“Don’t know that yet.”
In Chicago that was like whistling in a tub full of water while you changed out the light fixtures. Just a matter of when before you got juiced. I would have lectured Rita, but she knew better. Which meant she had some idea who was on the other end of the city graft and didn’t want to share. That was okay, too. My day had already been more than full, and it wasn’t even lunch.
“What do you want from me?” I said.
“It’s complicated. Rissman is not peddling city business directly. He’s using his influence to steer contracts from the county.”
“What sort of contracts?”
“Medical supplies, mostly. Basic stuff. Surgical masks, latex gloves, syringes. Some office supplies.”
“Where’s it all going?”
“Cook County Hospital, the ME’s office. Couple of others. Rissman inserts himself, pressures the key folks, and gets the contract to go his way.”
“Your source?”
“Several.”
“Let me guess-the people inside County who are getting squeezed?”
“Yes.”
“And you have no idea who Rissman is pushing all this business to?”
“You would think I might know that.”
“I would.”
On cue, we both stared out the window. It had rained briefly, and the neighborhood was sketched in wet slashes of March. A couple stood at the corner, blurry in their thick overcoats, waiting for the light to change, then leaning against the wind as they walked. A late-model Buick took up a spot at the curb, maybe half a block distant. The car was running. The windows were squeezed tight and tinted black. Illegal, but not unusual. Hyde Park was a hermetically sealed world of culture and privilege, with the University of Chicago its beating heart. The blue blood, however, didn’t travel very far. A mile or two west, the university’s list of Nobel laureates didn’t mean a damn thing. Gangs ran the show. They routinely shot people for fun and tinted their windows because they felt like it. Ask too many questions about the latter, and you ran a good chance of winding up among the ranks of the former. I turned back from the window. Rita reached for a leather briefcase by her feet.
“I have the names of some of the companies.” She zipped open the case and pulled out a list. “They’re all nobodies. Small one- or two-person outfits with no experience and none of the clout that usually goes with this kind of stuff.”
I took a quick look at the names. “Campaign contributions?”
“Not a dime to the mayor. Or anybody else. Nothing I can see, anyway.”
“So they’re paying off Rissman directly?”
“Could be.”
“How big are the contracts?”
“They’re not huge, but that’s not the point.”
I scanned the list again. “And you think these vendors all come back to one person?”
“Or persons. But I don’t know how and, more important, who.”
I handed her back the list. “Does it matter? You have Rissman. He’s the public official. Run the story on him. Shine the light and watch the rats scatter.”
Rita shook her head.
“You think it might go higher?”
She angled her face away and didn’t respond. I looked out at the street again. The Buick was still there, but the window was rolled down. The driver sat in profile, long sallow face, dark sunglasses up on his forehead, a cigarette dangling in one hand. He wasn’t looking our way, but it didn’t matter.
“Excuse me a second.” I went to the front of the shop, paid the bill, and asked the woman at the register if she had a roll of quarters. She had two. I slipped out the back of the shop and crept around the block. The Buick was still idling, window still down, driver still smoking. I palmed both rolls of quarters in my right hand, crossed the street, and approached the car from the front. Ten yards short of the hood, I stopped and shivered in the cold. I blew into cupped hands and looked past the Buick for a taxi. The driver’s eyes flicked up and over me. Then he returned to staring intently at his side mirror and Rita, still in the booth across the street. I walked the last ten yards, left hand trailing across the Buick’s flank, right fist closed. The driver looked up again.
“How you doing?” I said.
He raised his chin, but didn’t respond. The driver didn’t recognize me. But I knew him.
“I’m looking for a cab,” I said and leaned in, left hand gripping the window frame, shoulders turning, right fist coming up and across. The punch was short, maybe eight inches, and landed flush on the point of his jaw. The body went limp, one hand sliding off the steering wheel and falling awkwardly in his lap. The guy was skinny, mid-thirties, with a bad complexion and worse teeth. I pushed him into the passenger’s seat, climbed behind the wheel, and checked for a weapon. He wasn’t carrying, but there was a. 40-cal in the glovie. I rolled up the window, locked the doors, and pulled out my cell. Rita picked up on the first ring.
“I’m in the car across the street.”
Her head swiveled, phone to ear, eyes fastened on the Buick.
“I paid the check. Come on over and get in the back.”
She stood up stiffly, looked around the shop twice, and left. I popped open the locks and she got in.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“This guy here.” I nodded to the passenger’s seat. “He works for Vinny DeLuca.”
I checked the rearview mirror and saw the tightening around her mouth.
“He’s not a hitter,” I said. “At least, I don’t think so. DeLuca probably has him tailing you until they figure out what to do. Now you want to tell me who Rissman is doing business with? Or you want me to fill in the blanks?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Vinny DeLuca doesn’t joke around, Rita. Whatever you’re doing, it’s got his attention. And that ain’t good.”
“You think the Outfit’s going to kill me? Seriously?”
“I think people have accidents.”
“This is assault, Michael.”
She made a move to get out of the car. I locked the doors again. Then I went through my pal’s pockets and found his cell phone. I hit REDIAL and waited. A voice I recognized answered.
“Johnny Apple, how are you?”
“Michael Kelly?”
“Is your boss there?”
“What are you doing with Chili’s phone?”
I looked over at Chili. “Is that his name? I remembered the face. One of those guys who hangs around on the fringes, drinking coffee and moving the furniture around every couple of minutes. You know those guys, Johnny. Fuck, you are one.”
“What are you doing with his phone?”
“Let me talk to DeLuca.”
“He’s not here.”
“Fine. I’ll keep the phone. Tell him to call me when he gets a minute.”
A pause. Chicago’s crime boss came on the line. “Fucking pain, deep in my balls.”
“Listen, Vinny. Your boy here is tailing Rita Alvarez. I think I know why. And I don’t like it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kelly. And since when do I give a fuck what you like?”
“You think that makes sense, Vinny?”
No answer.
“She’s a friend.” I glanced in the rearview mirror at Rita, who looked a little green around the gills. “Besides, I think we might have some common ground.”
“Business is business, Kelly.”
“I understand that.”
“Maybe your friends don’t.”
“She does.” Another look at Rita, who definitely looked like she might lose her breakfast all over the gangster’s upholstery. “Let’s talk.”
More silence.
“I can guarantee my friend does nothing until we sit down.”
“At my age, quiet’s a blessing. You keep it that way, and maybe we can talk.”
“Until then you call these guys off.”
“Give my man back his cell phone.”
I looke
d over at the passenger’s seat. “He’s not available right now.”
A sigh. “Fine. Leave him there. We’ll be in touch.”
“Bye, Vinny.”
He cut the line. I flipped the phone shut and dropped it to the floor.
“Take a look at this guy,” I said.
“I have.”
“Good. Now let’s get out of here.”
We slipped out of the car, got into hers, and drove.
“Where to?” she said.
“Just cruise the neighborhood.”
“What did you hit him with?”
I showed her the rolls. “Quarters, for when you only get one punch. Listen, you need to back off this thing. At least until we can talk to DeLuca.”
“You think I’m going to negotiate a story with Vinny DeLuca?”
“You like having all your moving parts moving?”
“Come on, Michael. I’m on to something.”
In her eyes I saw visions of those shiny trophies they give to crusading journalists, except this one was covered in seaweed and dripping wet. That was because they’d pulled it off the bottom of Lake Michigan, where they’d found it wrapped around Rita’s neck.
“Does Rodriguez know about all this?” I said.
“No. And he’s not going to find out. Help me work this. Maybe I can keep the mob angle out.”
“Do I have a choice? How close are you to running something?”
“Couple of weeks. Minimum.”
“All right. But you have to agree not to print anything until you talk to me.”
“Fine.”
“Whose baiting the hook for the city?”
“I told you. I’m not sure.”
“Maybe you don’t know all the names. But you got at least one.”
“I might have a middleman.”
“Let’s have it.”
It took fifteen minutes of driving, but I got the name. I even got an address.
CHAPTER 15
Marcus Robinson sat on a flat roof across the street from the Korean’s grocery store, sighted a nickel-plated. 38 on the front door, and pretended to squeeze off a few rounds. He’d talked to Ray Ray for almost an hour. Told him everything the cop had to say. How he said it. Then told him again. Ray Ray took it all in, put an arm around Marcus, and explained that the Fours needed to take care of some business with the Korean that night. Marcus grinned, which made Ray Ray happy. Then Marcus got the gun from under his mattress and headed to the Korean’s shop. Ray Ray had business to take care of. So did Marcus.
Down below a cop car pulled into the alley alongside the grocery store. The first cop got out and walked the area. The afternoon sun glinted off the front of his hat. He nodded to the second, who popped the trunk and pulled out a black duffel bag with gold trim. The Korean’s dope. Soon to be Ray Ray’s.
The first cop banged on a door, and then the Korean was in the alley. He wore what he always wore: dark pants and a blue sweater with mismatched brown and yellow buttons down the front. He had a pair of glasses halfway down his nose and the stub of a cigarette flattened between his lips. One of the cops spoke to the Korean, who nodded. The other hefted the bag up onto his shoulder and carried it into the store. Four minutes later, the cops were back in their cruiser and gone.
Marcus climbed down the fire escape and sat with his back against the building. He pulled seven bullets out of his pocket, loaded four into the revolver, and clicked the chamber shut. He’d only had the gun a week when he and Twist found the dead doper, curled at the edges and lying in the basement of a rock house. Twist didn’t want anything to do with it. But Marcus did. Target practice. He put two bullets in the doper’s chest, and one in the temple. There wasn’t much blood, and Marcus didn’t feel anything inside. Except maybe he’d wasted three bullets. Still, word got around a little. And Marcus knew shooting someone was something he could do.
He walked to the corner of the building and took a look. The mouth of the alley was empty. At the very back was a truck with SILVER LINE TRUCKING printed on the side. Marcus leaned against the wall and felt the dull pain tapping away inside his head. He didn’t know why it was there. Just that it was.
Marcus stuck the gun in his pocket, crossed the street, and banged on the back door. “Hey.”
Marcus could hear the Korean in the cellar, light steps on the stairs, and then he was opening the door.
“Marcus. Where you been? Good boy.”
The Korean’s name was Mr. Lee. None of the chain stores would open up in the neighborhood, so Lee sold them everything from cereal to socks. Charged for it, too. But that wasn’t the Korean’s major source of revenue. For that, you needed to head to his cellar.
“You want money?” Lee rubbed a thick thumb and index finger together.
Marcus shrugged. Who didn’t want money?
“Good boy. Come.” Lee led him to the back of the store and sat him on a stool. The Korean rolled up his pants leg and pulled a fold of twenties from his sock. “Two hundred dollar. For you. Take it. Quick.”
Lee nudged the money toward the boy. Marcus let it sit.
“Why you not take?”
“Why you pushing?”
Lee moved the money again. This time with his eyes.
“That for the last order?” Marcus said.
The Korean nodded. The last order had come in the day before yesterday. Flat boxes. Lots of them. Lots more than they usually handled. Marcus didn’t know what was inside the boxes. Just that it was worth some cash. He slipped the money off the counter and into his pocket. Lee smiled and seemed to relax.
“Good boy.”
“That’s a big order, Lee. Goin’ to the county?”
Lee shook his head. “No. Side order. Very important.”
Marcus ran his eyes around the store. To his left was a shelf full of cans of SpaghettiO’s and cellophane packages of kitchen sponges. Marcus could never figure out Lee’s system for shelving things. Or maybe there wasn’t one. The Korean had turned his back to the boy, counting the rest of the money he’d pulled from his sock. He was talking a steady stream about the order. Something about delivery for tonight. The Korean swatted at a fly, but missed. Marcus watched it land on the Korean’s ear. The street outside was empty. The clock on the wall was broken, stuck at 3:00 p.m. Marcus took the gun out of his pocket and stood. The Korean flicked at the fly again.
“Marcus, I need for you… ”
Lee turned just as the boy fired. The gun was louder than Marcus remembered, and he jumped in his sneakers. Lee fell in one piece, like a small, sturdy oak. He knocked over the stool on the way down and groaned in a way that embarrassed Marcus. Lee grabbed at the boy’s leg and looked up, asking with his eyes if Marcus knew how this had happened. Then the Korean let go and rolled onto his back. Lee had taken the bullet just under his left cheekbone. He was still alive, staring at the ceiling, but couldn’t seem to talk. Marcus squatted beside him.
“Sorry, Lee. But they was going to kill you tonight anyways.”
Marcus rolled the Korean onto his stomach and shot him twice more in the back of the head. He took a heavy set of keys out of the dead man’s pocket, walked over to the basement door, and pushed it open. A run of wooden stairs plunged into the darkness. Marcus hit an overhead light and played his hand along the crooked bricks as he walked downstairs. The room was long and narrow. The boxes were stacked along one wall. Beside them, a forklift and a dolly.
Marcus thought about opening one of the boxes but figured that could wait. Whatever was inside was worth something. Marcus knew Ray Ray’s dope was probably somewhere in the basement as well, but left it alone. The boy was ambitious. Not a fool.
He walked to the very back of the room and pulled at a section of drywall. It was loosely attached and came free with a single tug. The neighborhood always wondered how the Korean moved his merchandise. How he managed to never use the same stash house twice. Behind the drywall was the answer, in the form of an iron door large enough to drive the forklift through
. Marcus took out the Korean’s keys and found the one that fit. Then he pushed the door open and turned on the light. Winding away from him was a tunnel made of broken cement and soft dirt. It burrowed into the neighborhood, branching off into a series of smaller tunnels, each leading to a different abandoned building. Lee had made the mistake of showing him the network only a week ago.
Marcus turned back to the forklift. He was about to fire it up when he heard a twinge of sound on the stairs. Marcus snapped the light off and crouched in the darkness. A flashlight flared, painting the cellar in shapes and shadows.
“Come on out, son. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
The voice sounded hollow, like it was coming from the bottom of a barrel. Marcus sneaked a peek. The man was tall. White. He wore a long brown leather coat, carried a rifle, and had a black mask covering part of his face. From where he sat, Marcus thought the man couldn’t see him. Until the man brought the rifle up to his shoulder and pulled back on the trigger.
CHAPTER 16
A hard wind whipped over the West Side, scouring the streets and covering everything else in a fine layer of grit. A cloudburst of cold rain followed, turning the grit to mud and sending people into doorways and bus shelters until the squall blew itself out. I flicked on my wipers, cruised past the United Center, and kept going.
This stretch of the West Side had been my beat for almost two years. As I drove, the memories tiptoed in. A sexual assault here. A couple of bodies over there. A rape and murder made to look like a house fire two doors down from that. In Chicago, the West Side was known as the worst side, and there was a reason. Lately, however, things had begun to change.
I pulled up to a stoplight just gone red. Kitty-corner was a condo development with units starting at three hundred K. The building was brand-new and half empty. It sat on a piece of ground that had once served as the neighborhood’s de facto garbage dump. In 1998, it was known simply as the Lots. My thoughts ran back to the spring of that year and the bodies I’d found there. Nine dead faces. Nine soft bags of flesh.
A car beeped, and I jumped. The light had turned green. I shook off the past and hit the gas. Western Avenue flashed by. Then California. And Kedzie. The whitewash of gentrification began to blister and peel, and the old life reemerged. Currency exchanges fought for storefront space with Mexican diners that served menudo on weekends. A couple dozen whole chickens turned on a spit in the window of Harold’s Chicken Shack. A man carrying a thirty-pack of Keystone Light stopped in front of the shack and watched the birds turn. After a while he sat on a bench, popped a beer, and had a talk with himself. All of that, however, was a tangled sideshow to the main piece of business in this part of town-the cash-and-carry drug trade.
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