by Marcus Sakey
He kept the car rolling, trying not to acknowledge the looks. Wanting to slow down, to take mental pictures, but not daring. Mouth dry, palms wet.
March in and try to hijack one of them?
Suicide.
Jason gave the Caddy a little more gas, locked his eyes forward, did his best to look like a civilian who'd gotten lost. His fingers tapped the wheel, the pulse loud in his throat. Finished the block, turned right, rolled another couple, turned again, found himself back on Halsted, back in the real world. Same neighborhood he'd been circling for an hour, but after the gang block, it seemed tame.
"Jesus," he said to himself, wiping his palms on his jeans. The sun burned through the windshield, sparkles of heat spots on the dusty dashboard. The sinking in his gut was replaced by an acid burn. Those men had been involved in the murder of his brother, had tried to kill his nephew. Now they strutted in the sun of a weekday afternoon, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it.
He realized his teeth were clenched, his jaw sore. A hundred yards ahead lay a corner market, the glass front covered with metal screening. He parked the Caddy in front of the door. Two kids who should've been in school hit him with murder eyes, but he glared back, chest forward. Held the gaze as he stalked past, daring them to move.
The market was dirty linoleum and fridges of beer. A sign on the inch-thick Plexiglas protecting the counter read: LOOSIES, 50 CENT, with a drawing of a cigarette. The back cooler had Coke and Pepsi but also orange and grape pop, brands he didn't recognize. No Gatorade, so he settled for a Mountain Dew.
Back in the sunlight, the kids stood where he'd left them, one on the payphone, the other beside, a wooden match clinging to one moist lip. The sun felt good on Jason's back and neck, so he leaned against the side of the car and stared down the road, watching cars come and go.
Sweet as the soda was, it couldn't wash out the bitter. With Michael gone, he was protector and maybe – Jesus – father to Billy. That last was too scary to contemplate. Better to focus on the first part, on dealing with the people hunting them. The Worm laughed from his belly. Some protector he was turning out to be so far.
A police car pulled into the weed-cracked parking lot. Jason glanced over, then at the two kids on the phone. Their shoulders were up, necks rigid with the stiffness that came of trying to act calm. The one on the phone hung up, and they started to strut away.
"Hey." The cop spoke through the open window, his voice commanding, a practiced tone. "Scooby, right?"
The boys froze, then slowly turned. Hesitated, then strolled over to the squad car like they were doing a favor. "Yeah."
"How's it going?"
"S'aight." Scooby slid the matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other. His friend kept glancing around, like he was hoping they weren't being seen.
"You know we found Li'l Cisco out back of St. Francis's?" The cop cocked his head. "Somebody shot him in the face."
"Ashes to ashes."
"Yeah." The cop smiled. "You hear anything about who was gunning for him?"
"Nah, man."
"Come on. He was your boy, right? Help me out." The cop glanced around, gestured Scooby closer. The kid looked back at his friend, then put his hands on the car, and leaned in. The other cop, a square-jawed woman with the placid expression of someone who did this every day, sized Jason up through the windshield.
She reminded him of Cruz, the way she'd interrogated him yesterday. Just as he'd been about to lose it, she'd eased up. Told him she would work all the angles, talk to the gangs, try to pick up Playboy. It'd surprised him, the idea of this five-five Latina questioning gangbangers on the street. She had some fire.
And then, as he watched Scooby listen to the cop, saw the way his buddy rocked from foot to foot like he needed to piss, an idea hit Jason square and center, made him almost drop his drink.
It was more than a long shot. It was pretty well preposterous.
Jesus, what a ballsy play that would be.
And realized he was smiling.
January 11, 1988
She knows her body will never be long and willowy, knows she will never have shampoo commercial hair. But it doesn't matter, because now, a month past her fifteenth birthday, Elena Cruz is a woman of the world; she is dating a high school senior, and tonight her mother is out of town.
She does not write "Elena Vaughn" on scented paper, or draw crabbed hearts with EC + EV scrawled in the center, but her dedication is complete. She has tracked Eric Vaughn's slouch through gray hallways, thrilling in his surliness, in his unkempt clothes and his crude tattoo.
That he demands they keep their love a secret she chooses to find romantic. It's not that he's cold; he is just wounded, in a way only she can heal. True, he is in a rush that makes her nervous, always trying to put his hands where she isn't ready to have them. But that's proof how badly he needs her.
This is love, and love triumphs. Every story says so.
And she reminds herself of that when she opens her front door to find not only Eric, but his friend Steve. Reminds herself again when she realizes they are drunk. She even tries to believe it is love that makes dark fire flash in Eric's eyes.
But it isn't love that tears her sweater. And it isn't love that laughs as Steve yanks at her belt.
And as she watches beautiful Eric Vaughn unbuckle his pants while his best friend holds her from behind, she sees that he knows he has already crossed a line and is determined to make the most of it, more drunk on the moment than the stolen booze. That she is no longer even a person, but merely something he wants.
And so she stomps on Steve's foot and twists free. Grabs the cordless phone and dials the police from the bathroom. And waits, shivering, in her panties – the pretty pair she had worn special, that she wanted him to remove for the first time, when she planned to give what he only wanted to take.
CHAPTER 20
Dead Grass
Her mother, with a look of bone-weariness, had once told Elena Cruz that one thing she'd learned was that you should never have more children than arms.
Now, as she watched Keanna bounce a baby on one leg, use her free hand to undo her middle son's jacket, and simultaneously yell at her oldest to leave the dog alone before he got himself bit, it occurred to Cruz that Keanna might have benefited from that same advice. Of course, looking at the blasted park where the nineteen-year-old sat with three other baby-mamas, there were probably a whole lot of things that the formidable Dulcinea Cruz could have passed along. Most likely accompanied by a lecture, several pleas to Jesus, and a paddling with a wooden spoon.
"I don't know nothing about no bars burning," Keanna said, and then held her baby up to the sky, making cooing noises.
Cruz glanced at Galway, who rolled his eyes. She said, "Mind if I sit?"
"They say it's a free country."
Galway chuckled at that, crossed his arms in front of his chest. As Cruz sat on the cement bench, the middle kid, maybe four years old, looked at her with huge eyes. She waggled a finger and he smiled, a sudden devious thing like he'd stolen it, and then turned away quickly and buried his face in his mother's knee. "How you holding up?"
"The phone got turned off." Keanna smiled at the baby. "Ain't you just perfect," she said, and the baby made a gurgling sound. "Mama lost her job."
"Rondell isn't giving you anything?"
Keanna looked at her balefully. "Rondell was daddy to Lawrence." She jerked her head toward the fence where the oldest boy was petting a dog the wrong direction. "He ain't been around since Spider an' me got together."
Cruz nodded, said sure, sorry, she'd forgotten. Hard to keep up sometimes. A low-rider rolled down the block, music pouring out, and one of the mothers hopped up and ran over to it, looking like the seventeen-year-old girl she was.
"Anyway, what you care? You gonna pay the bills?"
"Spider went down on a possession charge, right?" Cruz shrugged. "I could talk to the board for him. Make sure he gets a parole hearing soon."
&nb
sp; "Ain't that the Po-Po." The girl snorted, shook her head. "Lock him up, then offer to set him free."
Cruz smiled. "Like I said before, Keanna. A bar. On Damen."
"Lawrence!" The girl twisted all the way around. "Why'n't you leave that dog alone?" She turned back to Cruz. "I told you, I don't know nothing about no bars catching fire."
Galway interrupted. "How about Playboy?"
"What about him?"
"He know anything about it?"
"Ask him."
"Where's he crashing these days?"
"Don't know."
"You don't know?" Cruz added a little edge to her voice. "Disciples number two, and you don't know where he sleeps?"
"I ain't close to it no more. Not since Spider got hisself locked up."
"What about the bar?"
The girl sighed. "Man, y'all is tiresome, asking the same question over and over like this time the answer's gonna be different. I don't know nothing about no bars burning up."
"Think hard." Cruz took her sunglasses off, blinking in the scorching light of late afternoon, hit the girl with her earnest look. "This is important. We've got the juice. We could help you, help Spider."
"I don't know nothing. And besides slinging dope, only thing Spider's good for is making me a baby-mama." The girl looked up at Galway, back to Cruz. "You wanna help?" She shook her head. "Buy groceries."
Cruz snorted. "All right. Thanks for the time." She stood up, put her shades back on. Adjusted her handcuffs. Galway started out of the park, and she fell in beside him.
Behind her, they heard the girl's voice. "Shit's burning down in Crenwood all the time, anyhow. How come y'all so interested in this one?" Keanna raised her voice. "Belong to a white guy or something?"
Galway laughed. Cruz flipped her a wave, walked to the unmarked they'd left at the edge of the park. As Galway opened the passenger door, he said, "So I saw my son last night."
"The Bitch let you visit off schedule?" Cruz had heard so much about Galway's divorce, she sometimes felt like she was the one who'd been left.
"Miracles never cease, right? Anyway, I pull up to her house. Schaumburg. Nice house, nice neighborhood. Aidan mopes out, mumbles hello, starts messing with the radio. His hair is gelled up in different directions, and he's wearing jeans that have holes at the pockets and ragged bottoms. Bleach stains. So I ask him, I say, 'Aidan, what's with the jeans? Won't your mom buy you new jeans?' " Galway paused, stared at two men exchanging an elaborate handshake on the opposite corner. They wore bright sneakers and long white shirts.
Cruz turned up the air conditioning. "What did he say?"
Galway spoke without looking at her. "He said I didn't understand fashion. That it was the style, jeans being all torn up and shitty looking."
"He's right," she said.
"Yeah, well, I never claimed to be Mr. GQ. But doesn't that seem weird?"
"What's that?"
"His new dad is a lawyer, six figures. Aidan dresses like he's about to paint the house, but he's got a car, an iPod, mutual funds earning interest toward college." Galway gestured out the window. "Those guys, they don't even have a bank account. Probably don't have anything in the fridge. But their shoes are spotless, they got gold chains around their necks, and I couldn't get my shirt that white if I tried."
"So?"
"So it's weird, is all. The ones with nothing are flaunting all they have; the ones with everything are trying to look like bums."
Cruz laughed. "You should quit this cop gig, get a job teaching philosophy."
"I could never let go of the glamorous lifestyle." Galway leaned back. "Drop me off at the station, would you? I got a stack of paperwork."
She smiled and spun north.
Afterwards, she went back to the 'Wood. She didn't have a goal in mind, just wanted to feel the street. Anything was better than working her goddamn database. Cruz drove past sagging row-houses and crumbling bungalows, dead grass, signs tagged with graffiti. Many of the houses had been boarded up, dark V-patterns from old fires marking the exterior walls. The plywood windows were covered in posters: The new 50 Cent album, ads for Hustle & Flow, election flyers for Alderman Owens. Each block, one or two buildings had been knocked down as if in preparation to build a new house, but few had any progress. Mostly the bare lots were just fenced off and left to rot. Blank holes in the block. Missing teeth.
Her phone rang, the caller ID showing a number from the Area One police switchboard. "Cruz."
"This is Peter Bradley. You asked me to-"
"Yeah, I remember. Did you find anything?"
"We rolled by Playboy's last known address. An apartment off Racine."
"And?"
"It's a real shithole."
"Surprise. Was he there?"
"No. Talked to the landlady, she said he left months ago. Skipped on two months rent."
It wasn't a surprise, really. It would have been too easy to expect him to be sitting around waiting for them. Though it would have been nice for something to go right for a change. She sighed, then thanked the beat cop and hung up.
How to find Playboy without sending him running? The Gangster Disciples would know, but they were his crew, and if they told him she was looking, he might bolt. Which would leave her in a tough spot. Galway was right – Playboy would look good in handcuffs. Whatever the truth might be about Michael Palmer, picking up Playboy was a smart first step.
Best to continue looking for him quietly, working her informants. Cruz was the only reason a lot of them stayed out of jail; hopefully that would keep them from warning him. She swung onto Sixty-third, the paint on the buildings fresher, fewer windows busted as she neared the El stop. In Chicago, prosperity followed the trains, even in Crenwood. There was a cluster of small businesses: a party store on the corner, a Popeye's beside it. Even a coffeehouse, not a Starbucks, but the kind with purple couches in the window and a chalkboard listing sandwich specials named after movies. Somebody's dream, something they'd scrimped to own, had probably hoped to put in Wicker Park or Lakeview, but couldn't afford the rent.
She wondered where Jason Palmer was now. He'd been pretty steamed when he stormed out yesterday, had that vigilante eye. There was something about him that she liked, but something damaged, too. She remembered his distant stare in the fish shop, the way he'd talked about the devastation he'd seen in Iraq, all the buildings burned out. How people just got used to it, didn't even see them anymore-
She almost rear-ended the car in front of her.
Holy shit.
Keanna's voice rang in her ears. Shit's burning down in Crenwood all the time.
Cruz spun toward the Dan Ryan. Had to get back home. She needed her computer, the spreadsheet of crime data. Her head felt light, that beautiful rush that came of being onto something. When her phone rang again, she was so lost in thought she answered without glancing at the caller ID. "Cruz."
"Officer. Are you somewhere you can speak?"
The voice wasn't familiar. "Umm…" She took a second to check the number, but didn't recognize it. "Sure."
"You don't know me, but I'm a friend."
"Uh-huh." She leaned back in the seat. A crazy, then. How had he gotten her cell number? "What is this about?"
"Michael Palmer's death."
She pulled the car over, right up onto the curb, tires crunching on sun-scorched grass. Flipped her hazards as she threw it in park, and said, "What do you mean?"
"You're working on his case, aren't you?"
"Yes. But I'm not a detective. You should talk to-"
"And you're also in Gang Intelligence."
"Yes."
"Have you discovered that this was more than a simple gang retaliation?"
Who was this guy? "I can't discuss that."
"Sorry. Let me be more direct. The Gangster Disciples didn't kill Michael Palmer."
Streaks of sunlight prismed on the dashboard. She stared at their liquid pattern.
"Officer?"
"Okay," she said. "I'll b
ite. Who did?"
"I wish I could tell you." His voice had enunciation perfect as a news anchor. "But you wouldn't believe me."
"You know, for a mysterious caller, you're not much help."
"The burnt child fears the fire, Officer."
"And a rolling stone gathers no moss. What the hell does that mean?"
"It means, Officer, that I know who killed Michael Palmer. And I'm going to tell you how to find out."
CHAPTER 21
A War Goin' On
He took a deep breath and another look at himself in the rearview. His heart felt flittery and his fingers tingled. Bar none, this had to be the craziest thing he'd ever done. Jason smiled a grin tight enough to make his teeth ache.
The suit fit well, but looked a couple of years out of style, just as he hoped. It'd caught his eye the moment he stepped into the used-clothing store: double-breasted brown fabric with the faint sheen of too many wearings. A blue tie, Windsor-knotted, and a silver tie clip he'd seen beside the register.
"You're going to be fine," he said to his own reflection. Then he took the Ray-Bans from the passenger seat and put them on, the oversize lenses flashing back a sunset.
He was only three blocks away, but felt every inch of them, the pressure and pop of cracked blacktop beneath the wheels. The breeze stale and warm as someone breathing in his face. The reactions as he turned down the street, the way one of the men at the end of the block glared as he unclipped a phone from his belt and spoke into it. The way things seemed to swirl and resolve, a spiral with himself at the center, the eye of a human hurricane.
He had a moment of panic in his belly, and then he was putting the car into park, and it was too late, the point of no return, and that gave him the energy he needed, just like it always had on patrol, when they left the relative safety of the FOB and went into the streets. Jason moved deliberately, trying not to show hurry or nerves. Just another day, another item on his list. Shuffled papers, took one last breath, then opened the car door and stepped out.