Sleep Tight

by Jeffrey Jacobson

  He’d found the raccoon, no problem, but the damn thing hissed at him and snapped at his grasping hands, slicing the shit out of his fingers and palm. Finally, a hour later, bleeding from both hands, Tommy gave up and crawled out from under the eaves. Don laughed, and told his nephew quietly that they’d leave some poisoned bait later in the week and the problem would be solved. Tommy wrapped his hands in paper towels soaked in hydrogen peroxide and waited for the girls to come and talk to him. It never happened. Don and Tommy didn’t leave because there was still beer left in the keg, and hung out in the empty backyard, sitting in the cracked swing set for the rest of the night, until the beer was gone. The last Tommy had seen of Don was the man giving a drunken wave as he pulled into early morning traffic.

  The supervisor couldn’t have cared less if Don was late or not. He was caught up in a Sox game. Around 8:00, Tommy took the van and went for a ride. He’d been to Don’s place just once, and wasn’t sure he could recognize it.

  The AM news stations were full of speculation about the motives behind a series of brutal attacks downtown that morning. Tommy, like most people who lived in a large city, shrugged off these tales of horror and tragedy, acknowledging that they lived in an insane, violent world, but if you dwelled on it too long, hopelessness might overtake you. It was better to pause a moment in silent reflection for the victims, then move on.

  Don lived in a garden apartment off of Milwaukee near Roscoe; the “garden” part was bullshit for “basement.” Don had an old little mutt, Rambo, that ran around like a berserk puppy for a while when he came home, then would find a spot and sleep for the next ten hours.

  Tommy found the building, or at least what he thought might be the building, and double-parked, yellow flashers going. It was a brick three-flat that looked like a million others in the city. Don didn’t answer his doorbell. Tommy leaned on the buzzer. Nothing. He went down the street and around to the alley and counted buildings as he walked. The night that Tommy had been there, Don had shown him how he didn’t bother with the key to the garage; all he had to do was lift the loose door and pull the dead bolt free.

  Tommy let himself into the garage and slipped through the inky blackness. He opened the inner door, crossed the backyard in two paces, and went down the cement steps to knock on Don’s door. By now, Tommy didn’t expect an answer. He heard Rambo’s yips and paws on the other side. He tried the door.

  It opened. Rambo was there, happy, as usual, to see somebody, anybody.

  “Don? Don? You in here?” Tommy called. He took hold of the door and knocked again, louder. Rambo jumped at his legs and he picked up the dog. “Don?”

  Still nothing. Tommy stepped into the kitchen, shut the door behind him, and scratched Rambo’s ears. The layout was a shotgun shack, a straight shot down the hallway, with rooms and bathrooms on either side. The kitchen sat at the back end, the living room in the front.

  “Don?” Down the dark hall, light seeped out of the crack around the bathroom door. Tommy found the light switch for the hall and flicked it on. He turned Rambo loose, and the dog went trotting down into the shadows of the living room. He opened the bathroom door and found it empty. Don’s bedroom was also empty.

  Tommy’s shadow stretched across Rambo as the dog turned in slow circles on the couch before settling into another nap. Don’s ancient thirteen-inch television flickered in the corner, sending dancing patterns of colors across the scuffed wooden floor.

  Tommy crossed the darkness of the living room and was just about to twist the switch on the lamp when he stepped on something and realized it was Don’s hand.

  There was no music tonight. Sam and Ed weren’t in the mood. They cruised up and down the one-way streets through the Loop, windows down, Sam driving and glaring at the tourists. By now, most of the secretaries in their gym shoes and the computer programmers in their wrinkled button-up short-sleeve shirts and all the rest of the suits had either gone home or hit the bars. Traffic was sparse.

  “Brother, we don’t find her, I don’t see how we’re gonna wriggle off this time,” Ed said.

  “You don’t think Arturo’ll bat for us?”

  Ed shook his head. “Not this time. We fucked up. Should’ve taken her to lockup.”

  “No,” Sam said flatly. “And let those fucks track her down inside? If they took a chance sweating her inside the goddamn sheriff’s office in City Hall, no telling what would happen in County.”

  “Well, we shouldn’t have turned her loose.”

  “Shoulda, woulda, coulda. Story of my fucking life,” Sam said, spitting his nicotine gum out of the window.

  “You got any ideas on how to fix this, I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Find her. Take her in. Make Arturo give her protective witness status.”

  “Arturo ain’t gonna get within ten miles of this. You know that.” Ed looked out the passenger window. “Maybe she should turn a rat loose in his office. Might get his attention then.”

  CHAPTER 30

  8:20 PM

  August 12

  The paramedics, Scott and Vince, weren’t in a big hurry. They pulled up behind the Streets and Sans truck and took their time getting their bags ready, before sauntering up the sidewalk and ringing the buzzer. 911 had told them that the patient wasn’t conscious, but was breathing steadily. That meant that there was no point in rushing. Some Polack kid was waiting impatiently in the foyer. He practically dragged them into the crappy little basement apartment.

  All the lights were on. The patient, Don, another fucking Polack, was lying between the coffee table and the couch. He looked like he was just sleeping off a bad drunk.

  Vince snapped on some purple surgical gloves and checked Don’s vital signs. Scott sighed heavily and cornered Tommy. “You guys live here together?”

  “What? Uh, no. No.” Tommy caught the paramedic’s leer.

  “It’s not like that. We work together.”

  “Okay, fine. Sure. Whatever. Your name?”

  “Tommy Krazinsky.”

  Vince spoke up. “What kind of drugs were you guys taking tonight?”

  “What?” Tommy asked. “Drugs? No, no. Don never did any drugs.”

  “Look, I’m trying to find out what’s wrong with your friend. It might mean the difference between life and death here. Now, what was your friend on?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. As far as I know, he never took anything stronger than beer and aspirin.”

  There was a knock, and a Chicago cop stood in the front doorway. The cop was white, pushing forty. His mustache was in better shape than his body. “Who called it in?”

  “I did.” Tommy stepped forward.

  The cop pulled out his notebook. “Name?” he asked, clicking his pen like he was cocking his handgun. Tommy gave his name and a statement. Scott poked around Don’s apartment, looking for drugs, but came up empty. He held his hands up to the cop.

  The cop walked over and got a better look at Don. Writing in his notebook, the cop said aloud, “Possible heart attack. Older white male. Drug angle looks less likely.”

  Vince finally decided that he didn’t know what the hell was wrong with the patient, so they went back to the ambulance and brought back a collapsible gurney.

  The kid, Tommy, asked if he could ride with them to the hospital.

  Scott and Vince looked to the cop.

  The cop asked the paramedics, “Where you taking him?”

  Scott said, “Northwestern is closest.”

  The cop nodded, said to Tommy, “He’ll be at Northwestern. You can drive your own vehicle slowly and safely there, and ask for him in the emergency room.” He headed to his car, tilting his head, speaking in a bored tone into the mike on his shoulder.

  The paramedics loaded Don into the ambulance. Vince slammed the door shut and got in on the passenger side. Scott hit the lights and sirens and headed for Milwaukee Avenue.

  The supervisor’s voice came out of the phone, abrupt and out of breath. “Tommy? That you?”r />
  “Yeah,” he said as he clenched the phone against his shoulder, trying to buckle the seat belt with one hand and steer with the other. He picked up speed, following the ambulance.

  “You know that Lee is looking for you guys? Is Don with you?”

  “No. He’s in the ambulance. He’s sick.”

  “Sick? Sick how?”

  “I don’t know. He’s unconscious.”

  There was a pause while the supervisor talked with somebody else. He came back on. “You say he’s in an ambulance?”

  “Yeah. They’re taking him to the hospital right now.”

  “Which ambulance is this? What’s the company?”

  “I can’t tell. A red and green one.” Tommy weaved around vehicles that had pulled over for the ambulance, and were just starting to pull back into their lane again.

  “Is there a number or a name on the side?”

  “I don’t know. They’re taking him to Northwestern. Call there.”

  “Is there a number or a name on the side?”

  Tommy hit SPEAKERPHONE and threw the phone on the dash. “I. Don’t. Know,” he yelled while scooting through an intersection against the light, trying to keep up with the ambulance. Other drivers hit their horns. To them, he was just another asshole trying to steal the road in the ambulance’s wake.

  Tommy followed as it turned left onto Division and crossed over the North Branch of the Chicago River. His phone was quiet for a minute. He heard the supervisor’s voice, talking to someone else. “You got it? Okay. Fine. Better this way. Absolutely.” Tommy hit his horn at drivers impatient to pull back into traffic, ignoring their rearview mirrors and his flashing yellow lights.

  Tommy’s phone flashed CALL ENDED.

  The ambulance’s brakes flickered uncertainly, and turned south on LaSalle. It seemed to Tommy they went slower, even though this was a four-lane street. The ambulance was far more cautious when it came to crossing streets. Tommy found it was easy to catch up. When they passed Chicago Ave, Tommy was confused. The ambulance continued going south on LaSalle, leaving Northwestern farther and farther behind.

  He relaxed when he realized they were taking Don to Cook County General. Maybe they’d radioed ahead. Maybe they’d been told that Cook County General had better equipment for Don, with a team of specialists, ready and waiting for Don. Hell, maybe Cook County General dealt with this kind of thing everyday.

  Maybe it was all going to be okay.

  Sam pulled over to the curb and waved a homeless guy over.

  The guy, a man in his thirties with wild hair, waved off imaginary insects. “Wasn’t doing nothin’, officer.”

  “What makes you think I’m an officer? Might be I’m just a tourist, trying to find my hotel.”

  “Whatever you says, officer.”

  Sam unwrapped more gum. “You seen Qween around?”

  “Queen?” The man cocked his head, listening to phantom radio transmissions. “Of England?”

  “Don’t fuck with us, pal,” Ed said, surprising Sam. Ed was usually happy playing the good cop. “I don’t have much patience tonight. Got half a mind to come out and beat the living shit out of you for resisting arrest.”

  “Tell you what,” Sam said, thinking it might be his turn to play good cop. “I got ten bucks if your memory improves.”

  The homeless man cocked his head the other direction, as if receiving conflicting transmissions. “Well, now. Maybe I know, maybe I don’t. Let’s see the money.”

  Sam pulled out his wallet, found a ten-dollar bill. “You know who I’m talking about, right?”

  The man looked offended. “Shit. Ever’body knows Qween.” He took the ten. “Ain’t seen her in two days.”

  “Know where she stays?”

  The man shook his head. “Used to have a spot on Lower Wacker. Up and took everything somewheres else. Don’t know where.”

  “You know why?”

  “Have to ask her.”

  “You’re not exactly earning your money here,” Sam said.

  The man shrugged. “Whatchu want? I don’t know.”

  Ed leaned over, fixed the man with his dead eyes. “What’s the story with the rats?”

  The man didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. “The rats? They sick, man. Ever’body knows that. You stay away from ’em. Ever’body knows that.”

  CHAPTER 31

  8:56 PM

  August 12

  Tommy lost sight of the ambulance when it zoomed into the emergency driveway on Wacker Drive, where only medical or rescue vehicles were allowed. He pulled around the block and parked in the underground garage. He couldn’t find the stairs and had to take the elevator instead.

  While waiting for the doors to open, doubts started creeping into his head. Cook County General wasn’t exactly known for its cutting-edge medical research. Cook County General wasn’t exactly known for its quality medical care if you wanted to get down to it. He wasn’t sure why Cook County General would have a team of specialists in whatever disease was keeping Don asleep.

  The doors slid open and he stepped inside. He tried to stand still under pale fluorescents that hurt his eyes as the elevator lurched up the four stories to the lobby, but all those stories about Cook County General being a sick joke in the city knocked down the walls of his optimism.

  The place was chronically underfunded, for one thing. Nobody knew who was really in charge, only that the city ran the place, so if you had no money left, no money at all, this was where you ended up. Sometimes, on a slow day for tragedy, the news would get all worked up over people literally crawling into the emergency room because they had no insurance and the ambulance companies wouldn’t pick them up. The streets were full of horror stories about the emergency room, of waiting all day for a shot that turned out to be prepared with a dirty needle, of being forgotten, of people dying on the benches and being there all night before somebody called their name, gut-churning tales of malpractice, of doctors stealing drugs to feed their own habits, of AIDS-INFECTED blood, of MRSA contaminating every doorknob, every water fountain, every surface imaginable, of rusty scalpels and dirty floors.

  The emergency room wasn’t as crowded as Tommy expected. He stood fifth or sixth in the line at the front desk, and overheard the nurse telling people with obvious injuries to go seek treatment at either Northwestern or Rush instead. Of course, most people, especially those bleeding on the tile floors, didn’t take the news well. “Are you fucking kidding? What the hell is this? You call yourself a hospital?”

  “We’re undergoing a change of management,” was all the nurse would say.

  When it was Tommy’s turn, he said, “I’m here to see Don Wycza. They just brought him in an ambulance.”

  The nurse, a black woman with a face that exhaustion had cut to the skull, checked the charts. “No, I’m sorry. There’s nobody here by that name.”

  “Maybe he hasn’t been added yet. I followed the ambulance here.”

  The nurse rechecked the clipboards on her desk, then stood and searched a few more places around her station. No luck. “What’s his name again?” the nurse asked. “It’s possible they didn’t bring in the paperwork yet. I’ll see if I can’t find him. In the meantime, you have a seat. I’ll call you if I hear about your friend.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Tommy gave a little wave of gratitude, then sank into a chair in the middle of a long line of plastic seats bolted to a long steel bar. He checked his phone. No calls. No texts. He snapped the phone shut and tucked it into his coveralls.

  The patients in the emergency room could be divided into three categories. The first, and most popular, group was five people who held bloody towels around some limb, usually either a hand or foot. Summertime, and a lot of drunk people decide to fucking cut loose with a power tool while tackling some exterior home improvement project.

  Tommy noticed that patients had their own groups of friends. The guys in the first group, and it seemed to be all guys, all had wives or girlfriends and someti
mes young children. Sometimes, if the guys were old enough, the adult children would bring a parent in who’d had too much barbecue and beer and decided to prune the hedge with a chainsaw.

  The second group was a little harder to define on its own, but the look of the friends helped. These were people who’d ingested too much alcohol or crack or meth or coke or something else. They had been brought in by one or two peers who desperately looked around for the best opportunity to slip away.

  Everybody in the first and second group was being shuttled off to different hospitals.

  The third group was only two people; one man and one woman. It was difficult to pinpoint the cause of their distress. Both were nearly catatonic. The man had been brought in by a cab driver who couldn’t wake him up, and had driven halfway across the city to leave him at the only hospital that would take him because he didn’t have an insurance card in his wallet.

  The woman’s husband had brought her in. He kept trying not to cry and squeezing her hand. She sagged against the plastic chair and gazed unseeing at the ceiling. A dark stain appeared at her crotch. Urine ran out of the bottom of her jeans and collected on the speckled tile floor. Tommy looked away.

  “Tommy, Tommy Krazinsky?” the nurse at the head station called out.

  Tommy bounded up. “Yeah? You got him?”

  The nurse spoke into the phone, “Yes, he’s here. Do you wish to speak—” After a moment, she hung up the phone. “Ahh, I’m sorry. I was just given a message to make sure you were at this location. I don’t know who was asking.”

  “Probably my boss? I left a message at work telling them Don was coming here. Have you heard anything about him?”