Windy City Blues

by Marc Krulewitch

  I closed the distance each time he stopped to write a ticket. Three tickets later I had caught up, but he seemed not to notice me as he grooved to his music and checked dashboards. Finally, I waved at him like a fool and we both stopped. He slid the headset around his neck and smiled as if he knew me.

  “Yes, sir?”

  His grin took a few more years off his age. “Was that a Windy City Meters office where you just had lunch?”

  The kid thought about it. “It’s just a small kitchen and bathroom we use when working this area. And at the end of the day, we download our computers there and recharge the batteries.” He showed me his handheld ticket-writing device.

  “But you’re a parking officer for Windy City Meters, right?”

  Again, the kid had to think about it. “I’m a parking enforcement aide. And my paycheck always has a different company name on it. Windy City is the company we actually work for—I think.” He giggled.

  “Have you seen a company called BK something on a paycheck?”

  The kid stared at me a moment and then dug several crumpled pieces of paper out of his pocket. He examined them closely until he stuck one in my face and said, “Is this what you mean?”

  I thought it odd how readily he would hand over his pay stub to a complete stranger. “BK Corporate Systems” was printed with the Irving Park address. The pathetic hourly rate pissed me off. What cheap bastards.

  “Do you mind if I walk with you a bit?” The kid smiled again, shrugged, and off we went. “What’s the minimum age requirement for this job?”

  “You have to be sixteen to work in Illinois.”

  “A sixteen-year-old can become a sworn officer with a badge?”

  “Nope. We’re parking enforcement aides. That’s what P-E-A on our back means. We’re not allowed to be called officers. If someone calls me an officer, I have to tell them I’m a P-E-A.” The kid noticed an expired receipt, wrote the ticket, then wrote another for an expired license plate, and another for a missing front plate. “Hat trick!” he said.

  “Is Daniel your supervisor?”

  “One of them. Each district has an office like this one where we start and end our days. Every month the PEAs are given a schedule telling them where and what time to report. We never really know who our supervisor will be that day.”

  He seemed to enjoy my company. He told me his name was Ryan, short for his Nepali name, Narayan, and that he was eighteen. I asked how he got the job, and he mentioned a poster on a bulletin board at an ESL class where his mother taught at night. He liked the idea of walking around without a boss looking over his shoulder, although he admitted working outside in the winter “will suck.” He hoped to one day study mechanical engineering. His personality had that amiable, polite quality I supposed most parents dreamed of having in their kid. With each block, he impressed me more. When a younger kid passed us on a bike and called him a “pea brain,” Ryan just laughed.

  Unlike most of the teenagers with whom I’d had previous conversations, Ryan showed a natural curiosity in me and thought I was joking about working as a private investigator. I could tell his thoughts conjured up images from TV dramas, most of which I said were exaggerated, although when investigating a murder or other serious crime, it wasn’t difficult to accurately portray the bad guys. “It’s really not that imaginative being a crook, killer, drug dealer, or corrupt politician,” I told him.

  At the next block, Ryan stopped. “I gotta go this way now,” he said. I got the feeling he wanted to put on his headset and be left alone. I thanked him for his time, and we parted ways. I hadn’t realized we had reached Armitage Avenue. How many miles did they expect that kid to walk in a day?

  —

  Instead of going home, I continued on Armitage to Cleveland where I turned south, hoping to see another WCM PEA. A few blocks later, I saw a city officer standing in front of St. Michael’s church, the defining landmark of Old Town. He was a tall string bean of a guy with a military style high-and-tight haircut. I asked what his territory was for the day.

  “What difference does it make to you?” he said.

  Ryan’s pleasant demeanor had spoiled me. I had forgotten stereotypes often had basis in reality.

  “I’m trying to find a Windy City officer.”

  “What for?”

  I didn’t like his tone and it seemed inappropriate to speak that way in front of a Catholic church that had survived the Chicago Fire of 1871. “That’s really none of your damn business.”

  I enjoyed acting like a prick once in a while, although some parishioners exiting the church gave me a dirty look.

  “Why you giving me a hard time? Just ’cause I work for the city, you treat me like shit?”

  That I could so easily hurt the man’s feelings surprised me. Had I overreacted?

  “Look, I just asked a simple question, and you threw it back in my face. So I reacted. Could you please just tell me where your district ends and a Windy City district begins? I’m sorry for speaking to you so harshly.”

  The man frowned, clearly thinking I was full of crap. “The other side of Larrabee Street,” he said and walked away, shaking his head like I was the biggest asshole on the planet.

  I hung out around the quaint side streets between Willow and North Avenue where rehabbed clapboard houses sat alongside modern glass structures. A breeze off the lake took me by surprise and once again reminded me how vulnerable one could feel in summer clothing on an autumn afternoon. The chill inspired thoughts of Jack Gelashvili. I tried to picture him starting over as an immigrant, his advanced degrees meaningless, his priorities reduced to taking any job available. And his thanks for doing everything required of an immigrant? Having his head beaten to a bloody pulp.

  Down the block a figure in a navy blue Windbreaker searched windshields for the required residential permits. He walked quickly to each car and then peered through reading glasses. His elderly appearance surprised me. I followed him farther south across North Avenue and over to Mohawk Street, where he approached a tall, sad-looking powder blue wood-framed house set back about thirty yards between an office building and the elevated tracks. Chipped and peeling paint covered every square inch.

  He rang the doorbell, saluted the security camera, and walked in. Minutes later, I pushed the button fully anticipating the same reception I got at the address on Irving Park. To my utter surprise, a loud buzz released the door’s latch-bolt and in I walked. Despite the dilapidated exterior, the interior looked worthy of a historic preservation catalogue. Shiny wood floors, Art Nouveau furniture, classic brick fireplace, all hidden behind a ramshackle façade.

  Voices drifted from a short hallway that led to the kitchen where the old man sat at a table casually talking with two middle-aged women also wearing blue Windbreakers. They appeared to be talking shop—how many tickets, who bore the worst insults. My choices seemed limited to sneaking around like a burglar or making up a reason for being there. The idea of casually mingling with the folks in the kitchen seemed appealing, but then a voice beckoned me. “Hey, over this way.”

  I turned and saw a husky man in slacks and a blue dress shirt opened to the third button. “Bathroom’s this way—where’re your tools?” A deer in the headlights never felt so speechless. Then the man said, “Who the hell are you?”

  “Avon calling?”

  “How did you get in?”

  “I’m sorry. I was just curious about the house—I study architecture. And I’d never seen such a nice example of an early twentieth century bevel-sided house.”

  “This is private property. You’re trespassing.”

  “Somebody inside the private property buzzed the door open.”

  The man unhooked his cell phone. “We’re expecting a plumber. Now get the fuck out or I’ll call a cop. Or maybe I’ll throw your ass out.”

  “Are you running a business out of this house?”

  When the man stepped toward me, Frownie’s reprimand about forgetting my gun echoed through my brain. I ret
reated out the door. At the sidewalk, I saw a plumbing van idling under the train tracks. The driver held a map close to his face. I offered assistance, and he said he was looking for a number on Mohawk Street with the name “KB Enterprises.” I pointed out the powder blue house with the derelict paint job.

  I still had a couple of hours before my date with Tamar, plenty of time for a nap and a shower. The thought of discussing the day’s events with Tamar felt good, if not appropriate. The air had turned noticeably cooler. I jammed my hands in my pockets and headed home. Shortly after crossing North Avenue, I caught a police cruiser in my peripheral vision but didn’t think much of it until I hit Lincoln Avenue where I turned to angle back to Halsted. The cop did the same.

  Messing with cops was a bad idea, but passive aggression in an automobile pissed me off. I cut over to a quiet side street. When the cop turned, he saw an idiot standing in the middle of the street with both middle fingers extended.

  I blew him some kisses and said, “You lookin’ for some action, honey? Ten bucks for a blow job.”

  “I hear you been ringing doorbells.” He was a little guy with a handlebar mustache. I was going to ask if he was sitting on a couple of phonebooks.

  “Yeah? That against the law?”

  “If you’re harassing people, it is.”

  “And if I ring a doorbell and they let me in, is that harassment, too?”

  “The guy asked you to leave and you didn’t.”

  “Really? So I’m not standing here talking to a bored cop?”

  “You know what I mean, asshole. Quit harassing people just doing their jobs and quit ringing doorbells. Get it?”

  “You’re a dumb-ass cliché. Get it?”

  I’m sure he didn’t get it.

  “I’m gonna ask you one more time,” he said.

  “Right. I see. You’re on some kind of extra payroll, and you don’t want me ruining it for you. Is that what I’m supposed to get?”

  The cop laughed and then waved his arms like he was signaling to someone. “See ya later, pal,” he said and drove off.

  I doubled back to Lincoln Avenue and replayed my encounter with Officer Shakedown. He had been contacted by one or both “companies.” The companies provided services to the people who wrote parking tickets. WCM made their money from meter revenue. Parking fines went into the city coffers. Why would they have a cop on their payroll?

  A cry for help stopped me in front of a narrow one-way alley where a woman leaned against the wall, doubled over in pain. She had short blond hair and wore a jean jacket over a long dress. Gapers walked past more curious as to my next move than the stricken woman. Maybe they assumed someone would call 911. The public’s blatant disregard tempered my impulse to ignore the risk associated with Chicago alleys, and my altruistic naiveté won the day.

  “You need an ambulance?” I said.

  She straightened up enough to look at me then held out her hand. I let her use me as a crutch while she led me to the other end of the alley, which connected to a circular loading area behind several businesses.

  “Over here is my car,” she said in accented English.

  “Are you well enough to drive?” I said. She pointed to a Cadillac with blackened rear windows parked in front of the exit driveway.

  “Come.” We walked to the driver’s side where she let go of my hand. “Thank you, mister,” she said then opened the door.

  I had expected to assist her into the driver’s seat but she moved unaffectedly and closed the door with little effort. The implication of her sudden upgrade materialized just as the door window reflected a figure standing behind me. I flinched in time to deflect a brass-knuckled fist from a husky skinhead in a black jacket and dark orange shirt. My forearm muscle took the brunt of the strike, saving me from a broken radius, but still rocketing painful shock waves through my arm and shoulder.

  I stumbled backward holding my arm, looking around for help. The driver’s side rear door was now open. The man approached me slowly, nervously looking around to see if anyone was watching. The plan had been to execute a quick knockout, stuff the body into the backseat, and be off. The woman rolled her window down and frantically yelled something in her Slavic language, whatever that was. The man shouted something back, clearly unhappy. He sprinted toward me. I turned, hoping to reach one of the stairways leading to a business’s back door, but slipped on loose gravel and fell. Pain shot through every cell.

  I maneuvered onto my back and waited until he was almost on top of me before shoving the heel of my foot against his pubic bone. He fell on me with a scream but still managed to deliver a glancing punch to my face before rolling off and assuming the fetal position. The Cadillac pulled up, the woman jumped out. She shouted, started pulling at his jacket. She wanted to leave.

  I used the downtime to start crawling toward the alley entrance that connected to Lincoln but made it only a few feet before a cop car pulled in and screeched to a halt.

  “What the fuck are you still doing here?” he yelled at the couple and I recognized the voice of Officer Shakedown. “Get the hell out of here!”

  While the cop helped the woman drag the man to the backseat, I continued my journey to Lincoln Avenue until I felt a foot press down between my shoulder blades. “Where’re you going, shit breath?” the cop said then dropped both knees onto my back and said in my ear, “Just remember. You’re getting off easy.” I heard him unsnap his gun holster then something hard hit me.

  25

  A brick wall came into focus, followed by alley stink, and then throbbing pain from my head, right cheekbone, and most of my upper body. Propped against the alley wall, I managed to get to my feet and walk toward the sidewalk. Pedestrians pretended not to notice or simply didn’t care.

  Unsteady, filthy, sporting a shiner, I forgave the Lincoln Avenue folks who saw a drunk or dopehead. By the time I staggered home, swallowed 4,000 mg of acetaminophen, and collapsed onto my couch with ice packs on my face, head, and arm, the day had acquired a dreamlike quality. Typically, I spent ten or twenty minutes rehashing events or newfound facts before drifting off. On this afternoon, only shock and pain accompanied me into a semi-slumber, unperturbed by Punim’s occupation of my chest but eventually succumbing to a continuous knocking on the door.

  Standing in the doorway, Tamar held two bags of groceries and stared in horror. “Oh, my god!” she said and rushed to the kitchen and dropped the bags on the table. “What happened?”

  “I got mugged—sort of.” Tamar gaped as if unsure who I was.

  “Should you go to the hospital? Did you report this to the police?”

  “Actually, a policeman knows what happened. And bruises always look worse than they really are—especially on the face. Let me get cleaned up, and I promise to tell you everything.”

  Tamar nodded but continued staring. “I’ll start dinner.”

  By the time I stepped out of the shower, a variety of savory smells temporarily eclipsed any nastiness the day had offered. With an awakened appetite and clean clothes, I felt somewhat human again. Observing Tamar from behind, I watched her create a salad loaded with all things green, purple, yellow, and red. Lightly browned vegetables crowded a baking pan, a pile of dumpling-like things sat in a colander, and a basket held a stack of thick, flat white bread. She wore black leggings and a floral patterned blouse with short sleeves flowing freely over her arms. The combination of the blouse’s deep V-back and her slender legs and thighs pulled me into her orbit.

  “It looks like you’ve done this before,” I said.

  Tamar smiled, then cringed. “You look like you’re in pain.”

  “I’ll heal. Put me to work.”

  “I’m done. Sit.”

  I obeyed and watched Tamar prepare two plates with a little of everything. Bread was sacred to Georgians, she said, as was the walnut spice of the vegetables and dumplings.

  “Food is basic nourishment for our bodies, just as blood is the basic component that unites a family forever. There is n
o stronger bond than blood.”

  Talk of food and blood in the same sentence caught me off guard. I sensed Tamar was trying to tell me something. But my hungry, battered body knew only that the flavors in her food dulled the pain like delicious morphine.

  “Tell me what’s going on and start with the internal organs of small animals in the fridge.”

  “My cat is observing us from an undisclosed location,” I said.

  “Hey! I saw my boss kick people out of a booth,” Tamar said. “A couple came in and sat in a booth. I watched closely. The gray-haired businessman at the next booth walked over to the counter and asked for the boss who then ended up asking the couple to move. Then the boss told me anything the couple ordered was on the house.”

  “Maybe those guys are discussing secret recipes?” I said. “Anyway, remember Rich Jones, the guy who set up Jack with Lada? He gave me a tearful confession about spreading rumors that Jack was involved with the Russian mob.”

  “That’s insane!” Tamar said. “Why would he say such garbage?”

  “Management was twisting Jones’s arm to find cheap immigrant labor to work as parking officers. It angered Jones that Jack worked for half the wage of others. The anger got to him. He wanted to hurt Jack.”

  “Jack never said anything to me about working for less than the others did.”

  “It gets better. Jones claimed management approached Jack to act as a go-between to get a piece of the action from his alleged mob connections. Then he described how management went as far as showing Jack complicated scenarios of money laundering and allegedly gave Jack an envelope stuffed with cash to demonstrate their sincerity.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Tamar said. “You have to be making this up.”

  “Look, I’m not saying any of this is true. It’s just what I’ve been told in the last twenty-four hours by someone who worked with Jack.”