City Blood

by Clark Howard

  Meralda, Kiley saw, was sitting very straight, shoulders squared, looking directly at her mother’s now closed casket, controlling her tears as best she could by occasionally dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Her father was equally as board-still next to her, apparently maintaining what he considered appropriate macho decorum in the wake of losing someone he had years ago abandoned. Kiley longed to be able to go to Meralda, sit by her, put an arm around those aligned young shoulders, comfort her in any way he could. But he realized that his presence might not be a comfort; it might be an affront.

  The funeral mass seemed to last interminably, and Kiley did not even try to follow it. Before Nick’s funeral, he had not been to mass since Tessie’s baptism, then Jennie’s First Holy Communion; this was only his fourth mass in many years, and he rose, sat, knelt, and responded to prayers by rote rather than with any sense of participation. He was sorry down to the bone that Gloria Mendez was dead, but his sorrow had nothing to do with Catholicism, or heaven and hell, or repentance, or invocations for the dead, or supplications by the living. In the church of his parents and grandparents and all who had come before him, in the presence of Jesus on the cross and Mary, the Blessed Virgin, with holy water dried on his fore-finger and his forehead, Joe Kiley sat with malevolence in his heart.

  Gloria Mendez had been murdered.

  Kiley knew that as certainly as he had known that Tony Touhy was responsible for Nick Bianco’s death. Knew it in the face of the same kind of contradictory so-called evidence that was supposed to have deterred him from his pursuit of Tony Touhy. Knew it in spite of the same kind of official report that had tried to put the blame for Nick’s death on an unknown person or persons. Knew it deep in his ulcerated gut, in his gin-tainted brain, and in his black Irish soul.

  Knew it—-and intended to act on it.

  When the mass finally did end, Gloria’s casket was rolled up the aisle on a bier by its pallbearers, and Meralda, her father, and the other family members, whoever they were, all followed along solemnly behind it. Kiley stood with the other mourners as the procession passed. Meralda glanced at him, his presence registered in her eyes, but her grief-drawn expression did not change. Kiley did not know whether George Mendez saw him or not; the dark, mustachioed man kept his eyes, which to Kiley’s surprise were now teary, straight ahead.

  As the casket was lifted and carried out to a waiting hearse, Meralda and her father stood at the head of the church aisle and accepted condolences from the mourners now moving up the aisle in a line. Kiley fell in at the very end of the column. Glancing around, he saw that Captain Vander and his men were no longer anywhere to be seen. But they no doubt had the name of every identifiable police officer in attendance—particularly his own.

  Presently, Kiley came to Meralda and her father. She reached out to him and Kiley, taking her hands, leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. Her skin tasted salty to his lips, and she smelled lightly of bath soap and some other subtle fragrance, perhaps the combined scent of the funeral flowers captured in her hair and clothes. After kissing her, Kiley whispered in her ear.

  “You were right, Meralda. Your mother did not kill herself. When I find out what really happened, I’ll come and tell you. Please don’t do anything or say anything until you hear from me.”

  As he stepped back, Meralda’s eyes, and the bullet-hole eyes of her father, were fixed on him unblinkingly.

  “Will you swear to me,” Meralda asked, “that I can trust you? Swear to me that you will not forget my mother?”

  “I will never forget your mother,” Kiley replied, a catch coming suddenly to his throat. “And I give you my word that I will make whoever is responsible for her death pay for it.”

  “Then I believe you,” the girl said. “And I thank you, for myself and for my mother.”

  Kiley took a step past her and extended his hand to George Mendez. “I am very sorry for your loss, Mr. Mendez,” he said.

  “Thank you,” George Menzez replied, swallowing. He shook Kiley’s hand. “I appreciate your condolences.” Glancing at his daughter, he then added, “Please accept my apology for my conduct at the funeral home. It was inappropriate behavior and I regret it.”

  “No apology is necessary,” Kiley said, prolonging the handshake. “You were under great stress. And I was a stranger to you.”

  “I appreciate your understanding.”

  As Kiley was turning to walk away, he caught a glimpse of Meralda slipping an arm around her father’s waist. For some reason, it made him feel good. He hoped father and daughter would heal together, helping each other.

  Kiley’s good feeling lasted only until he reached the back of the church, where cars were parked that were not driving in the procession to the cemetery. Standing next to Kiley’s car, obviously waiting for him, were Allan Vander and his IA deputy, Bill Somers. When Kiley walked up to his car, Vander said, “We’d like to talk to you, Detective.”

  “See me tomorrow,” Kiley replied, without even a pretense of respect now. “I’m off duty. I took a vacation day to attend the funeral.”

  “Off duty or on duty, we still want to talk to you,” Vander said firmly.

  “I don’t have to talk to you when I’m off duty, Vander.”

  “Look, Kiley,” the IA commander snapped, “I can bring you up on charges of gross insubordination any time I want to—and you know it. I can also suspend you—on the spot, right now, and walk away with your badge in my pocket. Do you want to be suspended?”

  “I don’t give a fuck whether you suspend me or not,” Kiley faced the IA man directly. “Take my badge and I don’t have to talk to you at all. You can talk to my lawyer.”

  “Joe, calm down,” said Bill Somers, who apparently now considered himself the team peacemaker between Kiley and the brass. “Be reasonable, for Christ’s sake. All we’re asking for is a little cooperation here—”

  “Cooperation in what?” Kiley asked.

  “We’re trying to get a line on why this officer killed herself. We need to know what she was involved in that caused her to take such an extreme measure—”

  “What makes you think she was involved in anything?” Kiley’s voice was demanding now.

  “If she was mixed up with you, Kiley, she had to be involved in something,” Vander said cuttingly.

  “Go fuck yourself, Captain.”

  Kiley started to get into his car. Vander grabbed his arm and spun him around.

  “That’s it, Detective! You’re suspended!”

  Knocking Vander’s hand away, Kiley stiff-armed him in the chest, shoving him back. “You cocksucker, don’t you put your fucking hands on me!”

  “Back off, Joe!” Bill Somers quickly stepped between them—but had the good judgment not to touch Kiley.

  “You are fucking suspended, Detective Kiley!” a red-faced Vander stormed. “Turn over your badge or Lieutenant Somers and I will place you under arrest!”

  “Captain, we can work this out,” Somers said urgently, and for the first time Joe had a fleeting thought that perhaps the deputy IA commander was sincere in his conciliatory efforts.

  “No, it can’t be worked out!” Vander raged at his lieutenant. “I’ve had enough of this—this—goddamned renegade! He’s not a police officer, he’s a fucking outlaw!” Vander’s eyes fastened on Kiley and his lips stretched to thin lines. “Your badge, Detective. Now.”

  Without disengaging from the cold staredown between them, Kiley got out his badge case, unpinned his detective’s badge from the leather flap, and without warning tossed it to Vander. He hoped Vander would fumble the unexpected throw, drop the badge on the ground, and have to bend and pick it up. But Vander was quicker, more alert, than Kiley supposed; he snatched the badge out of the air with one hand.

  “Now disarm yourself,” Vander ordered He could not confiscate Joe’s weapon because it was the officer’s own personal property, but he could require him to stop carrying it concealed on his person for the duration of Kiley’s suspension.

&n
bsp; Opening the trunk of his car, Kiley removed the holstered .38 revolver from his belt and placed it inside.

  “The backup too,” Vander said smugly.

  Putting his foot up on the bumper, Kiley raised his trouser leg far enough to unpeel the Velcro of his ankle holster and put it in the trunk also.

  “You’ll receive formal suspension papers from the department by registered mail,” Vander said, his voice beginning to return to normal. “You’ll also receive a notice from the civil service commission giving you fifteen days to respond to the charges against you. You may secure private legal counsel if you—”

  “I know the drill,” Kiley cut in. “Save your breath.”

  Turning stiffly, Vander walked away, toward an unmarked captain’s car parked nearby. Kiley and Bill Somers looked at each other.

  “I’m sorry, Kiley,” the deputy commander said.

  To Kiley, it sounded almost as if he meant it.

  An hour later, Kiley guided his Buick around a circular off-ramp from the Edens Expressway at the edge of Skokie, one of the far northern suburbs of Chicago. As soon as he was in light enough traffic, he pulled to the side of the road, opened the trunk, and retrieved both of his guns. Back in the car, he snapped his main service revolver onto his belt, and attached the backup with its Velcro straps just above his ankle again. He took Nick’s badge from his pocket and pinned it in the badge case where his own had been.

  Driving down Dempster Street to a small corner shopping center, Kiley parked and walked over to a narrow storefront business that had a singleword sign above the door: GUNS. As he entered, a one-eyed man wearing a black patch looked up from a workbench behind a rear showcase. The man’s good eye fluttered briefly until he recognized his customer. Then he rose and came forward, behind another glass showcase that ran the length of the store.

  “Kiley, right?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Joe Kiley. How are you, Claude?”

  “Still punching,” said the man with the patch. His name was Claude Emer and he was an ex-cop who had been working the narcotics unit of the Tenth police district seven years earlier when a drug dealer had shot him in the face. The slug had taken out Emer’s left eye and destroyed eighty percent of the hearing in his left ear, but miraculously had not damaged his brain before exiting the side of his skull. Pensioned off as disabled, Emer had later opened the little gun shop. His specialty was providing backup weapons and illegal power-loaded ammunition for police officers who didn’t give a fuck about rules when it came to defending their lives.

  “I seen on the news where the department lost another cop recently,” Emer said conversationally.

  “Yeah. Nick Bianco. You know him?”

  “Not personally. I checked my files and seen where I sold him a piece back in ’89. You know him?”

  “Yeah,” Kiley said. “He was a good cop.”

  “We’re all good cops until some scumbag motherfucker shoots us,” Emer replied

  Kiley did not bother to tell Emer that Nick had been his partner; there was no reason to. And Emer did not mention the department’s more recent loss: Gloria Mendez. There was a difference between being shot to death in an alley, and falling over a bathtub after a meal of booze and pills. The latter was not worth discussing.

  “What can I do for you?” Emer asked. When he spoke, he tilted his head to the left to bring his good ear around for better hearing.

  “I want a backup piece,” Kiley told him. “I want it to be small, very small. But I want it to be potent, very potent.”

  Emer studied Kiley for a moment. “You want it strictly for backup, or you want it to kill somebody with? Don’t bullshit me now; if you do, I can’t help you.”

  “Probably to kill somebody with,” Kiley said.

  “Wait a minute—”

  The one-eyed man went through a curtained doorway in the back of the store. He was gone only a minute, then returned carrying a black box slightly larger than a VHS videotape. Placing it on the showcase, he opened the box to reveal a small automatic pistol.

  “This model is brand new,” Emer said. “It’s not even on the market yet; only samples have been sold to registered dealers. The manufacturer is Tutweilder Arms down in Florida.” He pushed the box toward Kiley. “Go ahead—”

  Kiley removed the automatic from its box. It fit comfortably in the palm of his hand without extending beyond it. The metal finish was satin nickel, the grips rubber. It looked almost like a toy.

  “Weighs fifteen-point-four ounces,” Emer said. “Overall length is six-and-three-quarter inches. Trigger is dot-three-one-one inches. Hammer is completely concealed. All metal parts are highest grade stainless steel. Fires three-eighties. Carries five in the magazine, one in the chamber.”

  “Power?” Kiley asked. Emer smiled confidently.

  “Factory tested with pressure-loaded hydra shock ammunition. Hit a man in the end knuckle of his little finger and you’ll knock him on his ass six feet back. Put a single head or chest shot into him and he’s an obit.”

  “You fire it yourself?”

  “Same day I got it. Ran half a box through it.” Emer took the pistol from Kiley’s hand and fingered it like a man might caress a woman’s nipple: feather-lightly, lovingly. “Take my word for it, Kiley,” he said. “This baby was made to use on your worst enemy.”

  “Right now,” Kiley grunted softly, “I’m not exactly sure who that is.” He took the gun back from Emer. “How much?”

  “I paid six-fifty for it. Let you have it for eight.”

  Kiley pulled out his wallet and fished eight hundred-dollar bills from the currency compartment.

  Twenty-One

  When Stella came down from putting the girls to bed—they had gone under duress, more than an hour after their regular bedtime, because they were having so much fun playing “Go Fish” with

  Joe at the kitchen table; Stella finally had to get firm with them, threatening punishment if they did not take their baths at once—but she got them settled in at last, and when she came back into the kitchen, Joe was still at the table, idly playing Solitaire and, although Stella did not know it, trying to keep his mind off the very dangerous plan he intended to put into motion the next day

  “Christ, they are obstinate at times,” Stella complained mildly as she came back in.

  “I could have been a little more help, I guess,” Joe said. He smiled. “But I was having fun too.”

  “Big kid,” she scolded. She raised both arms to correct a thick strand of hair that had fallen over her cheek. Kiley could not help glancing at the way her breasts lifted under a white cardigan sweater she wore. When he shifted his eyes back to her face, he saw that her eyes were on his face, and he knew she had caught him looking. He thought he saw a tiny flicker of smile on her lips as he turned back to the cards.

  “Enough of these,” Stella said, taking the deck from his hand. “Come on—”

  She led him through the living room into a smaller room that Nick had called the den. In it was an older couch, a small-screen TV, the stereo unit from which Nick had run speakers to various other rooms, a rack for magazines, shelves for Nick’s collection of long-play records, and a cabinet where all the liquor in the house except table wine was kept.

  “Pour us a brandy,” Stella said. “I’ll put on some music. We are going to relax, Officer.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said obediently.

  The record she put on was an old Ahmed Jamal set recorded live at the Pershing Room there in Chicago; it wasn’t romantic music by any means, more like light contemporary jazz of the ’60s, but the artist’s delicate style on his keyboard made the numbers feel as if they were being played for couples rather than audiences. Kiley, who had virtually no ear for music, paid no attention to it. He poured brandy into two crystal snifters and handed one to Stella. As he sat on the couch, she dragged over a big cushion and sat cross-legged on it on the floor, leaning back next to his legs. The peasant skirt she wore spread out around her, reminding Kiley of the
muumuu Alma Lynn had worn in her backyard.

  “You really are so good with the girls, Joe; I shouldn’t get too strict with them when they’re with you,” Stella said, almost apologetically. “But they have to get proper rest; they’d play cards with you until they fell over if I let them.”

  “I know. You’re right, Stel.”

  “But you are good with kids; I’ve seen you with Nick’s nieces and nephews on the holidays: you listen to them when they talk to you, like what they’re saying is important. Kids pick up on that.” She sipped a little brandy. “I’ve been telling you for years you should have a family of your own.”

  “Telling me,” he scoffed gently. “You’ve been trying to arrange it.”

  “Oh, I haven’t been that bad; you know I haven’t.” But she would not meet his eyes when she said it, because they both knew that over the years, she had been that bad. At times, it seemed that Stella had thought it was a divine mission, getting him married off. “Nick just wanted to see you settled down,” she added as an afterthought.

  “Don’t blame it on Nick,” he took light exception. “I know better.”

  “You just think you know,” Stella rebutted. “Nick gave a lot of thought to improving your home life, improving your wardrobe—did you ever try on any of those clothes?”

  “Yeah, I did. They fit okay. But, Stella, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea to wear any of that stuff around the girls. Especially Jennie. I’ve been thinking that maybe it might upset them.”

  Stella shrugged. “I told them I planned to give the things to you. They didn’t seem to mind. But maybe I should ask them—”