired.”

  Downstairs the L7 isn’t busy yet. I recognize Anton Dupree’s father from his photograph in the paper; he’s the spokesman for their lawsuit and the only surviving relative. Mr. Dupree gets up when Tracy Moens and I exit Julie’s office two fe
et apart. No question Moens brought him here to confront me and that’s what he does.

  “We must have your help.”

  I try to sidestep him but he slides left and won’t let me. Tracy blocks me from the other side. Mr. Dupree and I stare from three feet. He’s about sixty, looks older, frail the way some black men do when their hair is graying and their suits are too big.

  “It’s the right thing to do, Ms. Brennan. For my boy; for your twin sister.”

  “You mean for the lawyers”—I nod at Tracy—“and this bitch’s newspaper.”

  “No—”

  “Then don’t sue for the money—don’t demand any; none for you, none for the lawyers. We’ll all sue just because it’s good for your boy and my sister.”

  “No. My boy was—”

  “Your boy, Mr. Dupree”—I lean into his nose—“was a rapist murderer. My sister was thirteen, wearing a school uniform when your boy fucked her to death.” I turn to hit Tracy Moens in her perfect pretty face but she’s already stepped back. A Cubs fan opens the door to enter. I shoulder into him, bounce his hat off his head, and storm up Clark Street.

  SUNDAY, 11:00 AM

  The gypsy cab changes lanes, trying to beat southbound traffic that shouldn’t be on the street. Moens emphasized father. Wanted to drag my ma in as well; wants to exhume Coleen. Under my script, my purse vibrates. Shubert. Shubert. Shubert. I’m about to be late to the single biggest chance I’ll ever get. I dig out the phone careful not to spill the 9-millimeter. Ruben Vargas’s number is on the screen. Fifteen minutes from my moment on planet Earth and he won’t leave me alone.

  Be Blanche. New Orleans.

  My phone vibrates again. If the window would open, I’d throw the phone out. Ruben Vargas again. That monster better not be at the theater. I touch the 9-millimeter; he better not. Robbie, either.

  The phone blips in my hand before I can shut it off—911 messages. The first is a text message: “BREAK A LEG … BUT IN A GOOD WAY—BV.” BV is Bobby Vargas. We did talk last night, wasn’t a dream. He was so sweet; hard to imagine he and Ruben are related. I dial Bobby, get his voice mail, and tell him: “Fingers crossed, Bobby. On my way in. Love you for calling, means a lot. Bye.”