The Betrayers

by James Patrick Hunt

  “No,” Hastings said. “He is not a suspect. You want me to write it down and sign it?”

  “All right, calm down.” She said, “What do you want to ask him?”

  “I’ll ask him that.”

  Hastings walked away from the woman and sat on the bench. It was a calculated move, intended to make her feel insignificant.

  But when he took his seat on the bench and looked back at her still standing, he thought he saw the hint of a smile on her face. It surprised him. Willowy and pretty in her way, but no pushover.

  Then the hint of smile was gone and she was still looking at him. She said, “I saw it on the news. I’m sorry.”

  Hastings made a gesture. We’re all sorry, aren’t we?

  The woman said, “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

  Yeah, she was tough all right. “Yeah,” Hastings said. “Furious.”

  Carol McGuire walked over to a wall and leaned back until her shoulders rested against it. Her face was at a right angle to Hastings and her hands were in her coat pockets. A cool pose, he thought. Yet she didn’t seem the sort to pose. Hastings looked at the way her dark hair contrasted with her fair-skinned neck. Was still looking as her head pivoted slowly toward him, busting him. She regarded him, unembarrassed.

  Hastings said, “I was trying to remember if we’d met before.” He felt awkward.

  “We haven’t,” she said. “I’ve seen you at the courthouse before. You always look so serious.”

  Okay, enough with the patronizing, he thought. “Yeah?” Hastings said. “I hear you’re pretty mean yourself.”

  “Did you.” The woman seemed unimpressed.

  After a moment, Hastings said, “You quit working for the P.D.?”

  “Yes.” She wasn’t going to say anything else.

  Hastings said, “I don’t blame you.”

  The McGuire woman didn’t seem to like that comment. She gave him a glance that was mildly hostile, but left it at that.

  Hastings felt conscious of himself then. Did all recently divorced men have this sort of trouble communicating with women? The last date he had had was … oh, God, eight years ago? Then he thought, why are you thinking in terms of dates?

  They heard the buzzer sound as the first door unlocked, and they could see people and movement through the small square window of the second door separating them from lockup. The second door buzzed open and out came a deputy escorting Kody Sparks. He was back in street clothes, tired and unwashed; looking like he just got out of jail.

  “Hey, Lieutenant,” Kody said.

  “Hey, Kody,” Hastings said. “This is your attorney, Carol McGuire.”

  Kody was confused. He looked at the woman. He said, “What?”

  Hastings said, “She got you released on your own recognizance. Using her bar card.”

  “Yeah, I know that,” Kody said. “But I mean, what’s she doing here?”

  “Well …” Hastings said, looking between the woman and the informant. The woman seemed confused too, and not happy.

  “Well,” Hastings said again. “Are you hungry, Kody?”

  “Oh, hell yeah.”

  “You want to get something to eat?”

  “Yeah, man. If you’re buying.”

  The McGuire woman stepping forward now—

  “He’s buying all right,” the woman said. “Kody, as you attor—”

  “Ms. McGuire’s going to join us,” Hastings said. “Maybe she’s hungry too.”

  The three of them sat in a booth in Irv’s, an old eatery off Vandeventer Avenue. It was run-down and the red seats had tears in them. The food was cheap and bad. Night people sitting at the counters and tables. The locals said that Irv’s was a dump and it should’ve been bulldozed into the ground years ago, but there it stood. Kody ordered the “nightmare” platter: chili over eggs cooked sunny-side up. Hastings looked at the dish and remembered a time when he could eat such things. He ordered coffee. Carol McGuire ordered coffee too.

  Hastings was tempted to laugh at this scene. Mom and Dad taking Sonny out for dinner. Welcome home, Kody. From jail. It was what Joe Klosterman would call surreal.

  Hastings said, “Kody, I need to ask you a few things.”

  Kody stabbed on the egg yolks with his fork. The yellow bled out into the surrounding chili.

  “Okay,” Kody said.

  “You know Steve Treats?”

  “Yeah, I know him.”

  “You know he’s at Marion now.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You know how he got busted?”

  “Sure, I know.”

  Hastings said, “How?”

  “Undercover cop ratted on him.”

  “So you know about that?”

  “Everybody knows about that.”

  Hastings didn’t tell him he’d found out about it yesterday. He said, “You knew about the undercover cop.”

  “Well, I knew about it after they arrested Steve.”

  “The cop,” Hastings said. “His name was Chris Hummel.”

  Kody was bent over his plate. “Yeah?” he said.

  “You remember him?”

  “Yeah, I remember him.”

  Hastings said, “Did he ever take money?”

  “Who?”

  “Chris Hummel.”

  Kody broke off a piece of white Wonder Bread and dipped it in the yellow-brown mixture.

  “You mean from Steve?”

  Hastings said, “I mean, from any dealer?”

  Kody Sparks shrugged. “I never heard that he did.”

  Hastings was aware of the McGuire woman staring at him, but he forced himself not to look at her. He said, “You telling me the truth, Kody?”

  “Yeah.” Kody looked up from the meal. “I wouldn’t lie to you, George. You and Sergeant Joe been good to me. Where is the sergeant, anyway?”

  “He’s in the hospital.”

  “Ahhh. What’s wrong?”

  “He’s fine. He had a little surgery. He’ll be all right.”

  “Well, you tell him I said to get well.”

  “I will.” Hastings said, “So. No word on the street that Hummel was taking money?”

  “Nope.”

  “Kody, let me be clear: if there was, it’s okay to tell me.”

  “I know that, George. There wasn’t.”

  Carol McGuire said, “You offering something, Lieutenant?” Some edge in her voice.

  “No, ma’am,” Hastings said. To Kody, Hastings said, “What about Steve?”

  “He’s in jail.”

  “I know that, Kody. I mean, did Steve ever tell you or anyone you know that Hummel was taking money?”

  “Nope.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “Lieutenant,” Carol McGuire said. “May I speak to you in private?”

  “Sure.” Hastings said, “Kody, we’re going to go outside for a minute. We’ll be right back.”

  Moments later, Hastings and the McGuire woman stood outside against the dirty white front of the food shack. Behind them, interstate traffic rumbled over Vandeventer and Kingshighway, forcing them to speak in voices slightly raised.

  The McGuire woman said, “Are you trying to make me a part of this?”

  Hastings said, “A part of what?”

  “Buying crank dealers dinner?”

  Hastings shrugged. “He was hungry.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What is your point?”

  “My point is, you’re using him to cover up for another cop.”

  That stopped him. Up till then, he had known, in a way, that she was an adversary. Or was in adversarial position, which maybe wasn’t quite the same thing. But he had not expected her to hit him with something like that. He felt it then; anger rising and he wanted to control his tone of voice.

  “No,” he said. “Goddamn it, that is not true. I did not do that.”

  “You—”

  “Were you too goddamn busy judging me to listen to what was s
aid in there? I told him at least twice not to tell me what I wanted to hear. Twice, I told him that. Christ, why do you think I asked you to come along?”

  “You had no choice.”

  “Oh, shit, lady. I could have driven around the block and picked him up after you left. You’d’ve been none the wiser. Did you once see me threaten him? Did you once see me ask him to lie?”

  “You got him out of jail. You buy him chili and eggs. He’s an addict. He’ll tell you whatever you want.”

  Hastings patted his jacket pocket. “It’s all on tape, Ms. McGuire. I have done nothing I’m ashamed of. You want to try to twist it into some sort of obstruction conspiracy, you go right ahead. But I’ve got tape.”

  It pushed her back on her heels. But only for a moment. She said, “Spare me your sanctimony, detective. I know how you guys work. If the tape helps you, you keep it. If it hurts you, you erase it. Tonight, it happened to help you. And by the way, what do you mean ‘twist it’? What are you accusing me of?”

  “You’re the one doing the accusing. And, worse, you’re doing it just to do it. I know your type, madam. You’ve got issues with cops. They’re all dirty as far as you’re concerned.”

  “You don’t ‘know’ me at all. What—do you think I popped open a bottle of champagne when I found out that two police officers had been killed? Two cops whacked. Yippee.”

  “I don’t know. Did you?”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” she said. “Everything’s so black and white with you people. I’m not on your enemies list, detective. I’m not on the side of murder.”

  “Well just who are you representing now? Huh? And don’t tell me it’s Kody Sparks because we both know this isn’t about him.” Hastings said, “You accuse me of covering things up. On whose behalf are you doing that? You stand there defending someone we don’t even know yet. Someone we haven’t caught. Someone who murdered two men.”

  She stood quietly there in her jeans and raincoat, her cheeks red with cold or anger. She stood there neither ashamed nor afraid. Finally she said, “Well, you seem to have made up your mind about me.”

  She went back into Irv’s, leaving him outside alone.

  EIGHTEEN

  The door to McGill’s opened and two guys came in. One of them took a stool at the bar and the other one stood and leaned against it. They were both in their thirties. The guy sitting on the stool wore a porkpie hat and a gray suit and a tweed overcoat. He was heavy and short and round. People who knew him called him Bacon. The guy standing against the bar wore wool slacks and a black leather jacket. He was taller and thinner. His name was Sean Rizza.

  They ordered Miller Lites and asked to see the menu.

  Kate Regan brought it to them.

  Sean Rizza looked around the place. He saw two guys at the other end of the bar who did not concern him. He saw two other people in one of the high-backed booths across from the bar; a guy leaning forward on the table to talk, a girl sitting with her legs up on the seat and her back against the wall. She was smoking a cigarette.

  Kate Regan said, “I recommend the stew tonight. It’s very good.”

  “Yeah?” Bacon said. “Hmmm.”

  Sean said, “You cook it?”

  Kate looked at him briefly. “No,” she said. “We have a cook.”

  “Is he in the kitchen now?”

  “Yeah,” Kate said. “That’s where we generally have our cook.”

  Bacon smiled. “She’s funny.”

  “Yeah,” Sean said. To Kate he said, “Why don’t you bring him out here.”

  Kate Regan said, “Why don’t you pay for your beers and leave.” She was not going to say anything else.

  “She’s tough too,” Bacon said.

  Sean stepped back so she could see him pull the lapel of his jacket back. There was a .357 revolver tucked into the waistband of his pants. He said, “See that? Good. My buddy here’s going to go back to the kitchen with you. You’ll come back out with the cook and then we’ll help you round the customers up. Okay?”

  For a moment, Kate didn’t say anything. Then she nodded. Bacon followed her to the kitchen. They came back with the cook.

  When they got back to the front, Kate saw that the guy with a leather jacket had pulled a black ski mask over his face. She turned and saw that the short one had done the same. The short one pulled a sawed-off shotgun from beneath his coat and directed the customers and the cook into the storeroom. He locked them in there. They took the ski masks off after that.

  He came back with three cellular phones that he placed on one of the tables. He said to Sean, “Everyone’s got a phone these days.”

  Sean said to Kate, “Now get back behind the bar. Keep your hands on the bar. We don’t see your hands, you’re going to die.”

  Kate took her place behind the bar. She watched as the porkpie sat in the booth opposite the bar and put his shotgun on the table. The leather jacket stayed at the bar with her.

  Kate said, “I don’t expect him back tonight.”

  Sean said, “He’s coming back, honey. I’m betting your life on it.”

  She looked at the porkpied man. He was nestled back in the booth with its high backs directly across from her. From where he was sitting he could not be seen from the front door. Or from the back. He was well hidden.

  Sean saw movement through the front window. He said to Kate, “You stay where he can see you.”

  Sean moved to the front door. A customer got in the foyer before Sean put a hand on his chest.

  “We’re closed tonight, buddy. Sorry.”

  “But the sign says—”

  “We’re closed.”

  The customer sensed something dangerous about the man. He backed out. Sean moved back to the bar, but this time leaned against the part of it that was close to the door. He looked down the length of the bar at Kate Regan and made sure she had obeyed his instructions. She had; her hands were still on the bar.

  Fifteen minutes went by.

  In the sixteenth minute, another customer came to the front door. Sean told him the same thing he had told the other one. The guy left.

  The doors to the train opened and Regan stepped out and walked past the turnstiles and down the stairs. Night and it was colder now. He used trains more than he used his Buick. Chicago traffic made for miserable driving. The trains were easier, more civilized. And he liked walking afterward. He did not mind the cold so much so long as he could walk through it.

  It was an eight-block walk from the station to McGill’s.

  After six blocks, he fell in step about fifty yards behind another man. The man heading the same direction. He sensed the other man’s walking pace and rhythm. Jack Regan was a quick, strong walker and he estimated he would overtake the man in another three blocks, if there were another three blocks left. But there weren’t because the bar was on the next block.

  He saw the man in front of him slow and turn into the bar.

  Okay. Well, he’d be serving him drinks then.

  Regan kept walking.

  And, a few seconds later, saw the man come back out.

  Hmmm.

  The man was backing away, looking into the bar and shaking his head. Then he turned and started to walk back toward Regan.

  Regan stopped him.

  “Hey,” Regan said, his voice gentle. He was a big man and he did not want to frighten the fellah. “Why didn’t you go in?”

  “It’s closed.”

  Regan looked up at the street. There it was, McGill’s, the sign on and everything. It was only nine thirty.

  Regan said, “The sign says it’s open.”

  “That’s what I told the guy. He said it was closed.”

  Regan said, “What guy?”

  “Some guy.”

  Regan thought of Darrell, their cook. He said, “A young fellah, with jeans and a T-shirt?”

  “No, some guy in a leather jacket. He was an asshole.”

  The man walked off.

  Jack Regan stood still, looking at
the light emanating from McGill’s. He felt his heartbeat quicken and he thought of Kate in there, but he made himself back away and put his back to the building. Then he moved back, away from the bar.

  He rounded the block and came back up the alleyway, sticking to the sides. He got to the rear fire door. He looked at the door for a moment, then stepped back about ten yards. From his coat pocket he removed a Colt 1911 .45 and racked the slide and put a round in the chamber. He moved back to the fire door. He took his keys out and slowly unlocked it.

  At the back of McGill’s there was an area that had a storeroom and a small office. Between that area and the bar was another door. Usually, that second door was closed because they didn’t want customers looking in there. If there were men in the bar now who meant to do him harm and that door was open, they would see him, maybe even hear him open the fire door. But there was nothing else he could do.

  Slowly, Regan cracked the fire door open. He let it hang there for a moment. Then he widened the crack until it became a space he could step through. Then he stepped through that space and pulled the door behind him.

  It was dark. Good. The second door was closed. Regan stood still and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He could hear music from the jukebox now. Faint. Sinatra singing … what? “I Didn’t Know What Time It Was.” Singing, “Warm, like the month of May it was …” They only had two Sinatra songs on the jukebox. Most of the customers these days had no idea about Sinatra. Kids. The other song was “Somethin’ Stupid.” It had been on the jukebox when he and Kate returned from their wedding. Kate behind the bar in her bridal gown …

  Regan stepped quietly to the second door and looked through the small dirty window. He saw a man sitting at the bar, near the front door. Black leather jacket. The man’s back was to him. Then he saw Kate in the middle of the bar, closer to him. Her hands on the bar. She was standing still. Something made him hesitate, made him reluctant to charge out the door and shoot the leather jacketed man in the back.

  Quietly, he opened the door and stepped into the bar. Then he stood in front of the door. He took two steps forward. Then another. Kate was on his right, about thirty feet ahead of him.

  She turned slightly, catching him. Then turned her head a little more. Her expression did not change and her shoulders did not move. She looked at him for no more than two seconds. Then she turned back and stared straight ahead of her.