Calmer, a rational thought crept in the midst of his worry. He reasoned they could have killed him at any time in prison. He was no longer a threat. If he left them alone, they would leave him alone. Damn if that is going to happen! The FBI is probably counting on me to do something stupid. He rubbed his arm.
The Metropolitan Correctional Center’s triangular building in the midst of blocks felt out of place. Unaccustomed to freedom, Mike could relate.
He wore blue jeans and a t-shirt imprinted with the words ‘I don’t hate people, I just feel better when they aren’t around.’ It was the shirt Eddie brought him for the parole hearing. The reason he wore his prison white t-shirt for the hearing.
A chill breeze blew between the buildings and raised his spirits; the weather was not controlled. He jammed his hands in his pockets. Mike willed his foster brother to arrive.
Mike glanced at the clock tower across the street and shook his head back and forth. The infamous Fast Eddie was way past due. Normal.
Mike tormented Eddie by saying the wrong fella won the race to the egg. But he loved the bald, short, and easily excited man. How could he not? Eddie jumped in front of a knife to save him.
Mike spun when he heard an engine roar. He spotted a car approach with reckless abandon. The car slid up in a screech of tires. The reek of burnt rubber the old Cadillac left on the road reached his nose. Two black streaks painted the car’s last fifteen feet of travel.
That’s Eddie, always overcompensating. Mike peeked inside the car and took inventory. He saw two attractive women, a Home Run Inn Pizza, and Lokai. Lokai barked hello. Mike twisted his head to brush away a newfound tear. He turned back and opened the car door.
With one hand on the wheel, Eddie draped an arm across the passenger backrest. “Mike, don’t get choked up over the hookers. And sorry I was late. They had the road blocked off back there. A weird looking utility truck took forever getting out of the way.”
“I’m sure.” Shit, it might have been the FBI?
Eddie twisted, his look unfriendly. “You don’t believe me?”
“Actually, I do.”
Eddie relaxed and smiled.
With no choice, Mike packed into the back seat. Once inside, he directed his attention to the dog. His heart jumped in his throat when he saw the crinkled, pink hairless scar the bullet made when it tore through the dog’s leg.
The dog was happy to see him and snatched the bad memory away. Mike needed to clutch Lokai’s fat cheeks to yank the mutt’s head back to keep from drowning in slobber. “Settle down boy!”
Lokai relented but stood ready to pounce.
The car took off and headed west to the Dan Ryan to pivot south. The downtown skyscrapers shrunk in the rear-view mirror.
Eddie bent over and reached into a small cooler. The car swerved. “Hey tough guy, you want a beer?”
Mike massaged his wrist where it still stung. “You do realize if we get pulled over I’m on a return trip to prison?”
“Aye, nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“Just focus on driving and keeping me out of prison.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why I asked you to pick me up.”
“Cause you love me, bro.” Eddie spiced up the conversation. “From everything I’ve ever heard, all a con wants is pizza, a decent bath, and pussy when they get out. Not necessarily in that order.” He winked. “If you know what I mean?”
Mike shook his head. He was numb to Eddie’s rants. Lokai required more love and got it. He saw Eddie eyeballing him in the rearview mirror. Who cares?
Eddie threw his hands in the air, oblivious to the steering wheel. The car swerved, and the hooker next to Eddie clutch the steering wheel to correct.
“Out of prison and what the fuck does my brother do? Plays with a dog, a dog! Unfricking believable.” His f-word rule held for hookers.
The hooker continued to steer the car.
Mike looked for cops, FBI agents, and terrorists. He was jumpy. “Put your hands on the wheel and give it a rest, bro. The last time I saw Lokai, he was lying in a pool of blood.”
“Oh, you won’t believe, Mike, the hassle I got from your FBI bitch when she gave up the mutt.”
“Ex-FBI. And if you call her a bitch again you’ll be sorry.” Mike leaned forward and gave him a cold stare in the rear-view mirror.
Eddie yielded and put both hands on the steering wheel. They remained on the steering wheel for a minute. He let go again to duck his head between the legs of the hooker in the front seat.
The car swerved within inches of a newspaper truck in the next lane. Eddie used his knees to correct. A loud horn signaled its disapproval. Eddie’s head popped up. He jerked the car back into the lane.
“Keep your hands and eyes on the road.” Mike raised his hand to whack Eddie and pulled it back.
Eddie shrugged. “Look at this, will ya? FBI Bitch gave me a present for you from Juan. It’s a weird looking cane; one heavy sonabitch. What kind of cane doesn’t have a hook?”
“It’s called a hanbo.” Mike watched Eddie’s eyebrows rise in the rearview mirror. At least the dummy’s hands are on the wheel.
“Who the hell’s Juan, Mike?”
“Eddie, I told you a thousand times, it was the guy that helped me get in shape.”
“I thought the name sounded familiar.”
Before Eddie could hurt himself or the hooker next to him, Mike snatched the hanbo and changed his mind. He whacked Eddie across the back of the head.
Eddie rubbed off the pain. “What ya do that for?”
“I warned you earlier.”
Mike ignored everyone. The hanbo occupied every firing synapses in his brain, taking him right back to his Kata exercises. His hand caressed the cocobolo wood. It felt sensual but deadly. It was his weapon. Near the base, a knot in the grain formed a cleverly disguised traditional yin-yang symbol. The top of the fighting stick a metal cobra’s head. The head stood out with cunning inlaid gems for eyes. Juan is a master. This his best work. When did Juan make this?
Engraved along its length was a Gandhi quote. ‘The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.’ His eyes moistened. A powerful message from a friend. He twisted his head and stared out the window. Everything was blurry.
A few moments later he wiped his eyes on his shirt and set the cane down. It was time to love the living. He returned to Lokai, who got his full attention.
The hooker in the backseat wiggled. “Hey big fella, when you’re done playing with the dog”--her suggestive pose she assumed left nothing to the imagination--“how about petting my cat?”
Mike ignored her.
“Can I stroke your little cane?”
Still nothing.
The hooker in the front seat chimed. “Damn, Eddie, your brother’s a flipping’ dud. Prison got to him, he’s afraid of a woman without an Adam’s apple and sack.”
Eddie turned on his charm. “Haven’t the foggiest idea what his problem is, but as I always say, ‘If a man ain’t thinking about pussy, he ain’t concentrating.’”
Mike watched Eddie’s smile grow.
“But hell, supreme sacrifices are called for. Ladies, how about a Fast Eddie sandwich?”
The hooker in the back seat shrugged. “If you got the dough, we’ll be the bread, baby.”
Mike slapped Eddie in the back of the head again.
Eddie growled. “You do that one more time, and your little butt will turn a beautiful shade of black and blue from my ass kicking.”
Just get me home. “I can’t handle this shit right now.”
Eddie’s shoulders shrugged. “Since you asked nicely, guess so.” Eddie’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Hey, when you get home tell the ole’ lady I’m in a business meeting. Should only be a couple of hours.”
Mike shook his head. “Not lying for you.”
“Shit Mike, whatever. Do me a favor and don’t tell her the truth. That’s not lying. Kay?”
What Mike didn’t rea
lize was Eddie’s tighter grip on the wheel meant more speed. Eddie dashed through traffic. Horns beeped from cars swerving to dodge an accident. They pulled in a block away from Eddie’s Chicago-style bungalow in record time.
Eddie said, “Hey Mikey, shoot up the block, 6459. The wifee’s expecting you. You keep your little thing in your pants.” He turned with a menacing stare. “Never believed in cheating spouses.”
Mike felt Eddie actually meant it.
“Make yourself at home in the basement apartment. It’s not quite done. I’ll be back in a bit.” Eddie leered at both of the hookers’ boobs. “After the business meeting of course.”
Mike and Lokai left the confines of the car.
Eddie didn’t relent easily and shouted out the window. “These girls have skills. You sure you don’t want a nibble?”
The last word triggered hunger pangs. Mike reached in and snatched the pizza. A villainous smile appeared. “You haven’t changed one bit and that ain’t a compliment bro. Thanks for the pie.”
Eddie seemed unfazed. “You’re welcome. Your loss. See ya later gator.”
Mike took a step and turned. “Love you.”
“No shit? Love you too.” Eddie blew him a kiss.
The smoke from Eddie’s tires drifted by. Mike, with his new cane, Homerun Inn Pizza, and Lokai, trudged toward his new home.
In an old gray sedan two armed, casually dressed men, watched Mike walk up the street. The midnight dark tinted windows hid the passenger’s binoculars.
CHAPTER 15
Brothers
Eddie started to bang nails in the basement shortly after Mike’s arrest. He had a lot more nails to go. It was Eddie’s ‘get-away’ from his wife project. Eddie’s wife offered encouragement in support of this idea.
The electric light bulb that hung from a frayed black cord above Mike’s head glowed in a small radius of faint light.
The walls engulfed him. The uniformly gray painted interior’s asbestos pipes clung to the ceiling. The constant drumbeat of the furnace flames fighting to supply steaming-hot water to the radiators assaulted his eardrums. The drumbeat, the heart of the beast and its arteries the pipe. Mike felt lodged in its belly.
He’d fought against the enclosed space by working the incompleteness of the basement to his advantage. His living quarters resembled a dojo. It suited his personality. A Japanese Makiwara board with the traditional straw and rope punching surface in the opposite corner of an American boxer’s heavy bag. He bloodied his knuckles earlier on it. Deep red stains interlaced the straw.
A week after prison he spotted the FBI stakeout. It was a simple mistake that caught his attention. When Mike took Lokai for a morning constitutional, he saw a man sprint from an alley into a cleaning van. When he finished the chore twenty minutes later, the van was still parked in the same spot. Mike acted nonchalantly. Later that day, he validated his suspicion. The van had not budged.
It became a game of “Spot the Surveillance.” He was good at it until two days ago. The surveillance dematerialized. He assumed they he was safe or not worth the cost.
He counted thirty-one notches on the rustic beat-up coffee table that doubles for dining. Thirty-one days working in a greasy spoon, for a demanding drunken boss. Thirty-one days of hell.
With no stove, he cooked chicken soup in a crock-pot. Mike raised the lid and backed away before the steam hit him in the face. The scent of garlic, onions, roasted tomatoes, herbs, and sage lingered in the air of his apartment. He paid it no heed. He had a lot on his mind. I need a bit more excitement than garlic and onions.
The soup had an hour or so left. He was tempted to wake up Lokai for a walk. Mike changed his mind when he saw how soundly he was asleep on his mat in the corner.
Instead, he curled on the small sofa and let his mind wander. His eyes traveled to the injection site on his wrist. The wound, a tiny scar. What the hell did they do?
Since then, he’d been left alone by both the terrorists and now the FBI. Every time he left the apartment, he constantly cocked an eye over his shoulder. He missed the FBI.
His shirts did not lose their humor in his fear. Today’s said, ‘I went to this stupid Hacker Convention, and all I got was the information off your hard drive.’
Once sunk in the over-soft couch, he scribbled a series of numbers and letters on a small pad of paper. When he filled a page, he crumbled the paper and shot at the rim of a wastebasket. The wastebasket was surrounded by his army of misfires. Basketball was never his sport.
After an hour, he arrived at 0a-c2-5e-f1-08-b6. The unique identifier burnt into Agent Townsend’s hardware by the manufacturer. Adrenalin flooded heart, his body shook. He raced up the stairs to talk to his brother. I got it! I fucking got it!
Eddie’s Apartment mirrored a typical middle-class household with one minor exception: Eddie was an over-the-top Bears fan. His wife fought to keep his exuberance from showing but lost the battle. Mike had Eddie follow him down to the basement for privacy.
Mike suppressed his excitement. “How’s the world’s best brother doing?”
“What the hell do you want?”
Mike pulled an imaginary dagger from his heart. “I’m hurt, what makes you think I want something?”
“Don’t try to BS a con man, you haven’t been the friendliest guy around. We’re worried.”
The words grated. No one understands! “What do you expect? Thanks to my parole restrictions, dish-washing is my chosen career. UFC won’t let me fight thanks to the bullet’s damage to my back. Not fun bro, not fun at all! But that’s not why I’m here. I worked out a way to get to those bastards that set me up.” Mike tried to mimic Lokai’s puppy dog expression. “If only I had a laptop.”
Eddie’s beady eyes were solemn. “What the hell you talking about? You know I signed an order not allowing you near my computer.” Eddie counted items on his fingertips. “Beer, whores and pizza.” He closes his last finger and shakes his head. “No computer.”
“Technically it’s mine. Hell, you break more laws in a single day than most people do in their lifetimes, and you’re the one that’s worried? I call bullshit.”
“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”
Mike shook his head yes.
“Okay, the truth. Nothing but the truth. I love you, and I don’t want you to go back to the joint.”
“Touching, very touching.” Mike paused a second to wipe away imaginary tears. “Eddie, you’re more full shit than a constipated elephant. What’s the real reason?”
“The ole’ lady explicitly boasted she would serve my balls on a platter if I let you near the computer. I’m kinda partial to them.” Eddie covered his balls. “See, partial.”
“It’ll be only a couple of hours. Please, for your big brother? I promise it’ll be easy breezy. I telnet and brute-force the SNMP write community string on a few Cisco routers. Send a binary file exploiting the routing and ARP tables. Of course, I’ll reconfigure those little suckers to hunt a particular IP and tie it to a physical location.”
“Repeat, in English?”
Crap. “When they used my printer, I installed software on his system to leave a digital fingerprint. By looking for this fingerprint, I can track him. I will find proof of my innocence. It’s the only way to turn my life around.”
“Mike, for once, I’m going to listen to my wife.” He threw his hands in the air. “The answer’s not no, but hell no. I am not going to let you track down a frigging terrorist. Are you insane?” Eddie threw his hands in the air and stormed out of the basement.
After Eddie had left, Mike put the soup in the refrigerator uneaten. He thought about what Eddie had said.
Yes, I am insane.
He fell into a restless, hungry sleep.
CHAPTER 16
Chemistry
Outside a large fenced-in warehouse complex on the edge of Cicero city limits, Santiago Ramirez, a.k.a. WSFriz formulated his next job.
A large bolt cutter swung heavily in his ba
ckpack, digging into his back when he shifted position. He brought a full complement of gear with him: baggy clothing, paint, aerosol paint tips, “Mean Streak” paint markers, scribing tools, gloves, and a box cutter for protection.
The west side tagger hid in the bushes. The tagger’s short stature made it easy. His gaze is fixated on a spot of solid white along one warehouse wall. What are you doing all painted over? His once favorite tag had vanished beneath the cheap white paint, entombing a beautifully endowed, oversexed vixen and her signature pool cue.
The stupid bitches buried my love. Thanks for the new canvas, you ain’t gonna hide my art forever!
He intended to recreate the vixen with less clothing, and instead of holding a pool cue, she would shoot the owners a bird. He shifted his gaze from the spot of white paint and scoped out the area. No one wandered outside. A couple of shadows flickered on the rooftop, but he dismissed it as light playing games.
He caught a sliver of light leaking through a crack in a window from the smallest of the three warehouses. Don’t be a coward. The light snuffed out. He scanned the area one more time, all the windows were deep dark pits, too damn dark for his comfort. They’re hiding something? Who cares? Time to get my ass in gear.
WSFriz freed the bolt cutters from his backpack and dashed across the narrow street to the compound’s fence. He clipped one link and bit on the next when deep charcoal shapes in the shadows distracted him. He focuses beyond the fence to see two sets of bright blue dots approaching, low-set to the ground and bouncing rhythmically in the darkness. Dogs. Fuck.
A moment later, two Doberman Pinschers, barking profusely, slammed their forepaws into the chain-link fence, driving it into his face and body.
He flew back, landing on cold, hard ground. The bolt cutters sank into a pile of dirt and snow. Scrambling, he ran into the street. He heard a loud pop. The pavement between his legs sent a sliver of tar flying. He ran faster.
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