At The City's Edge

by Marcus Sakey

  "We're going to go take care of him."

  Playboy shook his head, blew smoke. "Can't let you two walk out of here."

  Cruz laughed. "You're not letting us. We're walking. The question is whether you are."

  Playboy shrugged. "Ain't afraid to die."

  "I believe you," Jason said. "But I also think you're not stupid. DiRisio killed your friend. He's equipping your enemies. He's just as much a problem for you as he is for us. But he's got connections, so you can't take him on directly. We can. Him and a dirty cop." Jason shrugged. "There's no angle to killing us."

  "Unless y'all are lying to me."

  Something tightened in Jason's chest. This would be the most dangerous part. "You're right. After all, a man will say anything when he's at gunpoint." He swallowed hard, then slowly lowered the Ruger. Lightning raced up his thighs. He locked the safety, then, adrenaline shaking the world, spun the pistol butt first and held it out to Playboy. "So we're clear, I don't like you, man. But you're not my enemy, and I'm not yours."

  Cruz looked at him wild-eyed. "What?"

  "It's okay, Elena. Let him free." Jason kept his eyes locked on Playboy's. "Go ahead. It's not a trick."

  The gangbanger looked at the gun, looked at Cruz. She had her teeth clenched, the line of her jaw hard. She seemed unsure. He didn't blame her, but she could still blow it.

  "Elena." Jason spoke softly. "I need you to trust me."

  She stiffened. He could see her wrestling with it. Then, slowly, she stepped away. Kept the gun in her hand, but lowered.

  Playboy's eyes moved back and forth between them. His lids were narrowed, but not in the half-asleep pose he'd been affecting. He reached up slowly and took the pistol.

  "I'm giving you this because I want you to know that we aren't lying." Jason spoke quietly. "We didn't kill C-Note." His heart was pounding. The safety would slow Playboy down enough for Jason to tackle him, but his friends were the real problem. Jason was counting on them following their boss's lead. If they didn't…

  Playboy took a last drag on the cigarette, then flicked it away. He held the gun at his side, his arm loose. Tilted his head up so the rain ran down his shaved skull. "And you're going to take care of DiRisio."

  "And Galway. And everybody in with them."

  "If y'all are playing me-"

  "You're a general now," Jason said. "You got a hundred soldiers standing behind you. We know what happens if we play you."

  The man nodded slow. "Guess that's so." He tucked the Ruger into the back of his pants, and Jason started breathing again.

  Then the wrestler cocked his pistol. "Fuck that. Let's take care of business." Beside him, Curtis nodded, his gun aimed at Jason's chest. Cruz brought her Glock back up, holding it beautifully, two hands, legs spread in a target-shooter stance.

  "Nah. Man's got a point. Besides," and Playboy smiled a thin, brutal smile, "not like we can't find him again. Him and his little nephew."

  Jason felt his lips twitching, fought the urge to close his hands into fists.

  The wrestler said, "I say we-"

  "I ask your opinion, motherfucker?" Playboy glared at him. "Man, I've had crotch lice got more brains than you, you're going to tell me what to do?"

  "No, but-"

  "But what, bitch?"

  The wrestler straightened at that, his nostrils flaring. Glared at Playboy, a hard look between hard men. If this went wrong, Jason knew, then things were going to get ugly. Bullets flying, everybody shooting at everybody, who knew who'd get hit.

  Finally, the wrestler looked away. "It's your world."

  "Goddamn right. It's my world." Playboy held the stare for a moment, then turned to Jason. "So we're clear, I don't much like you either." The gangbanger reached in his pocket, pulled out his cigarettes. Shook one out slow, held it to his lips, fired it up with the Bic. "But keep your end of this, and we 'aight."

  "You come after me or mine again, we're going to mix it up."

  "Do right, I won't have to." In the distance, a siren wailed. Playboy glanced over his shoulder. "Now. Do yourself a favor and don't be leaving for a bit. I see you coming after us, might be I take that the wrong way."

  Jason nodded.

  Playboy turned and walked away, his cross-trainers carving trenches in the soft mud. Curtis and the wrestler followed him, walking backwards with guns out. Jason stood with his skin vibrating until they were out of sight.

  Then he heaved a sigh. "Jesus."

  Cruz stared at him. "How'd you know that would work?"

  "Playboy thinks he's a soldier. Long as we had the upper hand, he couldn't back down. But if we're two soldiers talking about a mutually beneficial arrangement, well, that's different."

  She shook her head. "Boys. You're all just little boys with guns."

  "You only figuring that out now?" Jason shook out his shoulders. Felt that familiar lightness, relief and tension mingling. The siren grew closer. Dealing with Playboy had only been a distraction. They still had their real work ahead of them. And now they didn't have the evidence to make it safe.

  One step at a time, soldier. That's how the march works.

  "Speaking of guns," he said, and stared pointedly at her. "For two days I've been wishing we had one, and for two days you've been awfully quiet about yours."

  Cruz shrugged. Hiked up one pant leg, then bent to strap the Glock into the ankle holster she'd slipped it out of while pretending to faint. When she straightened, a smile tugged at one corner of her lips.

  She said, "I'm working on my trust issues."

  CHAPTER 37

  Toys

  The boy was playing with the gun, and the sight twisted something in Washington.

  Billy leaned against a heavy oak bureau that had been in the room as long as Washington could remember. He was hunched in the classic hiding position, plastic pistol held in both extended arms. Rain lashed the window in blinding sheets, and yellow headlights rolled slowly by. Billy tracked them with the gun, steady and slow. Pulled the trigger: once, twice, then threefourfive. "Gotcha," he muttered, and swung the pistol back.

  It's just a toy, old man, Washington reminded himself. Can't take everybody's toys away. Still, it bothered him to see it. He couldn't put his finger on why, exactly. Maybe just seen too many boys with real guns in their hand. He rapped on the edge of the doorframe. "How you doing, son?"

  "Okay."

  "What are you up to?"

  "Just playing." Billy left the window and sat on the edge of the bed. "This used to belong to Uncle Jason. See?" He held it up.

  Washington leaned down to read the inscription on the handle. It would have been easier to bring the pistol to his eyes, but he didn't want to touch even a toy gun. Maybe ridiculous, maybe not. Recovering alcoholics didn't tell themselves they could drink light beer. Not if they wanted to stay recovering, at least. "This says Michael Palmer."

  "I know, but it's scratched out. Uncle Jason won it from him." Billy held the gun in both hands. "Maybe when I grow up I'll be a soldier like he was."

  The knot inside cinched tighter. "Maybe."

  Billy looked up at him, head cocked. "You sound funny."

  "I don't like guns."

  "Because they're dangerous?" Billy said it with the mocking insouciance of a child.

  Washington sat on the edge of the bed, hearing that old cold song of twisting metal. The siren song that had roared through him sure, pure, and sweet all those years ago. Like always, it tugged at him, urged him back. He sighed, cocked his head. "I remember being your age thinking how much fun all that stuff on TV looked, people shooting each other. But it's only on TV that it's that easy. Most of the time you can't just shoot the bad guy."

  "Why not?" Billy's eyes were earnest. "If you know they're bad, I mean?"

  "Well, for one thing, that's not easy to know." The rain fell steady and slow, drenching the world. "Some that seem one way are really the other. Ronald used to be a bad guy. Me too."

  "You were a bad guy?"

  A roar,
and a hot punch against his hand. The boy with the cauliflower ear spinning, slow, a last pirouette, eyes already dying.

  A debt that could never be repaid.

  "Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, I was."

  Billy chewed his lip. "What if somebody is really bad, though? Not like you or Ronald, but really bad?"

  Washington could hear the question under Billy's words, understood that he was asking about the people who had murdered his father. And part of him wanted to say that you still couldn't make that kind of decision. That people changed, that you could change them. That good could always be reclaimed from evil. But he didn't want to lie to the boy.

  "I don't know, son. I don't have an answer for you. I just know I don't like guns."

  Billy nodded slowly.

  "But," Washington said as he stood, "that don't mean you can't play with your toy. Though right now, we got more important things to worry about. Like getting you dressed for tonight. You need any help?"

  "Nuh-uh." Billy set the gun on the bed and went over to the closet. "I know how to do it."

  "You sure?" Washington straightened his bow tie in the mirror. He'd delayed renting a tux until the last minute, but he had to admit, he was enjoying wearing it. "I'd be happy to make you look as dapper as I do."

  Billy shook his head, pulled the plastic garment bag out. "You got that upside down."

  "Hmm?" Washington glanced down. "What?"

  Billy pointed at his belly. "That thing."

  "The cummerbund?" He'd slung it the way that made sense, ruffles pointing down, kind of a sleek look. "I don't think so."

  "Yup." Billy nodded firmly. "It's supposed to go the other way, with the things up. It's to catch crumbs."

  Washington laughed through his nose. Kids. "Crumbs, huh?"

  "Uh-huh. The guy at the store told me so. And there are holes in the pocket, too."

  "Holes?"

  "For pulling your shirt down."

  Bemused, Washington slid his hands in his pockets. He didn't plan on taking fashion advice from an eight-year-old, certainly not on a tuxedo-

  Damned if there weren't holes in there.

  CHAPTER 38

  Soldiers

  It was never a good sign when you could smell yourself.

  Cruz forced a smile for the bus driver, doing her best not to look like a crazy woman. Judging by the way the guy wrinkled his nose, it didn't work. Her hair was matted, her face dirty and bruised, blood scabbing a thin tear where her forehead had hit the wheel. Her skin itched with something she'd rather not think about, and her jeans and summer sweater had been two days dirty before they'd gone in the river.

  "Quite a storm, huh?" she asked, and swiped her CTA card. A thin trickle of brown water poured from her wallet to spatter on the floor.

  "Sure," the driver said, and looked away.

  They walked down the bright aisle. A couple of girls in hospital scrubs, an elderly man asleep with his mouth open, two laughing teenagers, a frazzled mother of four. This far south, a light-skinned Latina and a white guy would normally catch stares, but now everyone found a reason to gaze elsewhere, afraid of catching whatever madness infected them. Only the children looked, eyes like saucers. Shivering in her wet clothes, she took a seat in the back row, where the engine's heat penetrated. Jason remained standing, fingers clenched white on a pole. Though he wasn't moving, he gave off the vibe of a man pacing angry circles. There was something in his posture that scared her a little bit; not of him, but for him. "What are you thinking?"

  He shook his head.

  "The war?"

  Palmer's cheek twitched. He stared out the black windows.

  She shrugged. Her head and neck throbbed, and she wasn't in the mood to play Twenty Questions. She could see the skyline to the east, the lights of the Sears Tower lost in glowing cloud. Tiny reflections of the city burned in every drop of water on the window. "You know, you surprised me back there. Letting Playboy go."

  "I wanted to waste him." He shook his head. "When I think of him in Michael's house, talking about killing Billy."

  "I wouldn't have let you."

  "That wasn't what stopped me."

  "What did?"

  He paused. "He was a chess piece." He sat down beside her, bangs falling in wet clumps across his forehead. "Killing him, it just…"

  "Wouldn't have made any difference?"

  He nodded, staring straight ahead.

  "We're screwed, you know."

  "Yeah."

  "Maybe…" She scratched at the back of her neck. "Maybe it's time to look at leaving."

  "Where?"

  "I don't know. Rent a cabin somewhere. Get out of sight."

  He shook his head. "You were on the news, remember? You run, it's all over."

  "I didn't mean me."

  He gave her a measuring sort of gaze. She met his eyes. Even with all the grime, he looked good, a strong jaw, nice features, something boyish in his energy. For a long moment, he just stared. Then he took her hand, weaving his fingers through hers. Sighed. "They never caught the sniper."

  "What?"

  "The one who shot my friend." His voice was thin and soft. "I remember that day so well. Scarlet sunset, broken concrete, the brown eyes of the kid in the ambulance. But I can't – I just – I don't know where the sniper was. He could have been on a rooftop blocks away." He shrugged. "I picture him sometimes, try to imagine what he looked like, what he thought when he squeezed the trigger. A man about to get lucky with a thousand-to-one shot. He would have thought of himself as a soldier too, I guess. Defending his country. Sometimes I think everybody sees themselves as soldiers."

  She traced the rough pads of his fingers.

  "You want to know the real reason I didn't tell anyone about what happened? Because I'm afraid of the questions." His nostrils flared, and his tone changed. "No, not even that. Not questions, plural. One question. The obvious one." He turned to look at her. "You know the one?"

  She said nothing.

  "Sure you do. The question is how in the world did I get discharged for what happened. Yes, I took my men off-mission, and that's not good. But I was a noncom, a squad leader. We're expected to react to changing situations. That was my job. And losing a man, well, it's tragic, but Martinez was shot by insurgents. Maybe I made a questionable call, but it wasn't negligent or malicious. So how would that get me discharged? I mean, you're a smart woman – didn't you wonder?"

  She tried to keep her face noncommittal. "Maybe a little."

  "There you go."

  "Do you want me to ask?"

  He moved his teeth like he were chewing gum. Held the silence. Then, "I used to tell myself that it was my lieutenant's fault. That he didn't back me. But that's not true. The truth is I fell apart."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I froze up. Couldn't stand the possibility of losing someone else under my command. I'd dream about Martinez, and then when I had to take the squad out the next morning, I'd be a wreck. A walking panic attack. I'd abort a mission for the tiniest reason, or no reason at all. Hell, I even managed to start drinking, which isn't easy in a Muslim country. It's not like the old days, privates sucking dope through their rifle barrels. I got scared of the responsibility, and I got selfish." He sighed. "And it put lives at risk. I deserved to get discharged. It was the right call. That's the truth."

  She opened her mouth, closed it. A thousand possible answers paraded past her, and none sounded right.

  "I know what you're offering to do," he said. "And I appreciate it. But I'm not quitting. I can't."

  "I'm not saying-"

  "It's not you." He shook his head. "I messed up so many things. Not just in the war. I've been running from responsibility all my life. Hell, if I'd taken a little more responsibility for Michael, he might still be alive."

  "There's no reason to believe that."

  "I think there is. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm tired of dodging what I know needs to be done. I owe better to myself. To Michael. And I damn sure owe more
to Billy."

  The bus hit a bump in the road and set off dull firecrackers behind her eyes. With ginger fingers she explored her forehead. The skin felt tender and swollen, warm meat. She didn't remember hitting the steering wheel, didn't even remember the car falling. Just the impact that threw them, and then the water, cold, cold, her head throbbing and Jason gone. That had been her first thought as she started to pull herself together – a complete lack of surprise to find him gone.

  Then he'd appeared at her window and pulled her free, and in the process sacrificed the thing he needed most.

  "Okay," she said.

  "Okay?"

  "Let's do it." She put all her meaning into her eyes. The betrayals, and the jokes, the loneliness. The months – years – of not letting anyone in, not being able to. It was a lot to convey with a look, but sometimes words murdered ideas.

  He held her gaze, then smiled slowly. "Okay."

  Outside the bus windows, neon burned, advertising taquerías and Currency Exchanges. The drizzle was letting up. "So what's our plan? We're back where we started."

  "Not quite. We know what's happening now."

  "But it doesn't do us any good. Without evidence, telling the media won't make a difference. They'll just see us as crazies."

  "What about the alderman?" Jason rubbed at the stubble on his chin. "You said he's a good guy."

  She shrugged. "What are we going to do, just march into the alderman's office and tell him what we saw?"

  He stared at her like she'd said the secret password, a strange light in his eyes.

  "No," he said. "Not his office."

  CHAPTER 39

  Crazy

  "Make yourself at home," Jason said, pushing open the door. His studio was as he'd left it, the blinds open and bedding tangled. The cereal bowls still sat on the table where he and Billy had left them after breakfast. He saw a flash of his nephew grinning about being allowed to leave the plates on the table, instead of having to wash them and put them in the dishwasher like he did at home.