Hope Rides Again

by Andrew Shaffer

  He was right, but I continued my pitch. I was on a roll like honey drizzle. “We’re the only ones who can do anything about this. You’ve got the connections, I’ve got the—”

  “Aviators?” he said, taking a shot at me and the hoop in one graceful motion.

  “The street smarts.”

  “Hmmmmm.”

  “I’ve got the drive, then. The fortitude. The resolve to see that justice is served. I’ve been a faithful cog in the machine my entire career. I did everything I was supposed to do. And then you came along and showed me how shortsighted I’d been.”

  “Joe—”

  “Hold up, I’m not finished.” I paused. “What were you going to say?”

  “I was going to say that you’re not giving yourself enough credit. The machine needs cogs. It doesn’t work without them. The people of this country need good men and women like you in government. That said, I’m not sure this is the way to go. I suggest you call the mayor’s office, get Rahm Emanuel on the horn, and say, ‘Oh, wait, you know what, I do know that guy. I was having a senior moment.’ Tell him about the BlackBerry.”

  I grunted a reply.

  “No need to be like that, Joe. Rahm’s a good guy,” Barack said, shooting a solid three-pointer. “A little rough around the edges—”

  “Like a serrated knife.”

  “—but he gets the job done.”

  I didn’t have a reply to that, so I kept my mouth shut. It was as close to a compliment as I would ever pay any of Barack’s Chicago buds.

  He dribbled the ball some more, but his enthusiasm for shooting hoops had waned. “Weren’t you going to hang out at the airport on standby for an earlier flight?”

  “Still haven’t found the right souvenir for Jill. Might take all day.”

  Barack passed me the ball. I wasn’t ready for it but caught it just the same. Some things you never forget. “Let’s find your kicks.”

  And that was it. That was all he had to say for me to know we were on the same page. Brothers again—once and for always.

  A cool gust hit me, causing a chill to run up my spine.

  We both knew what we were getting into. We knew the

  risks, which we didn’t discuss. There are some things in life worth taking risks for. Justice is one of them. With the police otherwise tied up, there was an opening for us to step in and lend a hand—off the record, of course. With Barack Obama’s connections inside government intelligence agencies, we might even have had access to more information than the cops on the ground. Not that I expected him to use them. He knew I liked to play things above the board.

  I could hear exactly what Jill would say if she knew what Barack and I were about to do: You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. You’ve proven yourself enough.

  This wasn’t about other people. It wasn’t about impressing anyone, except maybe the voices in my head—Ma and Pa Biden, and the lessons they’d imparted on me. It was about doing the right thing. As if that had ever been in doubt.

  10

  The task should have been easy: Find Barack’s BlackBerry, find the shooter. Unfortunately, whoever had the phone had either drained the battery or turned it off. The trail was a dead end. Thankfully, that wasn’t our only angle to work. A couple of phone calls to South Side hospitals was all it took to find Shaun at St. Bernard. He was out of surgery. Shaun had told the first responders he hadn’t seen the shooter, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have suspects in mind. Barack didn’t argue. He’d skimmed Shaun’s social media profiles and come up empty. The only question was whether Shaun would be in any shape to talk.

  I was done with public transportation for the day. Barack suggested we take his electric car, which the house sitter used to run errands. I’d seen it sitting out back, off to the side of the driveway. In fact, I’d mistaken it at first for a kids’ Big Wheel. I didn’t catch the make or model, because electric cars aren’t cars. They’re abominations.

  “I’m not going to drive a car that you have to plug in first. I use a gas lawnmower and a gas string trimmer, and you better believe I’m going to drive a car that drinks gas like it’s going out of style.”

  “It is going out of style, Joe.”

  I asked Steve, who’d reluctantly agreed to escort us, if he had a car in town. Usually, the Secret Service rolled around in these big, fat Suburbans that could chew up a lawn like nobody’s business. Steve had something better: a sleek black 1980 Firebird Trans Am, rented from a collectible car rental agency. He was planning to visit his folks in Iowa after the Obamas left town. A little spring vacation. That was A-OK by me. I’d make sure the car was still in one piece when I was finished with it.

  “I’m the only driver authorized on the rental agreement,” he said.

  “Those things aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on,” I told him. “I went to law school, so I should know.”

  With me behind the wheel, we hopped onto the Dan Ryan expressway. The Firebird’s T-top panels were off and the side windows were down, allowing the wind to whip my white hair to and fro. There was less and less of it every year, but it was still a full head compared to the tangled weeds some guys my age called hair. The radio was tuned to a classic rock station and cranked up. Steppenwolf blasting from the speakers. Not something I’d normally listen to, but the car demanded a little heavy-metal thunder: the turbocharged V8 engine had some real kick to it, like my brother-in-law’s homemade honey mustard. Maybe that no-talent writer had been on to something when he’d put me behind the wheel of a Firebird in his book.

  Steve was in the copilot’s seat clenching his jaw. Barack was crammed into the backseat, his bony knees scrunched up to his chin like a gargoyle. A very uncomfortable gargoyle.

  It was too bad he had to ride in back, not in the passenger seat, buckled in and ready for action. But Barack Obama was no ordinary passenger. The windows weren’t tinted, and passers-by would spot him like a great white in a goldfish bowl. I didn’t envy Barack’s desire to be one of the regular people again, to pretend like he didn’t have Secret Service surrounding him twenty-four hours a day. But there was nothing regular about Barack Obama, besides his bowel movements. And even then, who could be sure?

  Traffic was moving faster on the Dan Ryan than on the city streets. All it cost me was six bucks. Actually, Steve would be picking up the tab. I was blasting through the toll stations and letting the cameras pick up his license plate.

  The unmarked cop car tailing us was free.

  The leprechaun was behind the wheel. Same fella with the red beard and green jacket I’d seen uptown. My first thought was that my eyes were playing tricks on me, but Steve saw him, too. Barack tried to turn his head, but he couldn’t quite manage, all cramped into the backseat. He thought I was being paranoid. There were plenty of people dressed as leprechauns out and about today, he said.

  And maybe I was a little paranoid. If so, it was for good reason. There was a saying I’d picked up from a bumper sticker years ago: Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you. Bento Box had someone tracking my movements earlier in the day. I’d assumed he called them off.

  I’d assumed wrong.

  “That lane open?” I said, angling the rearview mirror so I could see better. The Firebird’s power rumbled through my fingertips on the steering wheel.

  Steve glanced around. “That’s the shoulder—”

  Too late. I’d already whipped out of traffic. Ahead, the shoulder was clear all the way to the next exit. I gunned it, kicking up gravel. Steve braced himself against the dashboard. Thing was, there wasn’t anything for him to worry about. One of my nicknames may have been Amtrak Joe, but I’d spent more time behind the wheel than Mario Andretti. “Car Joe” didn’t quite have the same ring to it, however.

  I hit the off-ramp doing fifty-five and we bottomed out, sparks flying out from under us. The unmarked cop car followed suit. The light at the top of the exit was yellow. I had five milliseconds to decide whether to go for it or
hit the brakes and pray they’d been serviced within the past decade.

  I chose Option B.

  The brakes locked up on me, and the sweet smell of burnt rubber flooded my nostrils. It had been a good long time since I’d smelled that delicious scent. The light turned red, and traffic started up in opposite directions. We skidded to a stop right before the intersection. Maybe an inch into it, if I’m being honest.

  Steve had gone white as my knuckles. Life gave him the heebie-jeebies. I’d never quite understood why someone so jumpy had gone into the Secret Service, one of the most stressful jobs on the planet. Like me, he probably liked a good challenge.

  I tossed my phone to Barack.

  “Check the map and see what route is the quickest from here to the hospital. Hurry before this light turns green.”

  Barack made a face in the mirror. “It says the fastest way is the Dan Ryan.”

  The light turned green.

  “Did you hear me, Joe?” Barack said.

  The leprechaun was idling behind us. Not honking. Waiting.

  The light turned yellow.

  “Let’s see what this guy has under his hood,” I said, pressing the gas pedal to the mat once the light turned red. It was drive-it-like-you-stole-it time. I’d never stolen anything in my life, but I had a lead foot heavier than Barack’s summer reading list.

  We shot through the intersection and merged back onto the expressway faster than you could say Jack Robinson. In the rearview, I spied the car that had been trailing us trapped at the stoplight by cross traffic. I didn’t know why Bento Box hadn’t called his man off. I was beginning to think his interest in keeping tabs on me and Barack had less to do with our safety and more to do with keeping the city safe from us.

  11

  I thought there’d be some sort of police presence outside the boy’s room on the third floor, but there was none. He wasn’t even registered as a John Doe—he was under his own name. Whoever had tried to off him was free to waltz in and finish the job. I would have to ask Barack to hire some private security for the floor. No one had taken a second look at me in the halls. If I’d known things were so lax around here, I wouldn’t have told Barack and Steve to wait in the car.

  Shaun was laid up in bed, an assortment of cables and monitors beeping and whirring away. His eyes were closed. The black man in the fedora who’d nearly run me down outside the Tribune Tower was at the foot of the bed, a Bible in his hands.

  He didn’t look up at me as I entered. “He’s a good boy.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I glanced at Shaun and felt my heart in my shoes. I’d stood by too many kids in hospital beds in my time. Way too many. I met the eyes of the man who’d spoken.

  “Pastor Jenkins Brown,” he said. “The Red Door. We’re nondenominational.”

  “Joe Biden. Uh, Catholic.”

  “Barry’s friend.”

  If he recognized me from outside the conference this morning, he didn’t show it.

  “Sorry I missed your breakfast earlier today,” I said. “Traffic was awful.”

  “So was the catering. I cut out right after for some chicken and waffles from Harold’s.”

  I laughed nervously. Shaun was sedated, according to the nurse I’d spoke to. Not in a coma. Just soundly asleep. He’d made it through surgery like a trooper. It was a miracle that the bullets hadn’t hit anything important. Why didn’t it feel like a miracle, then?

  “Shaun went to your church, didn’t he?”

  “He’s one of my kids. I’ve said that about all the children in our congregation, but Shaun is special. His mother passed a few years ago. A stray bullet. No father around, so our Holy Father stepped in.”

  “No other family?”

  “An aunt. Selling herself on the streets. Always drunk and high.”

  I shook my head. Pastor Brown spoke plainly about such matters, as if it was normal for a kid to lose everyone in his life before the age of sixteen. It wasn’t normal. But, as I’d come to understand, the only strategy for coping with the abnormal was to accept it. To let it become one with you. Otherwise you could lose your mind.

  “I also understand he got himself into some legal trouble,” I said.

  “Like most of the kids round here without any positive role models, he was caught up with the wrong crowd. Made some mistakes. I don’t know what you heard, but all that was a long time ago.”

  “You said ‘the wrong crowd.’ Like a gang?”

  “We got all sorts of gangs running the streets in the neighborhood. The Gangster Disciples, the BPS. The Crooks. They’re all the same—selling drugs, jacking suckers. You can’t live here without knowing someone in a gang. Was he ever a member himself?” He shrugged. “He’s a member of the Red Door now.”

  “Would they have come for him?” I asked. “Maybe he made it out of the lifestyle but they weren’t willing to let him go.” It happened all the time in mafia movies, though I kept that tidbit to myself.

  “The gangs know not to mess with one of my kids. Don’t want to start a holy war.”

  “I’ve never met a criminal who had much respect for the word of God. As you surely know, when you break the law, you’re probably breaking a commandment, too.”

  “They respect my word.” He was squeezing the bed rail tight, causing it to tremble ever so slightly. He was angry, but he had a right to be.

  “Shaun hadn’t been in trouble for two or three years. He wasn’t on probation no more. He found God. Or, rather, God found him. They had a strong connection.” He paused. “They have a strong connection. They’re not ready to meet yet.”

  I didn’t say anything because there wasn’t anything to say. Nobody—not Pastor Brown, not the Vatican—had the inside scoop on when somebody’s number would be called. All I knew for certain was that every one of us on God’s green earth was marching toward the end, closer and closer to heaven every day. I couldn’t do anything about that but maybe, just maybe, I could find out who did this to Shaun. I promised I’d take a train around the world and back for him if he were my kid. And a Biden keeps his promises.

  12

  I returned to the Firebird. It was empty. Barack and Steve must have gone to stretch their legs. Standing there by myself in the parking garage, I could have been anybody. That would all change when I threw my ball cap into the ring for another run at the White House. The clock was ticking—not just on my age, but on getting a team together. Building support. I should have stuck around the forum, talked to Caruso. Was that what Oprah would have done?

  What I needed was to get home. Recharge my batteries.

  “Things don’t look good, do they?”

  I turned around. Barack was standing ten paces away, partly hidden behind a concrete beam. All I could make out was the outline of his dad jeans. I half-expected him to have a lit butt between the fingers of his left hand, but he’d quit years ago. If he picked up a cigarette, it meant that things had gone off the rails. With the direction the country was headed, I was surprised he wasn’t chain-smoking.

  “Shaun?” I said. “He’s breathing on his own. Knocked out, but breathing. He’s on a cocktail of antibiotics to ward off infection. They’re going to keep him sedated at least overnight. He could go home as soon as Monday morning, though. He was lucky.”

  Barack stepped out of the shadows. “Steve has someone reviewing the security tapes at the Tribune Tower. There was no camera on the green room, or inside it, but there’s plenty of video otherwise. They’re focused on identifying anyone who may have been out of place. They’re matching everyone on the tapes with the attendee log, to see if perhaps someone went down to the lower level who shouldn’t have been there.”

  “That’s going to take forever.”

  “Facial recognition software may speed things up a bit.”

  “I saw all the security in that building. I doubt they let somebody slip through who wasn’t supposed to be there.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  H
e was too close to the situation to see what I could see. The Secret Service was looking for a needle in a haystack. They needed to start looking at the hay. The caterers and hotel staff. The conference attendees. The volunteer staff. The speakers. Barack’s friends.

  I’d let the Secret Service do things their way. For now.

  “I don’t suppose you have any contacts on the force?” I asked. “Anyone we can lean on to get our hands on the police report from the shooting?”

  Barack shook his head. “They’re loyal to the chief of police, who’s loyal to the mayor. And from what you said, Rahm’s in a fighting mood. Everybody owes somebody in this town. Trouble is, I don’t have a lot of favors to call in.”

  “You didn’t cut them enough pork when you were in office.”

  “I had an obligation to the American people, not just to Chicago. Even as a senator, I was always thinking about the big picture.”

  “All politics is local,” I said, quoting the dearly departed Tip O’Neill.

  “You were much better at the political stuff than I ever was, Joe.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but he was right. I didn’t want to step on his toes. Not when he was serving up humble pie.

  “Ran into your pastor friend upstairs,” I said, switching to less fraught territory. “He didn’t have much to say about Shaun, other than he was a good kid with a bad track record. Which we already knew, of course.”

  Barack nodded. He didn’t correct me when I called Pastor Brown his friend. I’d assumed they were close.

  “Didn’t see any family upstairs,” I said. “His mother’s passed, his father’s out of the picture.”

  Barack didn’t say anything. Perhaps he knew this about the kid, perhaps not. He had written an entire memoir about his own MIA biological father. He knew the drill.

  “He has an aunt,” I said. “I assume she was—is—his legal guardian. He’s only sixteen. She’s not here, though, which is just damned odd. The pastor hinted she had some troubles of her own.”