by Thomas Laird
“He’s strange, yeah. A killer of a thousand? That’s Grodnov’s patch. There’s still no doubt that he and Wade are the prime players. But this guy is a loon. Not the certifiable type… He’s got dirt under his fingernails. That much I know,” Tommy said.
Then Crealy arrived with the soft drinks.
“Lonely, living alone out here?” Parisi queried the maintenance man.
“Sometimes. Sometimes it is.”
Parisi took a sip of the diet cola, put down the can, and then walked toward the front of the house where the Taurus was parked.
*
Parisi was consumed with the oncoming birth of his son. He couldn’t sleep, and he was afraid that the Russian woman was still watching them. He was anxiety ridden about her closeness, even though a squad car remained parked in front of their home twenty-four hours, every day.
The war with Iraq—the sequel, that was—was looming ever nearer. No one had forgotten Nine One One. The films of the planes slicing into the towers. The firemen sifting through the rubble and the debris. The photos of the terrified New Yorkers running away from the black clouds that followed the collisions with the two jets. The void that the blasts had created. The hole in Manhattan that was a larger brother of the pit remaining where Chicago’s Anderson Building had stood.
Terrorism was at home. Terrorism had finally hit the Heartland. First it devastated America’s international city, and now they had struck at the core of the country.
Parisi felt that fear again, the fear that transcended the horrors of Southeast Asia, thirty years earlier. Then the battle was confined to someone else’s jungle. Now the streets where Parisi grew up were victim to the madness that only Middle Easterners knew on an everyday basis. The Israelis lived under the dark web of such horror, but Americans had never experienced that sustained dread until 2001, on a day in September.
What difference if it was the Russians, in Chicago? Did it make it more comfortable if Bin Laden had destroyed the Anderson Building? Did it make a difference which race had masterminded the tragedy?
All Parisi knew was that his witnesses were locked inside themselves and that the longer all this took to solve, the less there’d be left of him when it was finally all over with.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Grodnov had Mikhael Buginski take his car out for a ride. Mikhael was the same height as Alexei, and he had the same length blond hair with an almost identical ponytail.
The feint worked. Alexei saw the two plainclothesmen take off after Buginski in the Black Honda. Grodnov waited five minutes, then he took off in a Chevette that looked as if it were one step from the junkyard. It wasn’t too trashed because he didn’t want a cop pulling him over for a beef on the road. The car was in one piece, but it was a relic.
He looked behind himself carefully, watching for a pair of men in the front seat of a following ride, but no one appeared.
He drove down to the Old Town district. It was where legions of homeless children and runaways congregated. It was the headshops and the drugs and the corner clockers that attracted all these young males and females.
Now that he’d escaped his tail, it wouldn’t be a problem to track someone down and bring him to a safehouse on the north side that he used for just these occasions. He didn’t bring boys back to his apartment over the sprinkler store. That would make it easy for every cop in the city. He took them instead to a third floor apartment on Clyde Street on the far north side. The bottom two apartments were always unoccupied in case of a war with the Italians or the Vietnamese or the Hispanics. It was a place to crash in an emergency.
Grodnov got out of the Chevette and parked it on Cullom Street, in the heart of Old Town. The other advantage to this ride was that no one would want to steal a piece of shit like this white, worn-out Chevy.
The evening was sultry. It was late June, and it felt more like mid-August. The air was stifling, and the old beater didn’t have AC. Alexei felt the cold beads of sweat on his forehead. He felt the dripping on his chest and back and on his legs. It aroused him sexually, feeling his body wet and hot.
It was like the hunt. The boy, whoever he was, was the quarry. Now if he could only get a scent in his nostrils…
It took two blocks of walking before he picked a likely target out. The boy was standing outside a titty bar, trying to peer through the blackened glass.
“It’s bad for your health.”
“What?” the boy spun around and asked the blond man.
“How old are you?”
“Eight.”
“You look younger.”
“I’m almost nine.”
“Where do you live?”
The boy didn’t answer.
There was a low rumbling in the west. Grodnov remembered hearing about a thunderstorm warning on the radio while driving here.
“You must live somewhere.”
Still the boy was silent.
“You hungry, Chico?”
The kid was Mexican, Grodnov thought. There were lots of Hispanic street kids wandering about this district.
“Yeah.”
“C’mon. I’ll get you something.”
They walked two blocks north when the rains began.
“You got some place to get out of this weather?” Grodnov asked.
“Yeah. Down there, about two blocks.”
“I know some place that’s a lot closer,” Alexei told the boy, and he aimed the two of them in the direction of the Chevette. When he got within twenty yards of his beater ride, they loped up behind them. They were surrounded by six teenagers, six gangbangers.
“You like chickens, yes?” one of them said.
Before Grodnov could answer, they’d circled him, and in the rain there was no one else on the street, suddenly. Just Alexei, the boy, and the gangbangers.
Grodnov pulled the .45 Colt from the back of his pants and aimed it at the kid who’d done the talking. His little ‘chicken’ had disappeared into the rain by now.
“You got a gun? We got guns too.”
Three of the teenagers pulled out pieces. The other three drew out long switchblades.
“You think you came all this way to die tonight?” the talker told him with what looked like a rain-smeared smile. It was hard to tell because the rain was coming down in torrents, then.
Then the rotating blue lights of a squad car came racing down the street, and the six punks took off first. Alexei bolted toward the parked Chevette. It was only a block away, and the cops had taken off after the six teenagers. They let Alexei flee on his own.
Alexei’s heart was pounding all the way back to his apartment. He parked the Chevette on a sidestreet and walked two blocks to the sprinkler outlet building. He resided above the store in a three bedroom flat.
“You’re lucky,” Karin told him.
Grodnov jumped in shock. She was sitting in the dark on his bed.
“You’ve been looking for little ones again?”
He didn’t answer her. He never discussed it with her, and this was the first time she brought it up.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Watching over your two very best friends.”
“I told you to leave them alone, Karin. Things are bad enough without—“
“Without running out into the night and taking a chance that the police could catch you?”
“I didn’t have any problems with them, tonight. But a bunch of sixteen year olds almost made my ex-wife a widow.”
“You take stupid chances, Alexei. You don’t need little boys to take care of you. I can do anything you want.”
“Anything?” Grodnov smiled.
“Yes. Anything.”
He paid the whore and she left. Karin still lay upon the mattress where the three of them had lain just minutes ago.
“It was disgusting, Alexei.”
“I thought it was rather exciting.”
“You bring in a black whore and you make me…do things to her. And she does them to me…Why do yo
u humiliate me the way you do?”
“Because you will do anything I tell you to do. Isn’t that why?”
“You don’t care how it makes me feel?”
“Take a fucking shower. Then get out. I don’t want you coming back here anymore. If I have need of your services, I’ll call you.”
“You don’t mean that. You’re just being cruel because I—“
“Get out, Karin. Take a shower and get out of here.”
“I suppose you would have preferred some little—“
Alexei backhanded her, and she drew the .32 from under her pillow.
“You’re going to shoot me?” he smiled.
“You will not touch me. Not now. Not ever again. If you do hit me again, yes, I will shoot you, Alexei.”
She rose and went into the bathroom, the gun still in her hand, pointed at him.
He followed her into the john, and she pointed the .32 at his stomach.
“You’d gut shoot me?”
“Yes.”
He walked up to her slowly and then he reached out. Karin handed him the pistol.
“Get on your knees.”
She got on her knees.
“Go on, then.”
She began. It took about three or four minutes for him to tell her to stop. Then he shoved her into the shower stall, forced her head down toward the handles on the wall, positioned himself behind her, and rammed himself into her.
She squealed in genuine pain. He thought he might have torn her open again, but he thrust himself into her again, and then again, and then again.
She lay with her face on the pillow. She would not show him her shame, her embarrassment. She knew that she should have shot him the second he followed her into the bathroom, but she knew she was not capable of pulling the trigger on Alexei.
“Why do you do these things to me?”
“Because you want me to.”
“I don’t want you to hurt me the way you just did. I don’t want to lie in bed with you and another woman. I don’t want to perform for you, Alexei.”
“Then why do you, Karin? Hmmm? Why do you allow me to humiliate you as I do?”
He drew her up on her knees, her face still in the pillow.
“Please, Alexei—“
“You’re not bleeding.”
He got himself behind her again, but he decided to take her in the more traditional way. When she found that he wasn’t going to ravage her anally again, she began to moan for him. But it was the same as always—heat without passion.
And she turned her face toward him and he saw what looked like a snarl on her face. Her teeth were all there, white and long and feral.
*
“He got away from you,” Parisi said to Jenks and Daily, the two suits who were supposed to follow Grodnov.
“Some guy who looks like him took off in his car,” Jenks offered. “We got suckered, Lieutenant. I’m very sorry.”
“Never mind. Just make sure you follow the right ponytail next time.”
Jenks and Daily walked out of Parisi’s cubicle.
“So he still wants little guys,” Spencer suggested.
“Could be. He went to a lot of trouble to get away from us. It’s too late to do anything about it. He’s back in his apartment now. At least that’s the report from Roberts and Toohill, who are now babysitting him at the sprinkler building apartment.”
“We don’t have any idea where the hell he went last night, then.”
“We could ask our friends in Tactical if anybody spotted a ponytailed Russian on the street trying to offer candy to little boys,” Parisi smiled.
But Spencer wasn’t smiling.
“Some kids almost got into it with a blond man last night in Old Town. They talked about this guy with a young kid. Tactical has a guy in Los Locos. He’s infiltrated them, I mean. The plant said these kids pulled weapons on the blond guy, and the guy pulled a piece on them, but then the gendarmes arrived and broke up the party and everybody hoofed it the hell out of there.”
Parisi eyed Spencer for a moment.
“Can the informant get us one of the names of the kids?” Parisi asked.
Spencer pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket.
“How about all six?” he smiled.
*
“Ricardo, I just want you to ID him out of a lineup. He’ll never know you tapped him on the shoulder,” Parisi told the sixteen year old banger, Ricardo Montana.
“He’ll never know it was me? Because listen, Lieutenant, that crazy motherfucker was ready to shoot it out with us, you know? He’s fucking loco, Lieutenant!”
“He’ll never know it was you.”
They went inside the viewing booth, and Parisi pulled back the curtain. It took Ricardo just a few seconds to point out Alexei Grodnov.
They tried to pin Grodnov on a weapons charge, but they could find no piece at his residence. The little boy he had tried to hustle was nowhere to be found on the streets. And when things went hincty in trying to nab the Russian, none of the six would testify that it was Grodnov who’d threatened to go Dodge City with the crew out on the streets of Old Town. The grounds for Grodnov’s arrest crumbled like a sand castle, and the Russian was sprung within three days.
It was June 30, 2002, and Jimmy Parisi’s wife Natalie was in full labor. This time they hadn’t been watching Full Metal Jacket. This time they were watching Tombstone. Natalie was a huge Val Kilmer fan—Kilmer was Doc Holiday in the film.
At two minutes before midnight on June 30, 2002, Natalie Parisi delivered her husband his fifth child—the third for Natalie and him together—and she called him James Manion Parisi. Manion was her maiden name. The baby weighed eight pounds, six ounces, and he was twenty-three inches long. He had blue eyes, which might or might not stay blue, Natalie understood, and he had auburn hair, like his momma. Jimmy Junior never cried until the doctor turned him upside down and patted his fanny firmly.
Then he let out with a yelp that made his father, Jimmy Senior, weep with joy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Natalie has to remain in the hospital for at least a week because of the high blood pressure. They also want her to see a heart specialist. Apparently Jimmy has caused an uproar in her system, but they think it’s all birth-related and that they’ll have it under control shortly. But she will stay on here, with the baby, for at least another seven days.
The doctor tells me to spend some time with my son when he hears my visits don’t last very long. The trail after Grodnov seems to be getting shorter, so the days and shifts have been longer.
My older two kids have been in to see their new brother (half-brother, officially), and they are delighted with Jimmy Junior, especially my other son, Mike.
Michael has been in college for two years now, and he’s found a job working construction for the summer. He’s been living at home with us since June, but he’ll be back on campus in late August. His room will be the baby’s, once Jimmy gets a few months under his belt. Until then, he’ll stay in his crib in our room. We have four bedrooms in the house. The two younger girls share one, and my mother is using the fourth bedroom until Jimmy is in school or until we hire a babysitter.
Mike comes to the hospital to visit Natalie and his new sibling. He’s still dressed in his work clothes, and he’s sweaty and tired-looking. The weather outside is in the upper 90’s, and you can see the heat by checking out his sunburned face. He’s even browner than he usually is, having inherited ‘swarthy’ from his Italian pop. Now the burn has caused him to turn a deep brown, like a Mexican Indian. My kid is good looking, and I’m not just an old man bragging. He has one of those faces that women like to get lost inside. I’ve seen that response with several of his girlfriends.
Mike holds the baby. He’s seated opposite me, and we’re sitting on either side of Natalie’s hospital bed.
“He looks like you, Pa, but he’s got Natalie’s eyes.”
“They’re blue now, but they may turn green, like hers,” I laugh.
>
“Oh yeah! They are blue…Maybe it’s the light in here.”
“You’re farsighted and you’re not wearing your contacts or your glasses,” I remind him.
“Maybe that’s it,” he grins.
He hands the baby back to Natalie.
“Are you happy you finally have a little brother?” Red asks him.
“Oh yeah. I never thought I’d…Well I never thought you’d…You know what I mean.”
“I think so,” I laugh.
“This is the final chapter in the Parisi crew,” Natalie smiles at my older son.
“Really?” Mike asks.
Natalie laughs.
“That’s why I’m staying in the extra week. They’re going to get my bp down, and then they’re sending me to the vets to get me fixed.”
She says it with a deadpan smile, and then Mike gets the joke.
“Ohhh,” he grins.
“You can teach him man to man defense.”
“He might be a baseball player. There aren’t many Italians in the NBA,” Mike says.
“He might be a cop,” I say.
“Then that makes two of us.”
“Pardon me?” I ask.
“I’m going to the Academy after I finish my degree in college. But there’s something else we need to talk about.”
“You guys might want to get something to eat downstairs,” Natalie tells us.
She’s giving us leave to talk privately.
“I enlisted in the Army.”
“You did what?”
“I enlisted in the Army before I went to work this morning.”
“You did that without talking to me?”
“I knew you wouldn’t go along with it, Pa, but I’m going to be twenty and I can make my own decisions.”
“You’re quitting school—“
“I’m just postponing it. I know how much of a drain it’s been on you and Natalie. I didn’t get a full ride like my sister did, and I know it’s costing you—“
“I don’t give a shit about the cost, Mike. You know that.”
“But I do. I’ll have the GI Bill when I get out in four years. I’ll finish my degree while I work the job.”
“Work the job?”
