“To get them out of the house.”
“Yes.” I wasn’t going to lie to him.
“I want to be with you.”
“You will be very soon.”
“Laura’s finding us a place to live.”
I leaned my forehead against the plasterboard. It was cool against my skin. “We don’t take charity, Jimmy.”
“I told her that. She laughed. She laughs a lot, Smokey.”
I closed my eyes. I could see her face, with its delicate white skin, the smile that lit up everything. I could see it in the bright sunshine flowing into my kitchen on a March morning, when I actually had hope for a future.
“She said it wouldn’t be charity, Smokey.” Jimmy sounded subdued now, as if he took my silence as a rebuke.
“That’s good, Jim.”
“If she finds us something this week, can we move?”
There was the trap. I’d been waiting for it. “No.”
“Why not?”
I had told him. I had already explained it, but he was getting desperate. “I want to find this guy, Jimmy, before we do anything. Please let me try. And you promised you would stay there.”
“I know.” He sounded sullen.
“Remember everything we talked about.”
“Okay.”
“Now, let me talk to Laura.”
He set the receiver down with a clatter. I waited, heard his voice, so faint that I couldn’t make out the words. The tone was comfortable, though. He was getting used to Laura, and that was good.
Then, in the background, I heard canned laughter. The television had started up.
Laura picked up the receiver. “Smokey?”
“Still here,” I said.
“What happened to the boy?”
She could have asked that before, but she hadn’t. She had known that I had called to hear Jimmy’s voice, that I needed to hear him. She knew me that well, and we had hardly spoken all summer.
I suddenly felt very tired.
“Stabbed, then dumped like a package on our front step.”
“A warning?” Her voice was low.
“I don’t know. He lived there. And apparently there’ve been other deaths like it. I have no idea what it means.”
“But you’re going to find out.”
“Yeah.”
She took a deep, audible breath. “I can find you some other place to live, get you out of the neighborhood.”
“That won’t solve it, Laura.”
“But then you won’t be in as much danger.”
“I’m not.” At least, I didn’t think I was.
“You and Jimmy—”
“Laura,” I said. “Franklin has two sons. One of them is ten. There are children all over this neighborhood. I’m going to figure this out.”
“Oh.”
I should have said something sympathetic then, that I understood how hard it was to take care of someone else’s child, that I knew how moody and emotional Jimmy could be. But I couldn’t find those words. I wasn’t sure they were in me.
“I’ll call tomorrow.”
“I didn’t mean to be insensitive, Smokey.”
“I know,” I said, and hung up.
I stayed in the kitchen for a moment longer. Jimmy wasn’t the only one who was moody. My emotions were all over the place, and when they settled, they settled on the image of a boy, left like a bag of garbage on a front step.
I ran a hand over my face. I had to work that night and I was tired. I also wanted to dig into the other killings, the ones that Johnson had mentioned.
There wasn’t enough time in the day anymore. I wished, not for the first time, that I could quit my job. I didn’t even feel secure enough to call in sick. If I quit right now, they’d investigate me, thinking maybe I was involved with the demonstrators. That was the last thing I wanted.
I made my way across Grace’s living room. She and Daniel were still arguing. Elijah was still in the corner of the yard, staring over the fence.
I pulled the patio door open. The morning air smelled spicy and green—Grace’s garden had a welcoming scent of its own.
“I didn’t mean to kick you out of your own living room,” I said.
Grace and Daniel both started as if I’d caught them doing something wrong. Elijah didn’t even turn around.
“Thank you for the use of the phone.”
“You’re welcome,” Grace said. All sweetness and politeness to me now. The woman who’d gotten angry at her son was lost beneath the surface mask she had just put on, the mask the stranger—me—was supposed to take away with him.
My gaze met Daniel’s. I could still see anger in his eyes. He was old enough to make his own choices, his own decisions. I had done so at his age, and I would wager that Grace had as well.
Instead, I walked between the rows of vegetables to Elijah, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”
He jumped as if he hadn’t even heard me approach. Then he looked over his shoulder at me, eyes tired and old. “I guess.”
“We’ll meet you inside in a minute,” I said to Grace and Daniel, dismissing them from their own yard. Apparently that was my function this day, to take over their home.
They went inside, Daniel first. Grace left the patio door open, probably so that she eavesdrop. I spoke softly enough so that she couldn’t. “Were you and Brian friends?”
Elijah shook his head. “He was too little.”
“But you knew him.”
“Yeah.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. He didn’t flinch. He leaned into me as if he had needed someone to acknowledge him.
“I know you agree with your brother and you want to be part of the protests, but stay home. Help your mom.”
His body tensed. “Why?”
“Because I think there’s someone crazy out there, and you need to protect her.”
He was silent for a moment. “I thought this guy was going after little kids.”
“He is, so far as I know.” I worked to keep my voice level. I didn’t want to patronize him. If I patronized him, he wouldn’t listen. “But if you disappear again, what’s your mom going to think?”
Elijah’s breath caught, and I knew I had him.
“The cops I spoke to said that the best thing to do is to stay inside or if you have to go out, stay in groups. Warn your friends about that, okay? Make sure no one is alone.”
“The cops gonna catch this guy?”
I nearly said Probably not, but caught myself just in time. I could be honest with Elijah and then I could be too honest with him. “They’re doing everything they can.”
Elijah was silent for a long moment. I stood beside him, sensing that the conversation wasn’t entirely over. After a moment, he said, “You never answered Daniel.”
“About what?”
“About the war.”
So someone noticed. I sighed. “I was in Korea, Elijah.”
“So?”
“That was a war, kinda like this one. Only it was a U.N. sanctioned action.”
“Yeah?”
I was in new territory. I didn’t know how to talk about any of this. “Chicago’s ready to explode. Someone’s going to get hurt here, and it doesn’t matter whether the protestors are right about the war or whether they’re wrong.”
“You think they’re wrong because you were a soldier.” He said it matter-of-factly. I envied the tone. It had been a long time since I’d seen the world so starkly.
“I think the protestors are probably right. I’m not sure I agree with their methods, but I generally agree with them.”
“So I can go to the park.”
I shook my head. “Stay home. Take care of your mother. It’s safer.”
“I don’t want to be safe!”
I’d never heard anyone who lived on the edge express that opinion before. But then, from Elijah’s perspective, he wasn’t on the edge. He lived in this comfortable apartment with a mother who cared for him a
nd a brother who was going to Yale. From what I’d seen of Grace, she made certain that her boys didn’t know how hard she had struggled to keep them comfortable. They probably had no idea about all her sleepless nights, her struggles to pay bills, her desire for them to do better than she ever could because she knew how hard it was to live life her way.
And then I understood what he was saying.
“Do you think you can protect Daniel?”
Elijah looked down. “It’s not about Daniel.”
“Isn’t it?”
He didn’t answer.
“When you’re eighteen, you can make your own choices, just like he is. But until then, your job is to stay here, get good grades, and take care of your mother.”
“She can take care of herself.”
“Can she?” I lowered my voice even more. “Look at the garden. What do you see?”
He scanned it. “So?”
“Does it normally look like this? Does the apartment?”
He glared at me. “You saying this is my fault?”
“I’m saying this is what happened when you were gone.”
He opened his mouth to answer but I turned away from him and headed inside. I’d done enough interfering for one day. I doubted I would have said anything at all if it weren’t for the image of Brian that still dominated my brain.
I stepped through the patio door and left it open just a crack. Both Daniel and Grace were watching me, expecting me to tell them what I’d said.
I looked at Daniel. “You watch your back.”
He nodded.
“Thanks for the use of the phone,” I said to Grace.
“I owe you for what you’ve done. How much—?”
“Nothing,” I said. “A favor for the friend of a friend.”
And then I let myself out.
I stood for a moment in the hallway, letting the tiredness take me. In Memphis, I would have charged her as much as she could have afforded. Or maybe I would have asked for some of that wonderful produce from her garden.
But here, I didn’t dare take the chance. I’d revealed too much about myself already.
I hoped that momentary generosity wouldn’t come back to haunt me.
TWELVE
I GOT NO SLEEP that day. I went back to the apartment to find Franklin and Malcolm still deep in discussion. I lay down for a few minutes, but the sun beat down on the twin bed, and even with the shade drawn it was too hot.
Besides, I kept seeing Brian’s body, fingers broken, skin dotted with cigarette burns, the shoe half off. And Johnson’s words—You could hear this boy being shuffled to the bottom of the pile even before the sun rose.
I got off the bed, showered, and made myself a crude lunch. Malcolm was watching me as if he expected me to throw him out. I nodded to him, waited for him or Franklin to tell me what was happening, and when neither did, I acted like it didn’t matter.
I picked up the phone book, scanned the white pages. There were no Jack Sinkovichs listed in Chicago, but I knew he had to live here. He was on the police force; residency was required. I found a John Sinkovich on eighty-seventh. I showed the address to Franklin and he grunted.
“The Bush,” he said.
I waited. He knew the question I would ask next.
“Pretty tight neighborhood. Mostly Polish.” Franklin frowned. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Malcolm was watching me. I could see that question in his eyes again as he tried to figure me out.
“I’ll be back after work,” I said.
“Let me know if you need help.”
I didn’t answer Franklin. I just let myself out.
The front stairs were still covered with police tape. I didn’t know if that meant the police planned to return or if we were just meant to live with the reminder. I went out the back.
Brian’s apartment was still silent. His mother was probably taking care of all of the business of death—the funeral arrangements, the burial, the family.
The midday heat was as stifling as I thought it was going to be. There was no breeze, no hope of relief from the lake. The air had weight, oppressive weight, and the sun added to it. My shirt stuck to my back, the effect of my shower instantly gone.
As I made my way around the building, I scanned for unfamiliar faces. Elijah was right; there were more white faces than I’d seen when I moved in. But there were no black men lurking in the shadows, no watchers with afros who kept to the darkness and spied on this house.
My rusted Impala looked even more decrepit in the sunlight. I’d need to get it serviced again soon. I’d tinkered with it as much as I could. The interior was good—the car had power—but it was held together by a wish and a prayer. A few weeks ago, I’d worried whether or not the car would make it through this next winter. Now I worried whether it was strong enough to get me out of tight situations.
I slipped behind the driver’s seat and checked the rearview mirror. Reflex. I checked all the cars behind me, a couple of white Chevys, a mustard-colored truck, and two dark blue sedans. I pegged the sedans for undercover cops.
No one was hiding anymore, that was for certain.
This time, I didn’t care. This time, I wanted the son of a bitch to follow me, and I wanted him to catch me. I wanted to know what the hell was going on.
I pulled out and headed south, staying close to the lake. The city changed down here. The skyline lost its elegance. Tall chimneys dominated, belching multicolored smoke. On any given day, the stench ran from a harsh metallic odor to rotten eggs. The heat was worse here, too, trapped in the air along with particles sometimes big enough to see with the naked eye.
Jimmy and I had looked at a few apartments near the steel mills. Mixed in with the white working-class neighborhoods were some black neighborhoods as well. But I couldn’t stand the stench or the desolate look of the buildings. A lot of this part of Chicago seemed to have lost hope.
Sinkovich’s neighborhood was nothing like the places Jimmy and I had looked at. Trim houses with small, neat lawns gave the impression of small victories won at great cost. The pride the neighborhood took in its houses reminded me of my neighborhood in Memphis. None of us were rich, but all of us maintained our homes.
Here, the streets were tree-lined, and a park made the western edge of the neighborhood seem welcoming. A large Catholic church, over a block long, sent a spire into the sky. Somehow that building spoke of more power than the Steel Works, which blocked the view of the lake.
I turned onto eighty-seventh and parked in front of a tiny two-story house. It was at least sixty years old, with a design I hadn’t seen outside of Chicago. The front door was on the second story. Stairs led to it and a small covered porch. Beneath the stairs was what builders were now calling a daylight basement, but in the period when the house was built there had been no such term. There was also no way to enter on that level. Two windows hid in the darkness, and above the porch’s roof another window revealed an attic room.
Maple trees lined the front lawn and they looked healthier than they should have, given the sickly air. Sinkovich’s car was parked on the street, along with a number of other Fords, mostly trucks, which seemed to be the vehicle of choice in the neighborhood.
My Impala looked as alien as I did.
I glanced into my rearview mirror and saw none of the cars from my block. It appeared that no one had followed me. I felt a vague disappointment.
I got out of the car and the hair rose on the back of my neck. I was being watched. Without seeming obvious, I glanced around. Faces peered at me from windows all over the block—white female faces, most of them, and all of them watching, I assumed, with one hand on the phone.
I had expected this, but I still didn’t like the feel of it.
I crossed in front of my car and mounted the front walk as if I had done it every day.
A flower garden struggled to survive on the side of the house. The summer heat had destroyed most of the plants and obviously Sinkovich’s family hadn’t water
ed like Grace had. It seemed odd to me that Sinkovich lived in a place like this; I had pegged him for a loner in a messy bachelor apartment. No furniture, empty pizza boxes, piles of unwashed clothing.
But this house was neat, newly painted, and obviously well loved. The wooden stairs, as I climbed them, didn’t even strain under my weight, nor did the porch groan when I stepped on it.
I rapped on the door, my skin crawling. I didn’t like having my back to all those eyes.
A phone rang inside, and a female voice rose, complaining. A male voice—Sinkovich’s—answered and then I heard footsteps make their way to the door. Someone picked up the phone in the middle of a ring.
Sinkovich pulled the door back. “What the hell do you want?”
“A civil conversation.”
“You should have called me.”
Through the door, I could see a thin woman with very large breasts holding a baby in one arm, a phone cradled against her shoulder. She was swaying, keeping the baby happy, and watching me as if she thought I would shove past her husband and take everything of value from her house.
“I didn’t think we could talk on the phone.”
“I don’t got no good choices here. We go on the porch, the whole neighborhood watches. We go inside, and…” He waved a hand toward his wife and child, as if that explained everything.
I waited, forcing myself to keep my expression neutral. Laura had spoiled me. Before her, I never would have come here, never would have thought Sinkovich could have told me anything of importance. If I had seen him again on the block, maybe I would have talked to him. But I wouldn’t have subjected myself to this.
“All right.” He opened the door wider. “Come on in.”
“Jack!” His wife dropped the phone and put a protective hand around her baby’s head.
“Shut up, Charlene.”
I walked in, although it went against all my instincts. Sinkovich’s wife backed away, still clutching her baby, as if my skin color were contagious. The phone squawked. Apparently there was still someone on the line.
Sinkovich reached down, grabbed the receiver, and, without speaking into it, hung up. “Get us a couple beers.”
“Jack—”
“Charlene.” There was anger in his voice.
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