Mourn the Living

by Henry Perez

  “Alex, I’m glad you’re here. We gotta—” he stopped and pointed at Nikki. “Um, what—”

  “She is what we call a child, Matt. This one happens to be my daughter.”

  He could almost see the light go on in his editor’s head as Sullivan remembered that Chapa had plans before he got the phone call. Sullivan’s demeanor changed in an instant as he introduced himself and explained to Nikki that her father was a very important reporter.

  “I know,” she said, no hesitation. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Sullivan smiled. “Yeah, she’s your kid all right. We need to talk, Alex.”

  “Give me a second,” Chapa said, and led Nikki over to a cubicle where a man in his early twenties wearing a black Nine Inch Nails T-shirt under a plaid long sleeve button-up was pounding away at a keyboard.

  “This is Zach, he’s an intern, but we don’t hold that against him.”

  The young man swiveled around to face them. If the T-shirt didn’t already constitute a clear dress code violation, the Kane County Cougars cap he was wearing backwards sealed the deal.

  “Alex Chapa, journalistic rock star,” Zach said.

  Four cubicles away, Duane Wormley chortled loudly enough for everyone to hear.

  “Zach is a good guy, a terrific writer, and best of all, he plays cool computer games when no one is looking.”

  Zach smiled and offered Nikki a fist bump.

  “Are you going to be a famous journalist too?” Nikki asked.

  “No,” Zach said, then clicked on an icon and a colorful game filled the screen. “I’m destined to be the newspaper industry’s last intern.”

  Chapter 10

  Alex Chapa watched as his boss struggled to find comfort in a chair that should have been replaced years ago. Chapa was one of only four reporters at the Record who still had an office. So, as he explained to Sullivan, they may as well use it. There was also a bit of a power play involved. It’s always best to meet with a superior on your turf, even if that turf is slowly being taken away and constantly threatened.

  “Do you understand what I need you to do in your current assignment?”

  Chapa leaned back in his dark brown chair and took in the comforting smell of old leather.

  “Figure out what Jim was working on, connect the dots, cover the same ground he would be covering, keep my job.”

  Sullivan let out a sigh that was big enough to inflate four tires plus the spare.

  “That last part—”

  “My job?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I wanted to talk. That may present the biggest challenge.”

  Chapa already knew that. The Chicago Record had once racked up awards so routinely that at times it seemed like some were being invented just for that purpose. Was it really only four years ago that the Record had been named one of the nation’s top twenty dailies? To Chapa, it seemed like a lot more time had slipped past, during which countless column inches had been sacrificed to the sort of fluff and nonsense Wormley wallowed in.

  Chapa had no patience for shallow human interest stories, empty feel-good pieces, and especially entertainment news, which he considered a complete waste. He wondered how so many folks could care so much about celebrities whose only similarity to real people was their dependence on oxygen. Chapa also saw little of value in the Neighborhoods section and its twelve-inch stories about folks like Floyd down the street who won a prize at the fair for growing the biggest tomato.

  When it came to his views on journalism, Chapa wasn’t just old school. He might as well have helped pour the cement for the building’s foundation.

  While Chapa thrived on stories about regular people, he believed that most journalists focused on the trivial, instead of burrowing inside to find out what made the person do whatever it was they did. Not just how Floyd grew that tomato, but what had he sacrificed to do so, and why. Was his wife really all that proud of him? Were his kids embarrassed? Was he okay with that? What was Floyd trying to prove, and to whom? And most important of all, why should anyone else give a damn?

  That took work, and an ability to ask the right questions. Those were the qualities that separated him from most of the other reporters at the Record, and distinguished him from someone like Duane Wormley. But they were also what made him something of a dinosaur, and expendable in the eyes of some of his superiors. That, and the fact that he was one of the Chicago area’s highest paid newspapermen.

  “Yes, Alex, connect the dots, and I might be able to talk you-know-who into having you replace Chakowski on a more permanent basis.”

  “You mean Macklin?”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Macklin.”

  “He’s an ignorant prick from way back.”

  “Who happens to own the paper.”

  “Daddy owns the paper. He just chose the runt of the litter to run it.”

  Another sigh from Sullivan.

  “Okay, do you want to keep your job or not?”

  Chapa perched his feet on the edge of the desk and looked up as though he were considering Sullivan’s question. A crack ran the length of the ceiling and several inches down a wall. Chapa stared at it and wondered if he’d ever noticed it before.

  When enough time had passed that Sullivan seemed to be getting nervous, Chapa said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Yes, please. You know I think very highly of you.”

  Chapa liked his editor, though he’d only worked with him for a couple of months. What he didn’t like, however, was the way he’d flipped like a pancake every time Carston Macklin had changed the direction and priorities of the Record’s news division. He usually got on well with Sullivan, but wished that just once the man would find the cojones to tell Macklin to fuck off.

  “I need to get into Chakowski’s office, check out his files and notes.”

  Sullivan nodded, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of keys. He sifted through them, selected a narrow office key that resembled Chapa’s, and tossed it on the desk.

  “Just connect the dots, Alex, that’s all you’ve got to do, the way Jim Chakowski would have. No need to go excavating any new ones.”

  Chapa responded with a sparse smile, and watched Sullivan attempt to decipher what it meant, give up trying, then work himself out of the chair.

  “Good luck, Alex,” Sullivan said as he left the office.

  Chapa heard him let out another massive sigh as he walked away.

  Chapter 11

  Nikki was locked into a game of Peggle on Zach’s computer when Chapa walked over to let her know it would be just a few more minutes.

  “Uh huh, okay, that’s fine, Daddy,” she said without turning away from the monitor.

  Chapa rubbed her head, sending strands of blond hair swaying in every direction.

  “Dad,” she exclaimed and squirmed away.

  “I’ll be in Chakowski’s office in case you need me for anything,” Chapa told Zach.

  Chakowski’s door was just down the hall. As he walked in that direction, Chapa tried to recall how often he’d been in the senior reporter’s office. Not much at all, he realized for the first time. That surprised him somewhat. They’d never truly been friends in the traditional sense, but they were friendly in the way that colleagues in any profession can be.

  But there was more to it. Newspaper reporters were not typical office workers. It was a unique line of work, one that led to unusual and often fractured lives. The hours were odd, and the job often followed you home, then became a squatter in your everyday.

  Like athletes and cops, reporters were often most comfortable talking to others who understood how different their day-to-day lives were. But as Chapa opened the door and walked into Chakowski’s office, he thought about how private the man had been, and wondered why he hadn’t noticed that before.

  As he stood in the doorway and looked around, Chapa realized that he’d have to come back when he had more time, and when Nikki was not with him. The cramped room was dark except for
the few threads of sunlight fighting their way in through closed blinds.

  Chapa surveyed the area for a moment, then flipped on the light switch. A throw blanket rested on a well-worn couch in the corner, suggesting that Chakowski slept there from time to time. That didn’t come as much of a surprise. He’d heard others say that Chakowski lived at the office, maybe that was more true than anyone realized.

  Unlike Chapa’s office, which was full of books, CDs, and photos, this one was crowded with old newspapers stuffed into a bookcase lining one wall, and file boxes on another. Chapa understood why light from outside couldn’t get in, the window was half blocked by a large wooden shelving unit that was stuffed with LPs. The place smelled like old paper.

  Out of curiosity, Chapa walked over to the shelves of records and checked out some of the artists and titles. Van Morrison, Bob Dylan, Carole King, Nilsson, the Grateful Dead, a mix of late 60s and early 70s pop. What a thirty-year-old grad student Chapa knew back in college called, “The good stuff.”

  Chapa was reminded of how much a music collection can reveal about a person. This one told him exactly when Jim Chakowski became the man he became.

  He pushed aside a set of headphones that was sitting on top of the desk, and began looking through a stack of papers and manila folders. The desk drawers offered little in the way of useful materials, but Chapa looked through them long enough to find a do-it-yourself will kit. Odd, but Chakowski was getting up there in years, never married, and had no children, as far as Chapa knew. He hoped to find some notes that might indicate what Chakowski was working on, but gave up after a few minutes, and made a call over to Sullivan’s office.

  “I’m going to write Jim’s obit for tomorrow’s paper.”

  “That’s fine, it will be one of several that we’re going to run. Give yours a more personal slant.”

  That approach wouldn’t have been his first choice, but Chapa agreed to give it a shot.

  “Then you’ll be covering the Business Council meeting tomorrow at City Hall?”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because that’s what Jim would’ve been doing. Because that’s the job, Alex.”

  Chapa did not answer right away as he made a mental note to double-check how much he still had left in his 401(K). He knew it wouldn’t be anywhere near enough to retire, but he now sensed that he might be tapping into it soon.

  Chapter 12

  Chapa had his colleague’s obituary finished in just under an hour. The story about the explosion, including the official police version along with quotes from the female neighbor took a little longer. There just wasn’t much meat on that bone.

  Every few minutes he would look around the corner and make sure Nikki was okay and that Zach’s babysitting skills were holding up. After he’d milked every possible detail and cruised up one side and down the other of the story’s angles, Chapa put it together as best as he could.

  Nikki gently complained when he scooped her up and told her it was time to go. But there was no time for debate, they were already late for dinner.

  He thanked Zach, “I owe you lunch sometime this week.” Then headed out the door before Wormley said something stupid or Sullivan lured him into another hand-rubbing conversation.

  Erin and Mike, her five-year-old son, were already at Barnaby’s Grill when Chapa and Nikki got there, nearly forty minutes late. Chapa watched as Erin got up from where they were seated at a table by the front windows, and introduced herself to Nikki. He marveled at how natural this all seemed for her.

  Chapa and Erin had met under circumstances that were less than romantic. He’d walked into her bank, the one where she still worked as a vice president, hoping to clear up the finances of his married past. They hit it off in every way, and by the end of their first month together they were seeing each other several times a week, and spending hours on the phone on nights when they were apart.

  Erin had a casual way about her that fit nicely with Chapa’s often manic life, and he shared things with her in a way he never had with anyone else before—not even with Carla. Sometimes Chapa wasn’t sure what he brought to Erin’s life, and he wasn’t about to ask.

  Though they had been together and going strong for more than six months, Chapa’s hesitancy to commit further was beginning to cause a strain. With Erin’s help he had succeeded in clearing up the financial fallout from his failed marriage, only to find that there were some other lingering issues that were also the product of his past failures.

  The restaurant was crowded, mostly by families, and for Chapa the feeling of fitting in with this group was both alien and comforting. Nikki and Mike were getting along well, and Erin gave Chapa a look and tossed a nod in their direction. He knew what she was thinking.

  They’re cute, aren’t they.

  And they were, but something else had captured his attention. Chapa had first noticed the man and his car as he and Nikki were walking in the door. The banged-up, late model Ford had rumbled through the parking lot at a speed that was just a bit beyond casual.

  Now the guy Chapa had seen behind the wheel was standing by his Toyota, eyeing it, and not trying to act like he was doing anything else. Chapa watched as the man with at least fifty hard years of living on his body circled the Corolla.

  “Something wrong?” Erin asked in a way that let Chapa know she already knew the answer.

  “Not sure, maybe.”

  Four days’ worth of salt-and-pepper stubble crowded the guy’s face, but Chapa sensed it wasn’t the beginning of a beard. He looked like he’d dressed himself in the dark, putting on the first clothes his unsteady hands landed on.

  The waitress brought a platter of appetizers, but Chapa didn’t notice right away. His attention was on the guy who was now staring right back at him from the parking lot.

  “Who is he?” Erin had noticed him too.

  “No idea. But I have a feeling we’ll know soon,” Chapa said as he watched the man stride across the parking lot, toward the front door of the restaurant, like he had to be someplace in a hurry. His eyes fixed on Chapa the entire time.

  Chapter 13

  Alex Chapa had spent much of his career kicking up piles of dirt and pissing off the people who’d built them.

  He’d exposed area businessmen who had ties to the mob, cops gone bad, and all variety of cheats, chiselers, and shitheels. Chapa had paid a price for his efforts. His cars had been vandalized more times than he could remember, his front lawn was once set on fire, and there had been three death threats—at least one of which was taken seriously by the police.

  But it had been some time—days, maybe weeks—since he’d last written anything that could be considered incendiary. This fact bothered Chapa, made him feel like he wasn’t doing his job.

  At the moment, it was also a cause for confusion. Chapa could not imagine what he might’ve done to rile the thin but imposing man who had just burst through the door of the restaurant, rushed past the young lady offering him a table or booth, and was now rapidly narrowing the distance to where they were seated.

  Maybe this was someone who’d landed in the joint after one of Chapa’s exposés. He certainly had that look. Chapa fought the urge to stand up and anticipate a confrontation. His first instinct was not to avoid trouble in front of the kids. But he was trying to work on that.

  “You’re Alex Chapa?”

  “As far back as I can remember.”

  It was an off-the-cuff response, probably not the wisest one under the circumstances. Chapa knew that, but over the years he’d made a habit of answering that question with any one in a series of smart-ass lines.

  “Then you’re the one investigating what happened to Jim.”

  Chapa took a better look at the man fidgeting by their table. Did he look familiar? Maybe, though he couldn’t quite place the face. A waitress whose hands were filled with plates excused herself and did her best to shimmy past the guy who acted as though she wasn’t there.

  “I’m not investigating,
exactly. There’s nothing to investigate.”

  “The hell there ain’t,” the guy said, then seemed to catch himself as he looked toward the children. “I’m sorry. It’s been a bad time.”

  He looks like a bad time, Chapa thought as he excused himself, got up. and took the guy by the arm.

  “Let’s go over here,” Chapa said and led him to the bar at the other end of the restaurant. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  The guy shook his head. “Had too many already.”

  Based on the stranger’s appearance and the way he smelled, Chapa had no reason to doubt that.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Warren Chakowski. I’m Jim’s brother.”

  Chapa looked for a resemblance—maybe that was why the guy seemed familiar—but couldn’t find any.

  “Were you two close?”

  Warren Chakowski looked down, and Chapa had the answer to his question.

  “I’ve had some troubles, you know?”

  Chapa didn’t, but he could easily imagine, and nodded anyhow.

  “I was born with some difficulties that I’ve fought to overcome,” Warren said as he rubbed his forehead. “Some times have been better than others.”

  “I liked your brother a lot,” Chapa said, waving the bar-keep away. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “I’m sure you are. That’s why you need to investigate what really happened last night.”

  Now Chapa remembered where he’d seen the guy. Warren Chakowski had been at the crime scene, standing along a tree line at the far end of his brother’s property. Even then it had seemed to Chapa like this guy was out of place.

  “Look, Warren, I can see you’re upset, and hurt, and maybe a little confused—”

  “I’m not confused about anything—” Warren said, raising his voice to an uncomfortable level.

  Chapa put a hand on Warren’s shoulder and tried to settle him down.