by Thom August
By the time we got to the cab lot, dawn was still just a rumor. A dim blue-gray light was sifting into the eastern sky over the lake, but it was earlier than seven.
“We’re early,” he said. “So,” he said, “what are you going to do now? Pick up a few fares on the way to the Drake? Make a few bucks?”
“Can’t take the chance,” I said. “If some citizen wants to go to the airport, I can’t blow him off—I could lose my license. I always meet my guy at eight; so we’ll just have to wait.”
He nodded.
“You know,” I said, “what I’d really like to do is zip over to my crib, change clothes, maybe grab a quick shower. I feel like the slime is getting grime on it.”
“We got time?”
“If we hurry,” I said.
He reached over and opened the passenger door. “So let’s hurry.”
We headed down Michigan to the LSD, headed down that to 47th, headed down Lake Park toward 59th, and headed west to my place. It took maybe ten minutes; I must have dozed a little, because the feel of the car braking roused me.
“You got fifteen minutes,” he said. “Don’t fall asleep in the shower.”
“Right,” I said. “You want to come in and make yourself some coffee?”
He shook his head. “I’ll wait here.”
I bolted from the car, unlocked the lobby door, ran up the stairs, unlocked my door. I tore my clothes off, cranked up the hot water. I got a large Baggie out from under the sink, taped it over my cast with some adhesive tape, and jumped into the shower, trying to hold the cast aloft to keep the water out of it. If you ever get a little complacent, try this some time—shower or shave or cook or do any of a number of everyday activities with only one hand. On this occasion, I couldn’t manage to hold on to the soap, and every time I dropped it, trying to bend over and pick it up with my good hand while holding my broken hand aloft to keep it dry was a nightmare. After about the fourth drop, I said “fuck it,” and just stood there and let the water stream over me as I watched the soap get smaller and smaller at my feet.
Finally, I roused myself, toweled dry, and got dressed. I threw some clean shirts and underwear and socks into a gym bag. I walked over to the desk, opened the top drawer, took out half a carton of cigarettes and my last Baggie of weed, and added them to the bag. I went back into the bathroom, combed my hair, brushed my teeth, and stopped to look around one more time. I checked my watch: twelve minutes.
I went back to the drawer and opened it again. I rooted around in back until I found it: a gun, a short, slim, silver twenty-two-caliber Smith&Wesson.
I’ve been robbed twice driving the Fat Man’s cab. The first time, the guy took off and damned if he didn’t walk right in front of me, and, I’m sorry, you do that and I’m going to run your ass down. Which I did. I broke his leg, it took half a day of paperwork, and it was worth it. The second time, I talked the guy out of it. I’m serious. There had been a whole string of cabbie murders that year and he was even more nervous than I was. I turned my rearview mirror up to the ceiling so he could tell I couldn’t see him, and started to talk about how the cops were going to want to pin all that shit on somebody, anybody they caught messing with a driver, and how he didn’t want to be doing anything stupid to bring shit down on himself, and how I certainly wasn’t going to turn him in, but you never know who saw him getting into the cab. Just talking and talking and not even taking a breath. And when we stopped at a light at Central and Division, he opened the door and bolted. And left his gun on the backseat. I thought about all the paperwork and decided to eat the fare and keep the gun. I had had it ever since.
I checked the clip. It was full. I slid it into my cast; it was tight but it fit. I slid it back out again and realized that the safety had been off. Shit.
I flicked the safety on, tucked it into the gym bag, zipped it up, and bolted down the stairs.
Ridlin was asleep in his seat, with the car still running. I knocked on the window, feeling a flash of déjà vu from just twenty-four hours ago. He roused himself, popped the locks, and I crawled into the front seat beside him. He turned the key twice before realizing the engine was still on, then put it in gear and headed north.
The sun was coming up over the lake, and it poked between the buildings as we drove. When we got to the lot, I hopped out, said “Follow me,” opened up the cab, got it started, and got the heat going. I turned on the NOT FOR HIRE sign and pulled into traffic.
Two blocks shy of the Drake I looked at my watch again; we were still four minutes early. I pulled over in a loading zone and the phone on the dashboard rang. I looked at it, tried to will it to stop ringing. It wouldn’t. I picked it up. “Metro Car Service,” I said.
It was the Fat Man; I could hear his breathing before he even spoke.
“Well, Mr. Amatucci, what you got going, this fine motherfuckin’ morning?”
“Oh, you know, same old same old. I’ve got my regular customer this morning.”
“You got nothing special going on?”
“Special?”
“No particular plans you got yourself pursuin’? No little projects you cookin’ up?”
What the hell? I thought. It’s one thing to have the car wired and bugged, but how could he know what was inside my head?
“No,” I lied. “Nothing special.”
“Hunh,” he said.
There was a pause. Did he know I was lying?
“Hey, listen,” I said. “I’ve got to run; I don’t want to keep this guy waiting.”
But he didn’t seem to get the hint.
“Well, you listen up, youngblood. It don’t work to be gettin’ ahead of yo’self, to be tryin’ to do too much, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“Uh, hunh,” I said, knowing it all too well.
“You get into somethin’, you call me, you hear? I’m here all day today, tomorrow, too. You call if you need somethin’, whatever, you got it?”
“Right, Chief,” I said. He hates when I call him that.
He didn’t say anything. There was a long pause, then a deep breath on the other end. “Aw’ight, then,” he said, and hung up.
Weird. The guy is just fucking weird.
I looked back in the mirror; Ridlin was still there. We had argued over this part of the plan, but he wanted to make sure I made the pickup. He also wanted to see the Accountant for himself, for reasons he never really made clear. I had protested but he had just kept shaking his head back and forth, persistent bastard, and I had finally given up. I flashed my lights at him two times, flipped the directional on, and headed back into traffic.
Two left turns and I saw the Accountant standing with his big briefcase on a dry spot of pavement just east of the Drake, his nose tilted up to sniff the wind. I slid up to the curb, popped the locks, and he flipped the briefcase in ahead of himself and slid in behind it.
“Why, if it isn’t Mr. Vincent Amatucci himself, the esteemed driver in his sleek black chariot, here to accompany me on my trail of tears with his skill and wit,” he said.
“Good to see you, too, sir.” I said. “How was your weekend, if I might inquire?”
He looked up at the ceiling of the cab as if the answer was written there, and said, “Outside it was cold and clammy and damp, so I stayed inside where it was warm and cozy and dry. And you, Vincent? How was your brief sojourn?”
I noticed he pronounced it “so-your’n.”
“ ‘My sojourn’? It was brief.”
He patted the bag on his lap. “Well,” he said, “let’s see if we can get your week off on a good start.”
My silent response was: Let’s fucking hope so.
I said out loud, “Where to?”
He recited an address on the North Side, and I dropped the flag, hit the signal, gave a glance and headed into traffic.
It was about a twenty-minute ride, so within three blocks I asked if he’d be open to a little wager to pass the time. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said. He pulled his roll out of h
is pocket, peeled off a pile of singles, and said, “Let the games begin.”
“You first,” I said, and called out the letters of the car in front of us, “TTL.”
He reeled off a handful of acronyms:“Toe The Line, Two-Ton Lineman, Take This, Lamebrain, Ten-Toed, uh, Loser, uh, uh, Track That, uh, Track That, uh, Letter—”
“Time. Five,” I called. I counted out a pile of five ones.
He called out the next one:“SST.” Clicked his watch.
“Well, of course, Super Sonic Transport, but maybe that’s a given?”
“Twenty-two seconds, my boy, twenty—”
“Right,” I said, “well, there’s, uh, Senegalese Sensimilla Treaty, uh, Saxophone Sounds Tranquil, uh…Some…uh, Some Sweet…Some Sweet Twat…uh, Special…uh, Special…Special…”
“Time! That would be four.” He cocked his head and raised one eyebrow, his left one. I wondered: how do people do that? Do they sit in front of a mirror and practice it? How long does it take? Does it hurt?
And on we went for most of the next ten minutes.
I took a left off of Lincoln, went two blocks west on Belmont, made a U-turn and pulled up at the doorway of number 655, a bar that looked as if it had seen better days.
He said, “Be back shortly,” and slid out the door, the briefcase trailing him.
I looked straight ahead. More than once in the past he had come back in ten seconds or twenty, just to “check on something I may have dropped on the floor,” and when he’d see me staring ahead and paying no mind, it made his heart flutter. It was part of our routine.
Except this time I took a chance, reached for the cell phone, and dialed Ridlin.
“Ridlin speaking,” he answered.
“Just checking in—” I said.
“Hey, thanks for getting back to me on this thing,” he said.
There was someone else with him.
“We are on schedule,” I said. “Status quo,” I said.
“Uh-huh…Yeah…OK…I’ll pull the paperwork, take a look at it,” he said. “Why don’t I get back to you later?”
“Gotcha,” I said, “you can’t talk right now,” and clicked off.
As I did so, the right rear door opened.
He hopped in headfirst, this time dragging the briefcase behind him. It took both his hands to drag it up onto his lap. He was beaming. It was really full.
“5555 South Cottage Grove,” he said.
“Oui, mon Capitan,” I said.
I pulled into traffic and headed east toward the Drive. It was eight twenty-five.
CHAPTER 59
Ken Ridlin
1100 South State Street
Monday, January 27
Am I thinking they’re not going to track me down? Am I expecting they’ll just let me run around off the hook forever?
I drop the tail on Amatucci east of the Drake. When I swing over to my apartment to change, they’re waiting for me on the stoop—two uniforms, announcing their presence from a hundred yards away. I could just keep on driving—they’re busy yakking away, not even bothering to look up—and they’d never know they missed me. But I pull over, stop the car, get out. I look them over—fat and skinny, like Mutt and Jeff. Fat is maybe five-nine, early thirties, 235, a jowly face with a mustache he trims crooked. Smells like Newports. Skinny is six-one, 170, late twenties, black hair cut in a short Afro, his brown eyes way back deep in his dark face. They got their orders—take me straight to Captain Washington if they see me. Still in their twenties, they’re already lazy, already cynical. In this job, it doesn’t take much.
“Which one’s riding with me, and which one’s bringing your unit back?”
They look at each other.
I pop the locks and toss Skinny the keys—“You drive.”
He slides behind the wheel, turns the key, puts it in drive, heads into traffic, signaling Fat with his lights three times. We head over to Belmont, east to the LSD, and south.
I am already figuring that this is the death of my so-called career, even if it all goes perfectly and I end up covered in glory. I am thinking of the four months in the hospital, the six months of home care, the eight months of physical therapy. The hot baths. The ice packs. The four years of disability, every day of which ages me a year. The ceaseless AA meetings, the grinding therapy. Kissing their ass, biting my tongue. The three years of walking a beat and keeping my head down. The bad food and the flat ginger ale. My year in Narcotics, enough said. Now Homicide again, and directly Do-Not-Pass-Go into the middle of a Grade-A Full-Court Press with two dead and one maimed and more to come.
I turn my head toward the window, close my eyes and just like that we’re at headquarters and Fat is on my side of the car and opening the door. This is two days in a row I try not to spill out of the car like a load of laundry. Skinny flips me the keys, an underhand toss. I drop them in my coat pocket, stride for the door.
We short-march down the hall and my cell phone rings. It is Amatucci. Fat and Skinny are right there, so I play dumb. Amatucci gets it and hangs up. Ali is sitting at his desk. “Ken,” he says, smiling, “you’re looking good, how’s it going?” He grabs my hand, shakes.
“Actually,” I say. “I’m about whipped. I—” He cuts me off.
“Let’s go right in and see the captain,” he says, and marches me through the inner door.
This time, the man-made light dominates. It is cold, professional, crisp. Not the dark clubby den of my last visit.
The Big Man comes out of his chair, rises up, holds out his hand. I stick out my hand. He puts the clasp on top with his left, shakes two times. Then releases me into Ali’s embrace.
Washington is getting settled, moving papers from five small piles into two large ones, clearing his mind as he clears his desk. He reaches into his desk drawer, pulls out an ashtray and a cigarette. He offers me one. I lean forward, tempted, but wave it off. He lights up, exhales. He leans in, his elbows denting the mahogany.
“I think we can all agree that Saturday night was worthless.” He turns to Ali, whose face has become invisible. “He must have spotted us and given it a pass. You were right, Ken, and we should have listened to you.”
“Well, Captain, it could have been anything. Who knows…”
“Ken,” he says, holding up his hand like the traffic cop he once was, “don’t argue. It was a perfect setup for him, but we blew it. If it had been only you, maybe one or two backups, maybe you would have had a shot…But with all our people …”
“And all the Indiana people,” Ali inserts.
“And all the Indiana people,” he says. “Shit, what a motherfucking mess.”
He is pondering something. He glances at me, making sure I’m still there.
“You know, Ken, it’s not like it was back in the day. You know, get the call, get the evidence, get the perp. Now the motherfucking lawyers have taken over. There’s almost no room for solid old cops like you and me, Ken, cops who remember…”
I do not know where this is going. I let him talk.
“In some ways, it’s almost flipped upside down, you know?” he says. “Like, for instance, this situation in Indiana. If we know about something, and don’t do anything about it, we’re in the shit. The city could get sued. Negligence. If we do something, it almost has to be some big mess with dozens of people deployed …And what does that do? It scares the perp away, screws it all up. But if, say, for instance, something happened to go down and an officer happened to be on the scene, and he or she happened to take some initiative based on the, uhh, the exigencies of the situation, so to speak, well, that’s different. We’re in the clear.”
Is he saying what I’m hearing?
“I mean, if we know something in advance, the threat of a civil suit almost forces us to do things that are not in our best interest. If it appears that we just stumbled onto something, that’s different. You can use some discretion. You can be a fucking cop, like you’re supposed to be.”
He takes another drag. My brain
is racing.
“Of course, I’m just speaking hypothetically, here.”
And there it is: the trigger, the phrase he always uses to give an order when he doesn’t want to be on the record. “Just speaking hypothetically.”
“Well, I don’t have to tell you this, Ken. You’re an experienced detective. You’ve put in your time in Narcotics. ’Nuff said.”
Narcotics? Where to bust people you pretty much have to set them up?
“Well, just the philosophical ramblings of a tired old man,” he says. “Speaking of which, Ken, you look like shit!”
He chuckles. I shrug. “Well, I was just telling Lieutenant Ali, I’m not used to these kinds of hours anymore, and the band’s been real busy, ever since Saturday.”
He nods. Ali nods, too.
“I mean, they had a private party up north yesterday and they have another one up north tonight and another one down south, booked for tomorrow.”
“What’s the schedule after that, Ken?” Ali asks.
No “Where up north?” No “Where down south?” questions anyone would ask.
“After tomorrow there’s nothing until the weekend,” I say. “So I was thinking, in a couple of days, maybe the lieutenant and I should sit down, figure out what our next move is.”
“I think you’re right, Ken,” Washington rumbles. “I think he’ll wait.”
He takes another drag on the cigarette, looks at me. “You do look like shit, Ken. Go rest up and come back in on Wednesday, Thursday. You and Ali can game-plan it from there.”
“Right, Captain,” I say, and move to stand up. My watch says nine-ten.
“Sounds good,” Ali says. “Reach out to me after it’s over.”
“Sure,” I say. But this is all wrong. “After it’s over?” What the hell?
The captain looks at me, opens his mouth to speak, closes it. He grinds out his cigarette in the ashtray, places the ashtray back in the drawer, turns back to face Ali.