Sleep Tight

by Jeffrey Jacobson

  Sometimes Tommy wondered if he’d ever find anybody else, maybe get married again someday, but he tried not to dwell on it. He knew a part of him would never be able to let go of Kimmy completely. He didn’t like it, but wasn’t going to kid himself. If she ever woke up and realized that he had always been the only one for her, he’d take her back in a heartbeat, no matter what she had said or done.

  Still, he didn’t think that was likely. He knew she’d moved on, even if she did still show him affection once in a while. But that affection was probably closer to pity, like the feeling a supermodel might get when she sees a puppy in the rain.

  Tommy kicked at the thin layer of slush as he headed for the Addison El stop. At least the snow was keeping most people inside. Tommy hated Wrigleyville. The muscleheads who crowded the sidewalks, the entire frat-house-row feel, the fake lovable losers posturing. And the whole upper-class thing irritated him.

  He hurried across the street, dodging cabs and SUVs. It wasn’t much of a storm, but you never knew when a little snow could throw the CTA into chaos. The last thing he needed was to be late.

  Tonight especially. Kimmy had arranged the whole thing. When Tommy had finally found out that she was seeing some mover and shaker down at City Hall, the wheels had already been set in motion, and he could either remain quiet like a good little cog or get ground up in the machine, crushed by the merciless juggernaut of Chicago politics.

  So, for his daughter, he kept quiet. He was determined to be a good little cog, even if it killed him.

  CHAPTER 5

  9:04 PM

  December 27

  Ed and Sam marched through the blowing snow, looking for an unlocked door. If Ed was mad about his shoes, he didn’t say anything. To complain about the weather would go against all code of ethics if you grew up in the Midwest. You joked about the conditions, sure, loved to brag about it, of course, but you never, ever whined about it. The worse the weather got, the more superior you could feel over the punks in New York and the space cadet pussies in L.A.

  They finally gave up and started out to the runways to flag down one of the luggage carriers. They flashed their badges. The woman didn’t even take off her ear protection, just jerked her head and the empty line of luggage cars she was towing. Ed and Sam hopped on. Ed’s phone beeped. He checked it and said, “Well, it’s official. This night has gone to shit. Carolina’s flight was cancelled. She won’t be in until tomorrow. Maybe.”

  Sam shrugged. “Guess we should head for home. Get a good night’s sleep, be fresh for all the paperwork in the morning.”

  They cracked up.

  The baggage handlers showed them how to find their way through the winding conveyer belts and out into the terminal. The place was full of bright lights and plenty of law enforcement. Most of the local cops were in charge of keeping the reporters out of the terminal. They slipped under the yellow tape and found their Crown Vic blocked by a dizzying array of police cruisers, somber government sedans, and tech vans.

  Sam shook his head. “Moses himself couldn’t part all that shit.”

  “We need new wheels, that’s for damn sure.”

  They hiked out in the snow again, until they found a young cop standing in front of his cruiser, diverting traffic into the parking garages, where drivers would be forced back onto the O’Hare Expressway, heading back into the city.

  “Officer . . .” Sam squinted at the cop’s badge. “Reid? I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you. My partner and I have an emergency, and we need this car. Immediately. You will continue your assignment, and you’re doing fine work, by the way, but when you are relieved, you will take our car back to Division One. Eleventh Street, you understand?”

  “But . . .” The cop looked like he’d been ordered to suck his thumb in front of all the traffic.

  “You questioning orders? Seriously?” Sam glared at Ed. “Can you fucking believe this?” He turned back to the cop, getting uncomfortably close. “You mean to tell me you’re actually going to interfere with superior officers when they are attempting to deal with an honest-to-God homicide emergency?”

  “Son,” Ed said patiently, long accustomed to playing the good cop. “Do yourself a favor. Turn your keys over to this man. You do not want to piss him off.”

  Officer Reid thought about it for a few more seconds and said, “The keys are in the ignition.” Ed climbed into the driver’s seat while Sam stretched out in the passenger’s. The cop tapped on the driver’s window. Ed hit the button and the window slid down. Officer Reid leaned in, trying to be as intimidating as possible, like he had pulled them over for some traffic violation. “You can’t just take a cruiser whenever you feel like it. I’m calling this in.”

  “You better,” Ed said. “You damn well better follow procedure.” He sent the window back up, hit the lights and the siren too just for the hell of it, and sent cars scattering as they tore off down the crowded highway.

  “Thought it was long overdue you and I sat down, face to face, without all the goddamn lawyers between us.” Lee leaned back, crossing his alligator-skin dress shoes on the corner of his desk and lacing his fingers behind his head. He had a face chiseled for politics. Strong. Handsome. Reassuring. Tonight he wore his concerned, caring look. “Wanted to make sure you understood how this deal works.”

  Tommy knew how the deal worked.

  Lee didn’t wait for Tommy. “You grew up here. You know how things happen in this city. You’re either scratching somebody’s back or you’re out on your ass.”

  Tommy nodded, let his gaze wander around Lee’s office. Cornelius Shea, “Lee” to friends and enemies alike, was the youngest commissioner of Streets and Sanitation in the history of the city of Chicago. He had enough muscle to snag an office on the second-to-top floor of City Hall. A large photograph of Lee and then Mayor Daley Jr. hung directly behind his desk. More photos of Lee shaking hands with VIPs were hung around the opulent office. Most citizens wouldn’t have gotten this far, and Tommy understood why Lee hadn’t taken down the pictures of himself with former Illinois governors, considering three out of the last four were currently behind bars for corruption. Lee preferred instead to conduct press conferences out in front, with City Hall itself serving as a dramatic backdrop, or give interviews as he walked the streets of one of the quieter neighborhoods, proving he was just a man of the people.

  And of course, he had a framed print of goddamned Wrigley Field at night. It figured.

  Lee arched one thick black eyebrow. “You hearing me, or is this some kinda big joke to you?”

  “I hear you.”

  “I sure as hell hope so. You play by my rules, everybody’s happy. You got yourself a cushy job until you retire and get to be a dad to your little girl. Fuck it up, and I promise you you’ll never see her again. Hell, you’ll be lucky you don’t end up in prison. Your job is to keep me happy. That’s all you gotta worry about. And keeping me happy means steering clear of any goddamn nosy social workers, or anybody else that gets curious, especially any cock-sucking reporters.”

  He lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the ceiling. He was dressed in a tux, with the bow tie rakishly open and hanging on either side of the unbuttoned collar. He probably thought he looked like James Bond after a casual night gambling in Monaco. There was some heavy-duty charity dinner with all the heavyweights in town at the brand-spanking-new Serenity Hotel, with proceeds supposedly going to help needy children. Maybe get his picture in the Trib’s RedEye.

  The boys with the real power, and the true recipients of most of the money, wouldn’t show up in the paper. They wouldn’t get within ten feet of a camera.

  Politics in Chicago.

  Lee took another drag. Tommy guessed that the city ban on indoor smoking in public buildings didn’t apply to this particular office. “Shit. It’s not a bad deal, when you stop and think about it. Let’s cut through the bullshit. A piece of ass like Kimmy . . . fuck me, you didn’t think she’d stick with you forever, did you? Jesus Christ. I hope not. N
o friggin’ way. Hell, I can’t believe she stuck with you for this long.”

  Tommy had been shocked when a whole army of lawyers accompanied Kimmy to the divorce proceedings. He’d figured they’d sign some papers, agree to share custody of Grace, and it would be all simple and clean. He hadn’t even thought to bring a lawyer.

  It hadn’t taken long for Tommy to get a queasy feeling, like he was the only one at a party who didn’t know anybody and all the guests were starting to lick their lips and look at him like he was going to be the main course for dinner. It had been obvious that the lawyers and the judge were all good friends and golfing buddies. There had been no one else in the courtroom, so they hadn’t even tried to pretend.

  The judge had awarded Kimmy sole custody of Grace, and hit Tommy with an absurdly high child-support bill. There was no way he could afford to pay, not with his old job. Everybody knew this, and Tommy felt stupid for not figuring out the deal sooner. Not a day later, a job offer had come through, an offer to work for the City of Chicago, as an employee for the Department of Streets and Sanitation. His salary had seemed suspiciously high, until he’d realized that most of his pay would be taken out for child support and various other contributions to the union and the city.

  “So.” Lee stubbed out his cigarette. “I’m going to assume we have an understanding.”

  “Sure.”

  “Then I suggest you get moving. Don’t want to be late clocking in your first night.”

  Tommy stood and headed for the door.

  “I hope we don’t need to talk ever again.” Lee said. “Fact is, I don’t want to look at you. Makes me a little sick, thinking about you and Kimmy. Tell Ray down at the desk I said you didn’t have to sign out. Let’s keep this meeting off the books.”

  CHAPTER 6

  10:01 PM

  December 27

  The bat wheeled through the freezing night air, senses reeling. Once free of the nylon pouch, it had flitted about the terminal, keeping to the shadows. The giant Christmas trees erected throughout the terminal offered no clear openings, and the lights confused it, so the bat rose higher and eventually squeezed into a crack between one of the futuristic struts and the ceiling. It tried eating a spider, but found the taste to be bitter and alien. The brief respite allowed the bat to catch its breath, but it couldn’t remain hidden much longer. It needed warmth and water.

  The six-year-old female sheath-tailed bat was one of the most endangered animals in the world. Experts estimated the total population to be less than a hundred mature individuals. She had been caught with a fishing net strung over the fissure where the colony lived on the Seychelles Island, just north of Madagascar. She weighed close to ten grams, and wasn’t much bigger than a young mouse.

  She was sick.

  She was having trouble swallowing, and she had scraped bloody furrows in her pelt with her claws and teeth in response to the infuriating parasites that crawled through her fur. Arching her back, she tried to scrape the invaders off on the sharp edge of the angled ceiling, but they just flattened themselves against her pale skin or took refuge under her wings. A growing restlessness drove her from her perch, and she fluttered through the terminal once more. She had known fear for so long, it was simply a part of her now, but the disorienting panic kept her moving.

  She found a sliver of a crack near the top of the vast wall of windows that faced north, and tasted unfamiliar air. Wanting only to leave the stale, dry atmosphere of the terminal behind, she squeezed through and immediately panicked. The temperature hovered around twenty-eight degrees, and she had never been this cold. She beat her wings harder, swooping through the hurricane of flashing red and blue lights that covered the inner drive of O’Hare.

  She rose higher, soaring out over the parking lot. She could sense the tectonic vibrations emanating from the city below, urging her higher and higher. The bat had never encountered snow before, and the drifting flakes wreaked havoc with her echolocation organs. A roaring filled her ears, and the horrible, shrieking engines of an incoming jet drove her away from the airport.

  She turned east, instinctively drawn to the vast stillness of Lake Michigan. For a while, she simply glided, surfing the bitter winds that pushed her to the southeast. The adrenaline that had surged through her compact body began to ebb. Her tiny heart hitched twice, her wings folded, and she dropped, tumbling through snowy skies into the vast forest of concrete and steel and harsh lights of downtown.

  The free fall squeezed the last dregs of adrenaline into her system and she found the power to spread her wings and soar, whirling in an ever-downward spiral. She smacked into a frost-covered window, bounced off, and plummeted to the street. She found her wings once again, and tried to aim for the darkness along the Chicago River, but the draft from a passing El train sent her spinning into the girders that held up Upper Wacker Drive.

  She fell like a stone into the frozen gutter along the edge of Lower Wacker.

  Her heart convulsed again, and she pulled her wings close. Headlights splashed over her and moved on, leaving her bathed in the sickly yellow light from the irregular fluorescent bulbs. The panic and sickness had driven her consciousness deep into the recesses of her mind, and she was only dimly aware of the icy concrete.

  She was still alive when the first of the rats emerged from the sewer drain and scurried along the gutter. It was soon followed by several more. Farther down the street, even more rats appeared in another drain. Waiting for the relative darkness between the passing headlights, they crept along toward the bat.

  The first rat seized her in his huge incisors and scurried back into the darkness of the sewers, leaving nothing but splayed footprints and long, wormlike tracks from their tails in the gray slush.

  The parasites, commonly known as bat bugs, sensed the life slipping out of their host and crawled off of her body as it was ripped apart and the pieces grew cold. They smelled the carbon dioxide exhaled by the rats and crept onto their new hosts. The rats, eyes bright with hunger and muzzles wet with the bat’s blood, felt nothing as the bat bugs wriggled through their coarse hair and gorged themselves.

  CHAPTER 7

  10:44 PM

  December 27

  Tommy’s first night on the job started in a bar, a dim hole in the wall on the West Side. It wasn’t anything fancy. A few flat screens hung around the place, tuned to sports. A dozen tables were spread out over a greasy linoleum floor. A thick haze of smoke hung throughout the bar; these guys didn’t pay much attention to the no-smoking ordinance either. It didn’t even look like the place had a name. The only notable attribute was an extremely large parking lot in the back, with at least three exits leading to major avenues and expressways.

  The parking lot was full of city vehicles. CTA vans. Dark blue electrician trucks. Sewer behemoths, with the huge tubes draped over the cab. Tommy counted at least thirteen Streets and Sans trucks. Some were garbage trucks, others were heavy-duty work vans, fellow rat control workers.

  Don, his partner, led Tommy through the tables and sat near the grimy front windows, filled with neon beer signs and dead flies. Don lit a cigarette and shoved a sticky menu at Tommy. There was a narrow kitchen behind the bar, where, apparently, they’d make pretty much anything you wanted as long as it was deep fried and covered in plastic melted cheese.

  “First night, my treat.” Don’s mustache and wide nose made him look a lot like an easygoing walrus. When he first climbed in the cab, Tommy wasn’t sure what to make of his new partner. Don’s bulk made it difficult for him to even fit behind the wheel. He’d fixed Tommy with a cold stare and nodded at Tommy’s ragged Sox cap. “You a fan, or is that for show, just to fit in with the guys here?”

  “I grew up in Bridgeport,” Tommy answered, getting pissed.

  “Thank Christ.” Don grinned. “Last guy I had to break in, fucking douche bag coulda cared less about sports. Jesus humpin’ Christ, can you imagine? Fucking living in Chicago, and you don’t like sports? Give me a fucking break. The only thing
worse woulda been if he’d a been a Cubs fan.”

  So they talked baseball as Don headed west. Both clubs had new managers, so there was plenty to discuss. They really didn’t hate the Cubs, but it was more fun to make fun of the struggling north-side club. As south-side fans, neither one missed Ozzy, but they were heartbroken that both Buehrle and Pierzynski were gone. It wouldn’t be the same without them. And before Tommy knew it, they were pulling into the parking lot.

  Don ordered a double cheeseburger and cheese fries with a Diet Coke. “Don’t drink booze anymore,” he said. “Doc says it’s not a good idea. But hell, you feel like a beer, knock yourself out.” Tommy got the chicken sandwich and potato chips. He thought about it for a moment, decided fuck it, and ordered a beer with it. He had to admit, so far, his first night on the job wasn’t so bad.

  “I’m not gonna bullshit you. Day shift has the cushy end of the job. Hell, all they do is ride around all day and look busy. Put out some poison, a few traps, hang some signs, quote, ‘make their presence known in the neighborhoods.’” Don shrugged. “You and me, we get the shit end of the stick. We’re the ones getting our hands dirty, out collecting the dead rats.”

  Don stabbed a cheese fry into a lake of ketchup and fixed Tommy with a grin that straightened out his mustache. “But you, my friend, you stick with me and I’ll show you some things you never seen. Things that make this job of ours a sweet deal. But first, you gotta answer me this. Who’s upstairs pulling strings for you? Guy like you doesn’t just fall into a job like this. I got ten guys on the garbage detail fighting for this spot. What makes you special?”

  Tommy had known this was coming. Hell, he’d be pissed if he’d worked for a job for a long time only to watch some young punk jump ahead of him. “Believe it or not, Lee Shea got me this job.”