by Julie Hyzy
“He’s not in charge,” I said. “A woman named Lisa runs the show. But I know that Bruno is involved. If I can just get him to admit to a few key things …” I had no doubt about being able to get Bruno to admit to the bribery and to his complicity in the prostitution ring. Feeling like Scarlett O’Hara, I swore to myself that if I had to lie, cheat, steal … I’d figure out a way to make Bruno’s admission work for me. To nail the bastard. Because it wasn’t going to be over until the fat priest sang.
“Okay then,” he said, “and like I said, this is my own personal equipment. It’s actually superior to the stuff we have at the station. We used some high-quality stuff last night, but I have a few extras here. State-of-the-art.”
“That’s great.”
“I mean,” he said, blinking as he continued, “I like to keep up with the newest products. Guys my age are nosed out of the tech fields if we don’t keep up. Okay, here, let me explain how this works.”
Digging back into the duffel, he pulled out a roll of medical tape, the cross-hatched white kind that’s almost clear. His eyes raked over my chest. “Good size,” he said.
“What’s a good size?”
“Your breasts.”
He wasn’t leering or making a joke, from what I could tell, but I didn’t understand his comment, either. It rendered me momentarily speechless.
Squinting at my chest again now, he added, “I’d suggest you lose a layer … Too much fabric could interfere with the signal.”
“What does the size of my chest have to do with anything?”
“Cleavage,” he said, turning back toward the trunk for more pieces. “God’s perfect invention for the eavesdropping trade. We hide the microphone in there, you’ll get great reception.”
His assessment of my build had been forthright, almost clinical, but the “we” part of setting up the microphone made me apprehensive. Producing a small metal box, about half the size of a pack of cigarettes, he explained the controls that took up its top. “This is the actual transmitter.” He pointed. Turning the device over in his hand, he continued. “It’ll pick up everything from the microphone—totally wireless. But you have to keep the transmitter within, say, arm’s reach. You smoke?”
“No.”
“You do, now,” he said, pulling out a fake cigarette pack. “Isn’t this sweet? Tuck the transmitter in here …” he opened the bottom of the open pack to demonstrate, then closed it again, “and see, it looks like ordinary cigs.” He pointed the top toward me. Open, it looked like an almost-full pack of smokes. All half-cigarettes, they must have been glued in place because they didn’t fall out when he gestured. “Stick this in your purse, keep the flap open. It’s powerful enough to grab whatever you get and send it out to me. No one will ever know.”
A steady stream of people walked by, some openly curious about our intense concentration directed at my chest. Others ignored us completely.
I looked skeptically at the long needle-y contraption. “I just tape this in place.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Try not to let the tip touch any fabric, or your bra or anything. Scratchy noises will interfere with your reception. And I’m assuming you won’t have to shave your chest before you affix the tape.” He grinned at his own joke. “I’m telling you … cleavage is the perfect hiding spot.”
He taught me how to test the system myself before I left. I paid close attention and made him run through it twice, just to be sure. “This is a lot different than the mini-tapey device I was going to use.”
He made me pull it out and show him.
“You know,” he said, “this is a nice little recorder. Not great, but not bad.” He made a so-so movement with his head. “It’s your call, but I like redundancy. It wouldn’t hurt to keep this running during your interview too. You never know when you need a backup.”
I raised my eyebrows. Hadn’t considered that idea. “Yeah, I’ll do that. Sounds good.”
“Where’re we going anyway?”
I told him.
Making a face, he looked at the blood-red car again. “I don’t think I want to take this baby into that neighborhood. My friend has a van that’ll be perfect though; I’ll get that and meet you up there. Keep an eye out. It’s white and a little beat up, with a blue company logo on the side. ‘Cable Partners.’ It’ll blend right in.”
“Okay,” I said, checking my watch. Time would be tight.
“When you get what we need, I’ll take off. I’ve got that stopoff at O’Hare when we’re done, but then I’ll head back to the office. Start making copies for you. Don’t let any of the other techs at the station in on this, okay?”
“Why not?” I asked.
The question apparently took him by surprise. He answered, flustered. “I don’t want anyone messing with my stuff,” he said. Looking at his watch, he added. “Time to move.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
What must have been a magnificent church at one time, now sat like a dethroned queen in the midst of the unwashed masses. Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow had the architectural lines of those built in the very early part of the twentieth century. Heavy European influence. I spotted the massive structure when I was still four blocks away, its tall spire a majestic presence above the half-bare trees. I didn’t notice its shabby condition till I got close; the façade looked like a jigsaw puzzle with scattered pieces missing, the cement steps sloping so far down and to the left that they reminded me of a funhouse attraction.
The church dwarfed the rundown buildings surrounding it; small homes, most were single level structures with broken siding, all in desperate need of paint and structural repairs. Or, better yet, a bulldozer.
After driving past it, I parked in the church’s lot, a half block away. Small, asphalt, it hadn’t been resurfaced in a decade, judging from its many cracks and indentations. The sun had disappeared behind new gray clouds, and a breeze had kicked up. Pulling my jacket on, I headed into the wind and toward the front of the church.
The Milla Voight—Matthew Breczyk story had taken over my life. I thought back and tried to recall the moment it happened. The moment I’d reached the point of no return. I knew without a doubt that if I were able to nail Bruno today, I’d have the key to all the answers I sought.
I reached in my jacket for the hundredth time since I left, to verify that my microphone sat safe in place. Without time to go home and change, I’d been reduced to stripping off my T-shirt and now wore nothing under my hooded sweatshirt except my bra. Brought a whole new meaning to underwire, I thought, feeling half-naked. The tiny microphone head sat snug between my breasts, taped in place, deep enough that it couldn’t be seen despite the sweatshirt’s zipper front pulled low. No chance of any contact with fabric. Thank goodness we were meeting indoors, I thought. In this whistling wind, I’d never make out a word of the conversation when I got back.
Keeping my head down, negotiating the uneven sidewalk in front of battered and shuttered homes, I shivered. I saw nothing but dirt, everywhere—the tough, dusty kind, that kids didn’t even like to play in because digging produced only misshapen, rocky lumps. I couldn’t see a patch of grass anywhere, though that had little to do with the onslaught of fall. Tiny city parkways were nothing but hard earth, scuffed and littered with debris. Even the weeds had been frightened away, apparently. Beer cans and bottles, used diapers, and discarded piles of furniture were strewn everywhere.
A group of young men loitered across the street, the wind bringing their quiet conversation whipping past my ears so fast I couldn’t make out anything except that they spoke in Spanish. The area made me nervous and as long as they ignored me, I’d ignore them.
Judging from the long white streaks running down its walls, pigeons made their home in the church’s upper nooks. Now the cooing creatures circled a bit of food out front, eyeing me warily, waiting till I was less than a yard away before they flew off in a flapping huff. They’d been pecking at a fried chicken leg. I looked up at the rooftop they’d scattered to. “Ca
nnibals,” I scolded them.
The church’s crazy house steps leaned downward to the left, and as my hand skimmed the cold iron banister, I felt it wiggle in response. A quick look around and I realized that any handicapped, wheelchair-bound parishioners would have a devil of time getting into the structure for Mass. And a slow-moving elder could easily get caught in this neighborhood’s gang cross-fire. Thank goodness for Channel 50 and the Mass for Shut-Ins. Maybe by watching from home, they’d save their hides as well as their souls.
The church could have been quaint. Like a diamond in the rough, however, the setting robbed it of grandeur. Had it been magically transported to a sprawling meadow in England, with misty fog surrounding it at daybreak, there would be no end to the tourists lining up for a peek inside.
The huge front doors were recent additions. Tall, they were made of shiny ribbed steel. The uneven surface designed to fend off graffiti attacks, I supposed. Whoever decided on that had been only marginally successful. There were a couple of slogans that were distinguishable, if you tilted your head a certain way. “Jesus loves the Savior Souls,” and “Gangstas for God,” were my two favorites.
“Hey, chula.”
The raised voice came from across the street. Kitty-corner from the church. A group of four young men watched me, with apparent interest. I looked up. The speaker, a rangy Hispanic fellow, pushed himself up from leaning over the side of a rusty red pickup truck. Two of the others, both average in height and weight, kept their eyes on him, as he started to saunter around the vehicle. While I would call the fourth guy heavyset if I were trying to be polite, the truth was he was fat. Real fat. He sprawled across the pickup’s open bed, one leg dangling off the back as he watched us, his mouth hanging open, making him look stupid.
Ignoring the gangbangers, I tugged at the closest, left-hand door. Locked.
The leader spoke again. “You too late for church, baby. Maybe you come over here, and I give you something to pray for?”
Loud guffaws from the three other guys.
The worst thing, I knew, was to show panic. All four of these guys sported the same red knit hats, worn tight against their heads. The fat guy’s long wavy black hair strung out, messy, and long enough to drape over his shoulders.
Looking around the immediate area, I strained for the sight of a slightly beat-up white van. Nothing. I fixed the speaker with my best withering stare. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll take a rain check.” Oh, that was smooth, I thought.
He turned toward his friends and shrugged. I knocked ‘em over with my wit, yup. But the movement stalled him long enough for me to try the right-hand door.
Locked, too.
“You pretty for a chica blanca,” he said to me, starting across the street again. “Maybe I come over there, help you out?”
The three other fellows straightened, moving around from the far side of the pickup like a pack of wolves, gathering behind him. The big guy hoisted himself forward, gingerly putting weight on one foot. I could tell he didn’t really want to move unless he had to.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I said, feeling a tremor in my throat, hoping it didn’t sound as bad as it felt.
So far the conversation wouldn’t do more than make Jeff curious. I looked around again but still didn’t see the white van he drove up here. I hoped he was near. We’d separated on Lake Shore Drive and I kept him apprised of my location as I drove, wishing we had come up with some sort of two-way communication. But with this wind, whooshing about, whipping my hair, he might not be able to hear me, regardless.
Half a block away, my car wouldn’t do me any good. Even if I tried to run for it, I’d still have to fumble with the keys and unlock the door before climbing in. I swore my next car would have automatic locks and one of those remote control openers.
If I lived long enough to get a next car.
Smiling through my rising panic as the fellows approached, shuffling across the street, as though they had all the time in the world, I thought twice about the fact that people thought gangbangers were basically stupid. I had no doubt that these fellows knew precisely what they were doing, exercising exquisite psychological torture on me, knowing I had nowhere to run, and nothing to do except watch them get closer.
I widened my smile, as though dismissing them, as though utterly unafraid, but hearing the pounding of my heart in my ears, a panicked thrumming. I headed instead to the farthest set of doors.
On the way, I noticed it. A doorbell.
A doorbell on a church.
I didn’t have time to analyze how very peculiar it was that there should be a doorbell sitting prim on the edge near the right center door, I just pushed it and hoped that the fact that it was cracked didn’t mean it wasn’t working.
I pushed it twice more, listening intently, hoping to hear the chimes reverberate in the church to send someone, anyone, scurrying over to answer my plea.
Nothing.
The four guys made it to my side of the building, and continued to shuffle my direction. As they neared, I noticed that all four of them wore long blue jeans flared out in wide bell-bottom hems, the right leg of which skimmed the sidewalk, fraying the dirty bottoms even further. White strings from the ragged fabric dragged behind them like tiny streamers across the filthy street. Their left cuffs were turned up, doubled, exposing the light blue inside of the denim. All four. All the left side. Some sort of gang allegiance, I figured. They spoke in Spanish, and something they said caused one of the two slimmer fellows to smile, showing a gold front tooth.
“Maybe she don’ like dirty Mexicans,” gold-tooth said, pronouncing the word “Me-hee-cans.” “Wha’ you think, Rico?”
Rico, the leader, made a long noise of assessment. “I think maybe you right. Maybe we should teach her a lesson, eh? Show her what a Latino Lover can do for poor lonely white babe. Give her big treat, eh?”
Three of the guys sported teardrop tattoos on their faces. The fat guy didn’t have any, but the guys that did, had at least two, each. I’d heard once that teardrop tattoos signify a killing. If that was true, between the three of them, they’d killed seven.
Deep breath, I told myself.
Even if Jeff were nearby, he probably couldn’t pick up their words, so he might not know the panic that rose in my chest, though I bet the microphone was close enough to pick up the thumps of my frantic heartbeat. I half wanted Jeff to appear, but I knew that his presence could impede my plans. “I’m okay, Jeff,” I said quietly, hoping he was listening.
Standing as close to the doorbell as I could, I leaned on it again, like a lifeline. At the same time my mind raced trying to come up with a plan to talk my way out of this confrontation.
“Hey, wait a minute,” I said. Where this chutzpah was coming from was anybody’s guess. I acted on pure instinct. The tougher prey appeared, the less appealing it was. Or so the Discovery channel claimed, in their special on the hunting rituals of Amazon Wildlife.
Rico got close enough that I could smell fried food on his clothes. His eyelashes, straight and black, sloped downward, giving his brown eyes a relaxed, yet no less sinister look. His dark leather jacket flapped open, and beneath it, despite the cold, he wore a silk shirt, unbuttoned halfway down. A heavy gold charm, Christ on the cross, hung right where the buttons started, in the center of his hairless chest.
The back of my brain chose this moment to chastise me for not ever investing in the pepper spray my friend Maria kept nagging me to buy. I could hear my own voice, tsk, tsking, telling me what a fool I’d been to wander about a known rough neighborhood without any means of self-protection.
“Yeah?” Rico said.
“You aren’t gonna mess with me.”
The four of them laughed. “Oh yeah? And why not?”
I fixed my gaze on the gold crucifix at Rico’s chest as I tried desperately to remember the lessons from a single self-defense class I’d taken four years ago. Eyes, groin, knees. I thought those were the places I ought to target. Or maybe not. I coul
dn’t remember. And that half hour class had assumed a one-on-one attack. Not four on one.
The fat guy hung back a bit. Maybe three on one. “Holy ground,” I said, opening my hands, a little. Not too wide. I wanted to keep all my body parts out of harm’s way. “Bad karma. You don’t want to mess with hurting folks on God’s turf.”
“Okay,” he said, glancing around, as though the Almighty would choose that moment to wing him with a bolt of lightning or something. His three friends watched him, as though for guidance. He reached out and touched my hair, letting it fall around his fingers. “You right,” He lifted the crucifix from his chest and touched it to his lips before turning to address the fat man. “We take her back to your place, eh Fernando?”
I sucked in a bit of breath.
Then I heard it.
A wonderful noise. A metallic chunking vibrated next to me as the front door opened.
I never thought I’d be so happy to see Father Bruno.
In a quick second, he assessed the situation. The four guys backed up. “Alex, is there a problem?” Bruno asked.
“Don’t worry about it, Padre,” Rico said. “This a domestic here. This my woman.” He grabbed my arm so fast that I didn’t notice Bruno opening the door wider, again.
“Let go, asshole,” I said, forgetting my self-defense lesson as I tried to wriggle out of his grip. My foot shot out, and I almost connected with his knee. And I would have, if he hadn’t backed up just then.
Turning around I saw the reason. Ro. Big old nasty Ro. The same gorilla who’d beat the bejeezus out of Sophie just a couple of days ago, had moved close, to stand next to me.
“Rico,” he said in a low voice. “What’d I tell you about comin’ on this side of the street?”
I could tell by the way Rico’s grip loosened that the bold look he wore was mere bravado. When his three buddies started to move off, Rico shook my arm for attention. “Why don’ you tell me you belong to this mother?”
