The phone rustled in Peter’s hands. Marcus heard him breathing, hesitating. When his voice came back, it was nearly a whisper. “I don’t know, Marcus.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I just don’t want to get wrapped up in all of this. If it’s OK with you, I think I’ll stay out of it. I’m sure you’ll recognize her when you see her. You don’t need me there.”
“You said yourself that you’re worried she may be next,” Marcus said. “If you mean that, then you’ll help me find her. I don’t know who I’m looking for.”
Peter sighed through the phone. “OK. Fine.”
“Give me your address. I’ll be back in Chicago in about an hour. Be ready to go.”
22 LUCKY
LUCINDA TILLMAN’S SUV GROANED as she turned the key, the engine whining like a gutted animal. The check engine light flared for the last time before the vehicle yawned a sad, sputtering death.
There wasn’t time to grieve, even if she had wanted to. Tillman threw the door open and slammed it shut behind her, making off down the street to catch the next L to West Lawn. There was a bar in that corner of the city by the name of Lucky’s. When Tillman had met with him yesterday, Paulina’s fiancé had scratched the name of the bar on the back of an envelope Tillman had folded in the back pocket of her jeans, along with the names of some of Penny’s drinking companions. Tillman knew that Lucky’s would be the best place to find them. Drunks don’t too often stray from the barstool they’ve adopted as their second, or in some cases first, home. She only hoped that they would know something, anything that would help her locate Paulina.
She hadn’t taken the L in months. In that time, she had nearly been able to forget the acrid smell of piss, cigarillo smoke, and industrial cleaning products. The windows scratched with apartment keys into the shapes of names and phalluses and hearts—initials added to initials, symbols of unending and indelible love. Passengers sitting like antiques shop statuettes, clutching purses and backpacks, staring forward into some hopeful future that lurked always beyond the next yawning turn.
She got off at the West Lawn station and bounded down the concrete stairs into the street. Half walking, half running. Sidestepping the slow crawl of sidewalk traffic, sliding through clustered bodies stopping in their stride to take a call or simply stare at the steeple of some Unitarian church they’d never noticed before, a grocery bag slung into their elbow, twisting in the wind.
Lucky’s protruded from the neighboring buildings as though it were taking a step toward the street. A green awning adorned with painted-on shamrocks scattered around the Gothic typeface name of the bar. Two men in Day-Glo construction vests stood against the entrance, pulling lazily on their cigarettes, nodding in agreement at something neither of them had said.
Inside Lucky’s it was dark enough that Tillman had to pause in the entryway to let her eyes adjust. The only sources of light spawned from beneath the liquor bottles at the bar and the lights hanging over the deserted pool tables. As her eyes gradually focused, she saw four people seated at the bar, a few more in the booths lining the walls. Older folks, crusted from a day just beginning. Speaking in low, conspiratorial volumes, followed by sporadic bouts of laughter loud enough to scare away any and all pigeons within a one-block radius.
Tillman approached the bar. She took out her wallet and removed her credit card, tapping it against the wooden counter for the bartender’s attention. The bartender was young. Or at least too young to be working at a place like this. Hair in a tight ponytail that pulled her eyebrows back in a look of constant surprise. She wore a low-cut top that revealed a tattoo over her right breast—a shamrock wearing sunglasses with arms and fingers giving two thumbs-up.
“What can I get you?” she asked.
“A ginger ale.”
“Sure.” The girl nodded, scooping ice into a glass. “Are you driving someone?”
“What?”
“It’s just, you’re ordering a ginger ale at a bar. I figure you’re driving someone.”
“No, I’m actually looking for someone. Maybe you can help me.”
“Who you looking for?” she asked, cracking open a ginger ale and pouring it into the glass.
Tillman withdrew the envelope from her pocket, unfolded it. She read the names. “Abe Dawkins, Chuck, Wanda, Tank, and”—she squinted to make out Ibrahim’s scratchy handwriting in the scant light—“Slimskin?”
Some of the regulars at the counter overheard this particular name, laughed into their empty glasses.
The bartender took her credit card to the register. “Slimskin got arrested a few nights ago,” she said over her shoulder, smiling. “Pissed on a cruiser with the cop still inside.”
The men at the bar listening in on the conversation laughed once more, relishing the memory. One of them said, “Ol’ Dumbfuck Slimskin.”
Another—an older man with a John Deere ball cap, staring longingly into a half-empty pint—replied, “Wasn’t Slimskin’s fault. That asshole cop was baiting him. Infringed his rights. It’s right there in the Constitution.”
The bartender ignored the commentary, turned back to Tillman. “Tank and Chuck won’t be in for another few hours, I’d guess. Wanda’s in the hospital with walking pneumonia, last I knew. But Abe”—the girl brought Tillman her receipt to sign—“was right over there somewhere last I saw him.” She pointed across the dark room, squinting through the din. “May have gone out the back for a cigarette, though.”
“Abe’s making a call,” said one of the men to Tillman. “Wouldn’t bother him if I were you.”
“What are you looking for them for?” the bartender asked Tillman, setting the ginger ale down before her.
“Just business,” Tillman said. Business, she knew, meant nearly anything in a crusted bar this time of day, not even noon. A word that flagged itself as a sort of warning shot.
The bartender nodded and went back to talking with her regulars. Tillman took her ginger ale and sat down at the bar, keeping her eye trained on the back door.
“Back to what I was saying,” said one of the men to his half-drunk comrades, huddling over the bar, punctuating his words with thrusts of his whiskey. “What happened to Penny was a goddamned shame, no matter what you think of the man. But if it’s true the Kingfisher is still alive like some of them are saying, then he’s going to unleash holy hell pretty soon. Mark my words. Won’t be a second too late, either.”
“Oh, please,” the bartender said. “If he’s alive, he doesn’t give a damn about any of this.”
“Or he’s just old and tired,” said another. “He’s done with it. Can’t blame him.”
“Man like that doesn’t get old and tired.”
“Bullshit he doesn’t. We all get old and tired.”
“He’s not like us. He’s not one of us. I’ve said it before, but I’ll tell you again. He came from somewhere else. Some alien visitor. Maybe he ascended back to wherever planet he came from.”
“Don’t start with that again.”
“I don’t feel old, and I don’t feel tired. That make me an alien superhero?”
“Take a look at yourself. You look like you stumbled out of the morgue.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’d have to buy me a drink first.”
Tillman decided that waiting on Abe wasn’t an option. She took her drink and walked through the bar toward the back exit. Stained glass Budweiser lamps hung over grass-green tables. A dartboard hung askew on an empty wall, surrounded with Sharpie graffiti. Faces emerged in the shadows of booths she thought were empty, whites of eyes tracking her movements. Each step forward felt less certain than the last, a growing malignancy in her periphery, and slowly, so as not to warrant suspicion, she reached behind her back and touched the stock of her pistol. Just to know it was there. Its familiar heft, the coolness of metal pressed against skin.
She opened the back door. It fed directly into a narrow alley, two body length’s wide. A rat stood on its haunches across fr
om her, working its way through a trash bag. It regarded her with bored indifference before resuming its immovable feast. Tillman turned and saw a man standing at the end of the alley, facing the street. He wore a black T-shirt, dirt-stained jeans. Long-limbed, but muscular. A shaved and sweating head. His phone was tucked between his ear and his shoulder, freeing up his hands to hold a cigarette and a beer bottle.
She lit one of her few remaining cigarettes, leaned against the brick wall.
He hung up his phone and started toward the back entrance. As he approached, Tillman saw tattoos crawling along his pale-white skin. The tattoos were smudged, fading, as though evaporating from his skin. Prison ink. He took a swig of his beer and flicked his cigarette at the wall.
When he passed her, she asked, “Abe Dawkins?”
He froze, slowly turning on his heels to face her. He looked her up and down, a carnivorous grin. “Who’s asking?”
“My name is Lucinda Tillman,” she said in a cloud of smoke. “I was hoping I could talk to you.”
“That right?” He smiled, revealing a row of grayscale teeth. “About what?”
“Penny.”
He nodded once, paused, and then took off in a sprint down the alley. Tillman went after him, dropping her cigarette and ginger ale, no time to question the moment. Abe was surprisingly fast for such a large body, but she was faster. He turned his head over his shoulder and saw her gaining on him. He spun around, planted his feet, and threw his beer bottle at her head. She sidestepped and stumbled over a fallen trash can, landing on her palms. By the time she regained her footing, Abe had exited the alley into the street. She turned in either direction and spotted him running toward an intersection, barreling through wandering crowds. She chased after him, pushing through pedestrians amid a flurry of curses and shouts. Half a block ahead of her, Abe ran through the open intersection. As she neared, the light had changed and cars were incoming, but she only quickened her sprint, willing her strides to widen beyond her anatomy. A chorus of horns, squealing tires. From the corner of her eye, she saw a black town car screeching toward her, unable to stop in time. She hurdled, feet forward, and slid across the hood, landing on her feet. The driver leaned out of the window, shouting nonsensical damnation. She made off down the sidewalk and darted after Abe into another alley. He was slowing down, ambling in his run. She summoned whatever energy remained and took off full-speed. When she was within range, he whipped around, brandishing a butterfly knife that he flourished deftly in his fingers.
Red-faced, eyes bulging, heaving for air. “Get the fuck away from me.”
In a single motion, she pulled her gun from her waistband and leveled it at his chest. She gestured at his knife. “Drop it.”
She saw him calculating the distance between them. He was within distance to strike, but in the time it would take him, she could bury two shots in his heart. She worried he might not know that, but she would be willing to prove it if push came to shove.
“Drop it,” she said again, keeping her voice low so as not to attract the attention of the passersby on the nearest street, just twenty yards away.
He opened his hand and let the knife clatter to the ground.
“Step back against the wall.”
He held up his hands and took a step back behind a dumpster, which effectively concealed them both from the sight lines at either opening of the alley. She kicked his knife beneath the dumpster.
“I didn’t fucking do anything,” he panted.
“Then why run?” she said. “The moment I mentioned Penny.”
“I didn’t kill Penny,” he spat. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“So you ran?” She kept her gun pointed at him.
“Because I know what you assholes think.”
“Who?”
“The cops,” he sneered, still catching his breath. “Yeah, go ahead and look surprised. I know a cop when I see one. And I’ll tell you right now, yes, I was with Penny the night he went missing, but I swear to God I didn’t do that to him. Penny was my friend.” His voice shook, either from exhaustion or something else entirely. “I was at Lucky’s all last night. You can ask anyone.”
“Then tell me about when you last saw him.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything. I want a lawyer.”
She raised her pistol and aimed it at his head.
He stared down the barrel, a smile widening. “You cops might get away with a hell of a lot, but shooting an unarmed man in the head in broad daylight may be pushing your luck.”
“Good thing I’m not a cop,” she said, finger on the trigger. “Tell me when you last saw Penny.”
Abe’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “Lucky’s. Two nights ago. Penny left and that was the last I, or anyone else, saw of him before those fucking videos. I’m telling you the truth.”
“What time did he leave that night?”
“Earlier than usual. Maybe ten or so.”
“Why’d he leave early?”
“Said he had a job interview.”
“At ten o’clock at night?”
“Yes, now would you please put that thing down?” He nodded at the gun. “It’s making it pretty fucking difficult to think.”
“Are you going to answer my questions?”
He nodded. She put her gun in her waistband. A show of goodwill she hoped would be reciprocated.
“Penny said he had a job interview to be a doorman at some yuppie hotel,” Abe said, releasing a heavy breath. “The Armada. His daughter was going to take him there when she got off her shift at the hospital.”
Tillman’s worst fear was confirmed. If on the night of his disappearance Penny had left Lucky’s with Paulina, then it seemed unavoidable that Paulina was the other hostage in the video. Ibrahim was right. And whoever had wanted Penny had likely attained another hostage by simple chance. Two for one.
Abe pointed his finger at her, smiling. “I should have known you weren’t a cop. No way those assholes would show up around here after all that.”
“After what?”
“I called them after I saw the first video. Right after watching the first video. Walter getting a bullet in the brain. I called the cops. Didn’t give them my name, but I told them I thought Penny was in trouble. Lady on the phone took down my information. But that’s most likely damn near all she did.”
“You knew Walter Williams?”
Abe sighed and leaned against the wall. He reached into his pocket. Tillman reflexively reached for her pistol, but Abe held up a pack of cigarettes in the gesture of surrender. “Jesus, relax,” he said, withdrawing a cigarette. “I’ve known Penny a long time. We go way back. I knew him back when he still worked with Walter. That was back before Walter took to the straight and narrow. I knew that if that psycho had Walter, he would have Penny, too.”
“How would you know that?”
Abe lit his cigarette, drew on it deeply. “Same reason I knew the cops wouldn’t do shit when I called them.”
“Tell me.”
Abe hesitated, blowing smoke in the space between them. “Penny told me something one night when he was drunk. Told me never to repeat it. Made me promise. Said it would be bad news for both of us.”
“Tell me.”
“Lady, I don’t even know who you are or what the hell you’re trying to do here. Walter is dead, and so is Penny. I don’t see why any of this matters anymore.”
“I’m trying to find whoever is doing this.”
“Why?”
“Because he has Paulina. Penny’s daughter. He has her.”
“What?” Abe asked, but no sooner did the question leave his lips than his face blanched, and the veins in his neck tightened like a cord of rope. “That’s her in the video?”
She nodded. “Tell me what Penny told you.”
He swallowed. “Paulina is a good girl. She never did nothing to deserve this.”
“I’m going to try to help her,” she said. “But I need you to tell me what Penny told you.”<
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“I don’t like this one bit,” he said, nervously eyeing the street. “If I tell you what Penny told me, it could come back and fuck me up. Only reason I’m even thinking about telling you is because I’m choosing to believe you’re telling me the truth about Paulina. That she’s in trouble. That you’re trying to find her.”
“It’s true. I promise.”
Abe held his cigarette up in front of his face, studying the ember. “Penny told me that one night, way back then, he and Walter and some other guy I never met were at their boss’s house. The boss had some people over for a party, and in the middle of it he was saddling Penny, Walter, and the other guy with supply. Guess they were his main runners back then, see. Their job was to saddle the corner guys. But when the boss was measuring out the supply, the Kingfisher busted in and fucked the guy up. Beat the shit out of him.”
“I’ve heard the story,” Tillman interrupted. “All of that was in Marcus Waters’s book. The Kingfisher spared the drug runners. Why would Penny tell you not to tell anyone?”
“Because that book didn’t tell the whole story. It missed what happened after.” Abe breathed out, looking either way down the empty alley. Tillman saw that he was frightened and not used to the feeling. “That night, after the Kingfisher came in and beat the hell out of the boss, the Kingfisher left as quick as he’d come. Walter stayed behind with his boss, who was in real shit shape. The other runner ran off before the cops came. And Penny took off, too, but, see, he wasn’t running away. No, he was looking for help for his boss. The boss was going to die if he didn’t get some help. And yeah, I know that his boss pulled a gun on Penny. Godknows I would have let the fucker die, but Penny was just that type of guy who would help anyone who needed it. That’s just who he was. He cared.”
“So Penny left for help and then what?” Tillman asked.
“He said he saw a cop car parked a ways down from the back door of the house,” Abe said, cautiously measuring his words as though they were sworn testimony. “Said he couldn’t hardly believe his luck. He knew he’d likely be getting a drug charge by the cops when it was all said and done, but still he ran up to the cruiser, knocked on the window. But it didn’t roll down. So Penny started shouting through the window that someone was hurt and needed help. Said someone was going to die and needed an ambulance. But the cop just stared back at him behind the window. Penny kept on screaming over and over again. Said that his friend was attacked by the Kingfisher. Kept on screaming that his friend was going to die. But the cop just stayed right there, pretending like nothing was happening.”
The Reign of the Kingfisher Page 22