Gold chalked up another lost argument to the frail eighty-three year-old who weighed less than the huge German shepherd sitting at attention next to him. “I can’t stay long. I have to get back to headquarters.”
“Understood. How’s your new partner?”
“He’s okay. He lives over by South Chicago Hospital.”
Harry nodded. There were liver spots on his bald dome between the few remaining strands of white hair. His hearing aids were of limited effectiveness. His thick black-framed glasses rested on a hawk nose between cataract-ravaged eyes that shone as brightly as the day he had met Lil sixty-three years earlier. Always a conservative dresser, he had worn a jacket and tie to Bowen until the day he retired. He was forced to abandon his beloved neckties after he lost some of the functionality of his left hand after his stroke. Nowadays, he struggled to put on a pair of trousers and a polo shirt every morning. His only other modest compromise to contemporary fashion was his grudging agreement to wear a pair of sturdy running shoes for his daily walk. He referred to the Nikes bearing Michael Jordan’s silhouette and the transcendent “swoosh” logo as his “Air Harrys.”
Harry gripped his walker tightly. “What’s with the unit outside? You expecting a terrorist attack at 89th and Muskegon?”
“Just being cautious, Pop. After the excitement at Our Lady, I’m not taking any chances. I was thinking it might be good for you to spend a few days at Len’s house.”
“I didn’t leave during the riots after Martin Luther King was shot. I’m not leaving now.”
“You were younger then.”
“And now I’m old enough to know better. Nobody’s going to bother an old man. Besides, the streets are empty. Everybody’s staying home.”
“People are scared, Pop.”
“Can you blame them? I heard the explosion over by Our Lady. I saw your adventure at Cal Park on TV. I hope that kid wasn’t a Bowen student.”
“It’s Juanita Alvarado’s son.”
“I should have known. Luis has always been a knucklehead.”
“He’s going back to Joliet—probably for good.” Gold reached inside the pocket of his dress pants and pulled out a biscuit. “Have you been good, Lucky?”
The shepherd’s ears perked up.
Gold held the Milk-Bone a foot above Lucky’s nose. He waited until the dog sat perfectly still, then he let it drop. The impeccably trained canine snatched it in a lightning-quick motion. He devoured it in one bite, then he licked his chops triumphantly.
Harry feigned jealousy. “What about me?”
“That was my last one, Pop.”
“I was hoping for something a little more appetizing—and suitable for humans.”
Gold held up a peace offering in a stained brown paper bag. “I stopped at Cal Fish. Regards from Roberta.”
Gold got the smile he was hoping for. He knew his father would be pleased if he bore gifts from the humble seafood shack on the Calumet River next to the 95th Street drawbridge—which Gold and Battle had sped across a short time earlier. Calumet Fisheries was opened in 1948 by brothers-in-law Sid Kotlick and Len Toll, whose descendants still owned the business. It earned a fleeting moment of cinematic glory when it appeared in the background as Joliet Jake and Elwood Blues (portrayed by John Belushi and Dan Ackroyd) jumped their 1974 Dodge Monaco police car over the river as the bridge was going up in the original Blues Brothers movie. Cal Fish still had no seating or ambiance, and it accepted only cold, hard cash. Nevertheless, its loyal customers made the pilgrimage from all over the Chicago area to savor the fresh trout, chubs, and shrimp that Roberta Morales and her crew smoked daily in the ramshackle shed behind the building.
“Shrimp?” Harry asked hopefully.
“Smoked trout.”
“You know I like Roberta’s shrimp.”
“It isn’t kosher.”
“Since when did we start keeping kosher?”
“Dr. Sandler said you aren’t supposed to eat shellfish.”
“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Gold smiled. “You gonna let me inside?”
“Did you catch the asshole who killed Theresa’s daughter?”
“Not yet.”
“Come back after you find him.”
Gold shook the bag. “You want your shrimp?”
“You said it was trout.”
“I lied.”
It was Harry’s turn to smile. “Get inside, Mr. Big Shot. If I was still teaching, I would have stuck you in detention for six months.”
At times Gold felt as if he’d been in detention for almost forty years.
Gold followed his father across the creaky hardwood floors as Harry navigated the painstakingly slow walk past Lil’s long-silent upright piano that took up one wall of the tiny living room. They made their way into the even smaller dining room, where the cracks in the plaster were hidden by dozens of framed photos of five generations of Golds. The turquoise appliances in the adjacent kitchen had been considered a stylish upgrade when they were installed in 1962. Around the same time, Harry had hired Danley’s Garage World—which still sponsored the Leadoff Man pregame show before the Cubs telecasts—to build the detached four hundred dollar special that had withstood a half century of Chicago winters. It housed Harry’s pride and joy—a refurbished ’71 Mustang that the Bowen faculty and students had presented to him as a retirement present. Harry hadn’t driven it since his stroke, but Gold kept it in mint condition.
Gold helped his father into his tall-back armchair at the head of the dining room table. Lucky sat next to him, ears perked up. The last formal meal in this room had been the somber post-funeral spread after Lil had died three years earlier. The sweet smell of her chicken soup had been replaced by the aroma of the burritos prepared by Harry’s caretaker, Lucia. Over time, Gold had transformed it into his father’s domain, and Harry jokingly referred to it as his “Man Cave.” Gold had pushed the table against the wall to make it easier for his father to maneuver his walker. He replaced the centerpiece with Harry’s state-of-the-art desktop and a twenty-four inch flat-screen monitor. He mounted a plasma TV on the wall where the china cabinet once stood. Harry’s TV was always tuned to CNN. The WGN website appeared on his computer.
After his father was settled in, Gold went out to the narrow hallway and locked his service revolver inside the wall safe he’d had installed when he moved in. Gold always did this discreetly; Harry detested having a gun in his house. Before Gold had moved in with him, Harry’s only means of self-defense had been the autographed Luis Aparicio Louisville Slugger he’d kept in the umbrella stand next to the front door since the 1959 World Series. Gold returned to the dining room and sat down next to his father, who was picking at his shrimp.
“How’s Theresa?” Harry’s tone was serious.
“Not so good. The funeral is on Friday morning at Our Lady.”
“Will you have time to take me?”
“I’ll make time, Pop. She said she’d find somebody to help you with your exercises.”
Harry nodded gratefully. “You any closer to catching this guy?”
“He’s smart, Pop.”
“So are you. Is he still using throwaway cells?”
“Not anymore. He stole a couple of regular cell phones. We’re trying to cut off access, but the mayor doesn’t like it. He says it’ll shut down the city.”
“He’d rather have somebody setting off bombs on the streets? He just announced that government offices will be closed tomorrow. Is it just one guy?”
“The FBI thinks so. Or maybe a small group. They think it’s a freelancer—maybe home grown. We keep getting messages from something called the Islamic Freedom Federation. The FBI and Homeland Security don’t know anything about it.”
“CNN said it was an offshoot of Al-Qaeda on the Arabian Peninsula.”
“We’ve heard the same thing.”
Harry arched an eyebrow. “You don’t have a clue, do you?”
“No.” Gold never bullshitted
his father about his work. “Anybody call?”
“Rod Sellers from the Daily Southtown.” Harry still referred to South Chicago’s neighborhood paper by its old name, even though the conglomerate that had acquired it twenty years earlier had unwisely changed its name to the SouthtownStar. “I got an e-mail from Len. He can’t come down this weekend.”
Gold took the news in stride. His older brother had a propensity for ditching them on short notice. “How much time did you spend on Facebook today?”
“About an hour. Len’s kids put up some new pictures. I need you to take me to the Apple Store. They’re releasing the new iPad next month.”
Gold described his father as a combination of the Greatest Generation and a techno-dweeb. Harry had published four iPhone apps on the Periodic Table. “Did you get out today?”
“I had lunch at the senior center. Then Lucia and I walked to the park.”
It took Harry and his caretaker about an hour to cover the fifty yards from their front door to Bessemer Park. Gold leaned forward and softened his voice. “How you feeling, Pop?”
“Fine.”
Here goes. “‘Fine’ as in ‘I’m feeling good,’ or ‘I feel like crap, but I’m dealing with it’?”
“I’m okay, Dave.”
Gold detested this nightly inquisition, but the aftereffects of Harry’s stroke combined with his diabetes, high blood pressure, and inveterate stubbornness made it essential.
Harry’s rubbery face transformed into a half smile. “Sox won tonight. They beat the Yankees.”
“I heard.” Harry always changed the subject to sports when he wasn’t feeling well. “Anything else I need to know?”
Harry made another attempt at misdirection. “I think we can finally declare my cataract surgery a success. I was able to read the obits in this morning’s Trib.”
“That’s great, Pop.”
“I know.” Harry gingerly opened and closed his left fist. “I watched your medal ceremony on TV. I didn’t see Katie.”
“One of her kids had a doctor’s appointment.”
“You’re looking after her, right?”
“Of course, Pop. I talked to her a little while ago.”
“Did you eat? Lucia made some soup. Joey Esposito brought over some leftover pizza.”
Capri Pizza had been serving thin crust pies from a storefront at 88th and Commercial since the fifties. Many of the students at Bowen—including Gold and his brother—got their first jobs delivering pizzas to their neighbors.
“Dr. Sandler said you aren’t supposed to eat pizza,” Gold said.
“Now you’re the pizza police, too? I’m not going to die young, Dave.”
“And you aren’t going to die anytime soon, so you might as well take care of yourself. Did you take your pills?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to check with Lucia.”
“Be my guest.” For seventy-five years, Harry hadn’t taken anything stronger than aspirin and Vitamin C. Nowadays, he had to force down two dozen pills a day at prescribed times and in a precise order. He liked to say that the medications keeping him alive were going to kill him someday. “Lori called. She said you were at her office today.”
“We’re trying to get Al-Shahid’s lawyer to let us talk to his client.”
Harry turned his head slightly. “How are you and Lori getting along?”
I’m almost forty and my father is grilling me about my girlfriend. “I’m trying to catch a terrorist, Pop.”
“How are you getting along?” Harry repeated.
“Fine.”
“‘Fine’ as in ‘things are good,’ or ‘things aren’t so good, but we’re working on it’?”
“Somewhere in between. She’s prosecuting a terrorist, raising her daughter, and dealing with her ex-husband.”
“Doesn’t leave much time for you.”
“We’ll have plenty of time after I arrest the guy who’s blowing up cars, and she gets a death sentence for Hassan Al-Shahid.”
“Did she let you park a unit in front of her house, too?”
“As a matter of fact, she did. She’s going to take Jenny up to Lake Geneva to stay with her sister for a few days. They have an extra bed for you, Pop. Lucia can go, too.”
“Not gonna happen” Harry gripped the armrests of his chair and quoted his favorite philosopher, Mick Jagger. “You can’t always get what you want, Dave.”
Gold ran with it. “But if you try sometime, you just might find you get what you need.”
He got another smile. It gave Harry unending joy to retell the story of the time the Bowen administration had sent him a nasty letter instructing him to stop quoting the Beatles and the Rolling Stones to his students during his periodic diatribes about the Vietnam war. Harry leaked a copy to the editor-in-chief of the Bowen Arrow, who reprinted it under the headline, “Harry Gold Battles Administration Censorship.” He enlisted his cousin, Al “the Shark” Saper, who had spent fifty years suing the steel mills on behalf of injured workers, to fire off a letter to the principal and every member of the Chicago School Board. The Bowen administration quickly folded. Harry celebrated by blasting the Beatles’ Revolution at the start of every class for the next two weeks. He further endeared himself to his bureaucratic masters when he hung a framed copy of the administration’s capitulation letter next to the American flag at the front of his physics lab, where it remained until he retired. The faded tribute to the First Amendment was now mounted next to the flat screen TV in Harry’s dining room.
“So,” Harry said, “are you getting what you need from Lori?”
As a matter of fact, I am. “None of your business.”
“My hands shake and I can barely walk. I have to live vicariously through you.”
“You and Mom used to tell me that I wasn’t supposed to have sex until I was married.”
“You aren’t in high school anymore. Lori is smart, pretty, Jewish, and, at the moment, available—and probably not for long. Don’t be so stubborn. My doctor won’t even let me take Viagra. Says it’s too dangerous with my other pills.”
Gold couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with his father—again. “And who are you planning to roll around with?”
“I’m a very popular guy at the senior center.”
“You’re the only guy at the senior center.”
“It isn’t my fault that women live longer than men. I’ve tried e-harmony and match.com. The women lie about their ages and post old photos.”
His father talked a great game, but Gold had it on good authority from his Uncle Morrie that Lil had been the only woman Harry had ever slept with. “Did Lori say how late I could call?”
“As late as you want. Call her cell. You’ll wake up Jenny if you use her land line.” Harry turned serious. “Call her right away. I think something was bothering her.”
Chapter 22
“YOU’RE OVERREACTING”
“Sorry for calling so late,” Gold said.
“I was still up,” Silver replied.
Gold was holding the cordless handset for Harry’s land line against his right ear. He was sitting on the twin bed in the ten-by-ten-foot bedroom he’d shared with Len. Eighty years earlier, Harry had shared the same room with his older brother, Morrie, who now lived in a nursing home in Skokie. Gold had replaced Len’s bed with an Ikea desk. The sound of blues emanated from speakers perched on the dresser he’d used as a kid. A nineteen-inch Mitsubishi TV that was considered state-of-the-art when it stood in a prominent place in the living room now sat on a stand next to the door. It wasn’t HD, but it got ESPN. A faded poster of the 1985 Bears hung next to a team photo of the 2005 White Sox. The window looked into the kitchen of the house next door.
The surroundings were familiar, but Gold felt like a visitor. Home had been the modest one-bedroom apartment in Hyde Park where he and Wendy had lived for three short years. She’d been gone for longer than they’d been married. Her photo sat on Gold’s nightstand, her smile fo
rever frozen in time. It was the way he tried to remember her every night when he told her that he missed her.
“Who are you listening to?” Silver asked.
“‘Honeyboy’ Edwards,” Gold said.
“Nice. How’s your dad?”
“Upset about Theresa’s daughter. Pissed off about the bombs going off all over town—especially at Our Lady. He isn’t crazy that there’s a unit parked in front of our house, but he’s dealing with it. Otherwise all systems are functional. How’s Jenny?”
“Asleep.”
“That’s good.”
Gold had mixed emotions about Lori’s six year-old daughter. It was impossible not to be smitten by the curly-haired charmer who was about to start first grade at the U. of C.’s prestigious Lab School, her mother’s alma mater. More recently, its most famous students had been the Obama children. Jenny’s name also brought back memories of the snowy night five years earlier when Gold had received a call from his lieutenant telling him something had gone tragically wrong on the Outer Drive. He knew it was unfair to allow his feelings toward Jenny to be colored by Wendy’s death, but the ghosts of that night still followed him.
Silver asked whether he’d heard anything more from the Islamic Freedom Federation.
“A couple of encrypted e-mails sent through anonymous accounts. The FBI can’t trace them.”
“Everything okay with Battle?”
“So far, so good.”
“But?”
“He isn’t Paulie.” Gold glanced at Wendy’s photo. “There’s something else. He knows about us.”
“You told him?”
“He figured it out himself. I didn’t want to lie to him.”
“He’s a good detective. Does anybody else know?”
“I don’t think so. Are you okay with this?”
“I’m fine, Dave.”
“‘Fine’ as in ‘I’m okay,’ or ‘I’m not happy about it, but I’ll deal with it’?”
“I’m okay, Dave.”
Relief. “You got any news?”
“I put in another call to Earl Feldman. I’m hoping he’ll let us talk to Al-Shahid.”
“Anything else I need to know?”
The Terrorist Next Door Page 11
