“Sure do. It’s the nicest rendition I’ve seen. We’ll have to add it to the refrigerator.”
Harden set the drawing aside and sat with his daughter to watch Thumb and Thumbelina. He ignored the clutter around him. Toys, clothes, shoes. Most belonging to Olivia. Why was she such a slob? For fifteen minutes he feigned interest in the digitally animated cartoon before he insisted he needed to get back to his work. By that time, Olivia was so entranced by her show (a movie she’d seen dozens of times) Harden eased himself away without objection.
He sat back at the table and compiled a rough draft from the reports. He was readying his briefcase to leave for work when Mr. Hart’s truck pulled into the driveway. Mason was home from his Friday game.
He was surprised when Mr. Hart escorted Mason to the front door rather than leaving him in a plume of dust. Harden went to meet them. Mr. Hart’s son remained seated in the truck bed, gaping above the rim.
“Hi, Mr. Hart.” In the midst of shaking his hand, Harden realized why he’d walked Mason to the door. Black and blue swelling practically sealed Mason’s left eye. Instinct told him that Mason had not gotten clobbered by a fast pitch.
Harden kept his cool in front of the man he’d known since high school. Mr. Hart had been Harden’s eleventh grade woodshop teacher. He and his classmates had thought of him as a grown-up man. Later, they’d realized he was only eight years older than them. Out of habit, Harden still referred to him as “Mr. Hart.”
“We were just about to collect the equipment and head home after the scrimmage,” Mr. Hart said, “when Mason and another boy got into a fight. Same boy as last time. Mike Tuelong. He’s a hot mouth. Coach suspended both for a week.”
Mason stood clutching the plastic bag that contained his dirty cleats. He wiggled his toes, which protruded from his sandals. Harden gazed at his smarting eye. Another humdinger. Not this all over again.
“Get on up to your room,” he said, sighing. Once Mason’s clunky steps receded upstairs, Harden shook his head at Mr. Hart. “He’s been acting up again, I’m afraid.”
Mr. Hart laid a reassuring hand on Harden’s shoulder, the way he had when Harden would come to him with questions about his lopsided birdhouses. “He’s a good kid. He just needs to figure out how to handle these boys. Have you considered therapy?”
“He seemed to have snapped out of it the last time he went through this,” Harden said. Did he really need therapy?
“Don’t worry over it much. Maybe it’ll pass for good this time. Meanwhile, we adults will try to keep an eye on those bullies. They’ll most likely grow bored, like last time. And then hopefully they’ll be matured by then.”
“I appreciate your help, Mr. Hart. Thanks for driving Mason back.”
Kamila pulled up to the house just as Mr. Hart was walking to his pickup. Harden spotted her expression. She sensed something unpleasant, not even accounting for her poor herb plant that waited to greet her from atop the kitchen’s overstuffed garbage pail.
Mr. Hart drove down the driveway, and Harden helped Kamila unload the groceries. He grabbed the cold compress out of the freezer and lumbered upstairs. A standard routine lately.
“I’ll have this on my mind all day at work,” he said to Mason from the doorway, peering at the back of his head where he sat at his desk. “You really are trying to make things tough for us. Here, put this on your eye.” Mason reached for the compress from Harden’s outstretched hand without turning. “You’ve gone and gotten yourself suspended from the team. Next time it’ll be expulsion. You’re stronger than this, Mason. You’re stronger. Stay in your room the rest of the day and think about it. No playing outside, no bike riding, no television. I’ll make sure Kamila sticks by my word.”
At work, Harden did spend most of his time pondering Mason. He submitted his equipment proposal to his boss, Marshall’s owner, Charlie Marshall, and smiled and chatted with coworkers, ensuring he tucked away his pained thoughts. They already knew too much about his personal life.
Thank God the weekend neared. He wanted to salvage the week somehow. Perhaps he’d take the kids to the aquatic center in Dyersville to lift their droopy moods. They all could use quality time together before the summer’s end.
Had Harden been neglecting Mason and Olivia?
Maybe I am supercilious.
That evening, Harden entered the house, leery of what to expect. He recognized the smell of Kamila’s dinner—more spiced kabobs. Olivia lay on the living room floor playing Let’s Go Shopping. She giggled and slapped the carpet after each failed attempt to maneuver through the checkout line. She always took failure lighter than Mason. If only she wasn’t so messy.
On her way out the door, Kamila reminded him that she planned to take Monday off. Harden made a mental note to ask his mother when he saw her on Sunday to use a personal day from her job and stay with the kids. Kamila informed him that Mason had remained in his room as ordered.
Satisfied, Harden pulled himself up the stair railing and found Mason lying faceup in bed, playing with his iPod. Harden probably should’ve forbid him from using electronic gadgets like last time. Not that it had done any good.
His eye appeared less swollen, but the blue-green discoloration remained. The last torment he needed was a visit to the doctor’s office. “You can come downstairs for dinner now,” he said to Mason. “Let me know if that eye gives you any trouble.”
In his room, Harden changed into his typical evening attire—sweatpants and T-shirt. Tired and unhappy, he ate dinner alongside the kids, trying his best to appear content. Olivia was the only one animated among them. They ate, and Mason cleared the table and switched on the dishwasher as instructed. Harden rested on the living room sofa, breathing easier.
Mason spread across the easy chair, reading a puzzle book that pinpointed state capitals Harden had given him for his eleventh birthday in February. Unusual to see something in his hands other than an electronic gadget. He seemed satisfied, considering.
Harden gazed at Olivia, innocent and quiet, doodling in her notepad. Rare warmth and satisfaction expanded around him. Times like these gave him the most pleasure. When the children played peacefully without stress, parenting wasn’t so bad. Everything appeared calm and harmonious. Any hard feelings harbored by either of them must have evaporated, forgotten like a wispy dream.
He fixed his eyes on them, absorbing the moment. The now. He tried to inhale the scene, to freeze the instant like a snapshot and hold onto it so he might never forget. Perhaps Grandpa had observed his family at the same spot with similar emotions, smiling over Harden’s father when he was a boy. This was what he liked about parenting. He cracked a grin. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad father, after all.
Chapter 8
ORANGE light from the streetlamps cut through the gap in the drawn curtains. The police scanner and television were turned off, and his apartment remained mostly silent save for the light rattling of the air conditioner. Even with the microwave’s interior light on, he could see on the door the reflection of his bruised left eye and scrapes on his forehead. He touched the swelling on the back of his head and winced.
The microwave dinged, and he reached in for the mug of steaming water. He steeped a tea bag and carried the mug to his bed. Grunting, he sat back against the wall and blew into the hot liquid.
Andy had already provided a reluctant description of his two attackers to the police. He was able to capture a view of them before they left him for dead on the sidewalk. They had trailed Andy from the Clock Tower parking lot, the police had pieced together, and ambushed him while he had turned the doorknob to his apartment building. But Andy blamed the Chicago Police Department more than his assailants. If not for them, he’d still be able to run his business—and move his head without the swirling nausea.
They’d forced him to provide evidence for a case that would knock less than a decimal point off Chicago’s homicide rate. And the suspects probably would plea bargain and face a lesser charge of second degree murder, spen
ding fewer than six years in prison. Then back to the crime circuit.
Idiots!
The waste sickened Andy worse than the lumps on his back.
None of it made sense.
Andy had spent the past twenty-four hours trying to figure out why he’d allowed the police to use him like a sacrificial lamb to fight a disease that would never go away. A disease that, for some, bore too great a profit to end.
Andy had become one of those profiteers. He didn’t care. He’d already paid a stiffer price than the killers or the city. And he had the achy body to prove it.
Tea, for now, plugged the hole in his soul. He sipped and tried to allow the orange pekoe to mollify his anger and pain. He had turned off his cell phone for some added peace. No use answering it. Six callers had inquired about weekend tours since his attack. Andy had to tell them “maybe” with the awful possibility of canceling additional bookings.
The door swung open. Andy strained to turn his head and see who’d entered. Ken stood by the galley kitchen and stared at him with an arrogant sheen in his blue eyes. Dressed in his street clothes (black tank and khaki cargo shorts), Ken appeared almost unrecognizable. Ken usually kept himself scarce on his nights off.
Ken switched on the kitchen light. “You look horrible,” he said, dropping the keys into his shorts pocket and strutting to the bed. A genuine glint of concern washed over his complexion. His bulging biceps flexed when he scratched at the orange stubble on his chin. “You should still be in the hospital.”
“They didn’t find anything wrong.” Andy squinted from the light and set aside his tea. “Just scrapes and bruises. I’ll mend. They gave me a prescription for pain, but I haven’t bothered to fill it.”
“It’s that damn tour business of yours.”
Andy slumped onto the futon and rolled his back to Ken. “My business had less to do with this than yours. If it wasn’t for the cops, I wouldn’t be lying here with a black eye and a knot on the back of my head the size of Soldier Field.”
“You bitch about the police, yet they were the first ones you called after your attack.”
Andy slurped up a small pool of saliva on his pillow. “Sure, sure,” he said. “Just don’t talk too loud.”
“You’ve been asking for it since you started this garbage, and you know it.” The refrigerator door opened and closed, coinciding with the snap and hiss of a beer can opening. His voice louder, Ken added, “You’re lucky those punks didn’t kill you.”
Andy regarded Ken through blurry eyes. “Don’t lecture me, please.” He reached up with a shaky hand for Ken’s beer. Ken held the can steady to Andy’s trembling lips. The refreshing, cold liquid invigorated him, and he sat upright again, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and watched Ken kick back on the small love seat. Large brown calf muscles tensed from his crossing one leg over the other. Ken was one of the few natural redheads Andy had known who tanned easily.
“You really did this to yourself,” Ken said.
The back of Andy’s head found the pillow. “I don’t even want to testify. The prosecution put my business in jeopardy.”
“Is that all you care about?”
“It’s how I earn a living. Plus I’m helping the overall economy. I’ve brought tourists to Chicago.”
“They would’ve come whether you had your asinine business or not. Do you even ever stop and let your passengers patronize South Side establishments? No one profits from your tour business down there but you.”
Andy hated Ken’s rare stumbling onto righteous high ground. “There’s only one economy the city of Chicago recognizes,” he said in defiance, “and that’s what takes place under the table.”
“So you’d rather be low and dirty?”
“There’re different classes of lowlife.” Andy felt his face twitch with one of his latest self-effacing smirks. “I’m a lowlife of the highest sort.”
“You’re a bozo.”
“You could’ve been a little help.” Andy turned to reface the wall. “Why didn’t you do something so I wouldn’t have had to talk to that prosecutor in the first place?”
“What was I to do? Step in and say, ‘Hey, guys, that’s my boyfriend you’re badgering. Please let him go.’?”
“Are we really boyfriends, Ken? You and I, huh?”
“What’s that mean?”
“Nothing,” Andy murmured into his pillow. “Forget it.”
The old lady who lived upstairs coughed, sneezed, and prattled about. What does she keep up there, the Chicago Bulls? He sipped his tea, set the mug aside, and fixed his bare feet on the carpet. Even his toes ached. “What are you doing here, Ken? I didn’t ask you to come.”
“I wanted to check on you. And to let you know we have a fix on your assailants. Twentieth District doesn’t think it’s the triple homicide guys you fingered, but two who work for them, anyway, or who work for their ringleader. It’s a whole chain of command out there. We’ll nail them for battery and witness tampering. We don’t know where they are, but we’re looking for them. Your defendants refuse to talk.”
“But I talked, didn’t I? Look what it got me.”
“You made yourself a target for a lot of people before that.”
“The cops made me a target, you mean.”
“Stop blaming the police department. We might be the only ones who can save your butt at this point. The drug dealers are the least of your concerns.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Andy rubbed his temples. “Give up my business until the trial is over in January? I won’t have a business by then.”
Andy watched Ken’s Adam’s apple wobble up and down while he sipped his beer and swallowed. His underarm hair seemed extra red. “That’s another thing I wanted to talk to you about,” he said. “You have to leave.”
“Huh?”
“You have to ditch town for a while.”
“But it’s the middle of summer. I’ve got tourists lined up from Japan, Germany, Sweden, all over North America. More people have called for this weekend. I have a career to consider.”
“Career? More like a scam.”
“The whole world is a scam, Ken. What’s the point?” Andy grimaced from his own raised voice. Quieter, he said, “Why do I have to sit out life while everyone else is having a grand time doing whatever they want without concern for the consequences?”
“You have no choice this time.” Ken moved to the kitchen and popped open another beer. “You’ve got the entire South Side buzzing,” he said, returning to the sofa, his bare knees, coated with tiny red hairs, pointing toward the ceiling. “Take a trip somewhere. A week or two should simmer things down. We’ll nab those punks.”
“A week or two? That’ll be the end of my business, for sure.”
“So much the better.”
“That’s what you guys really want.”
“You’re in deep shit, Andy. You should take that beating you got as a warning.”
“Maybe the city sent those thugs after me.”
Ken smirked and shrugged. “Could be. Either way, you need to hightail it.”
“Those punks were just blowing off steam. No one’s going to bother me again. Not as long as I refrain from letting you guys force me to testify in court.”
Ken reached over and seized Andy’s arm. “The prosecutor is counting on you. You don’t have a choice.”
Andy freed his arm, winced, and said, “I’ve counted on a lot of people in my life too, and they didn’t always come through either. Life’s like that.”
Ken settled back against the sofa. “You’re leaving town for a while, case closed. You won’t have anything left if you stay, business or otherwise. Where is it you’re from?”
“Streamwood,” Andy mumbled toward his toes.
Snickering, Ken scratched his nose. “Suburban boy. Figures. That’s too close, anyway. Best if you desert the whole area, to be safe. Get out of state.”
“Where out of state? South America?”
“You’ll think o
f somewhere. Rest up here a few days, then hit the road. I’ll keep an eye on your place, collect your mail and all that. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going except for me.”
Andy placed a hand on his stomach and eased back against the mattress. “This is ridiculous.”
“It’s either take a trip or face more harassment, jail time, or possibly another beating, from virtually anyone. It’s not a suggestion, Andy, it’s an exact order. Listen, this town doesn’t like bad publicity.”
Sleepy sickness pressed on Andy’s head. He pulled himself into a ball. Badgered to flee. And to where? The dark side of the moon?
Chapter 9
HARDEN watched from the porch as a thin sheet of sunlight sliced through the heavy cloud cover and draped a yellow haze across the far end of the cornfield like a curtain. The gray and white stratus clouds turned the remainder of the field dark green. Rain would fall by late morning. The farmers would be overjoyed. They needed the rain for their crops. The corn had stopped growing the past week.
Mason and Olivia were watching television. They’d remain indoors if it rained. Mason was suspended from Saturday’s baseball game, but even if he wasn’t, the game would certainly be postponed. Harden hoped the kids stayed quiet and out of his way while he fine-tuned his machinery acquisitions proposal.
He settled at the kitchen table to focus on the work spread before him. He worked fast, accomplishing more than expected by noon. Pleased, he cleaned up his work space and called the kids for lunch. They prepared peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while the predicted downpour smacked the windows.
Olivia gazed out the rain-shellacked windowpane. “The creek will overflow and the fish’ll get lost.”
“A few days ago you were worried they lacked water,” Harden said.
“But now they might drown.”
“You always say that, dumbhead,” Mason said. “Fish can’t drown.”
“They’ll wiggle their way back to the creek once the rain stops, sweetheart,” Harden assured her.
The South Side Tour Guide Page 5
