The Holy Terror

by Wayne Allen Sallee

  “That’s a nice title,” Surfer said. “Like that old song, ‘Lullaby and Good night.’ Just be careful, Gramma! I want to read that one, too.” He had tried saying that last part without fingering his shunt. “I said on how I just wants you to be careful!”

  “Hell, Michael. If you aren’t watching over me, then Evan is when he’s all dressed up as that American Dream character!” Wilma slapped him on the hand one last time.

  As an afterthought, she reached over, one hand clutching the afghan to her throat, and kissed Surfer on his stubbly cheek. His complexion being dark chocolate, she couldn’t tell if he was blushing as she wheeled away.

  A few feet away from Surfer stood a pool table, and in the short silence following Wilma Jerrickson’s departure, someone broke and a new game of Stripes and Solids was begun. On the television above the pool table, an advertisement for a new aspirin product played out its pitch. Yuppies worked hard and held their temples briefly to the jingle, “I haven’t got time for the pain... “.

  * * *

  Frank Haid read the article in the Tribune about the murder. His interest waned before the third paragraph. He was never big on reading, or watching the news, for that matter.

  In the candlelit bedroom, the shadows of crucifixes like beckoning fingers across the wall above his Father’s corpse, still in the wheelchair, Haid went to bed after twice reading Gary Larson’s Far Side cartoon, unable to understand it.

  Chapter Ten

  Victor Tremulis’ first visit to a church downtown came on a day which typified Chicago weather of any given season.

  Thursday had started out looking damn fine for being so close to the holidays. Later, Victor would think that he was not the only one gulled by the bitch-goddess weather. Morning broke at seven-twenty, a blue the color and as crisp as a rookie policeman’s shirt. A blue so pale that it was almost, well, Victor wrote in his journal on the way to the Loop that it was as if the clouds were stretched out so thin that the blue couldn’t help but wash through. If the city natives weren’t too cautious, there would be dancing in the streets, he wrote.

  By eleven, the most anyone grumbled underneath a featureless grey sky was, “at least it ain’t snowin’ anna wind ain’t comin’ off the lake.” Tremulis heard that, or variations of such, by three people on the same street. And not one single meteorological source would saddle the blame; by noon, when the first loveless flake fell without fanfare into the gutter beneath the Lake Street elevated tracks, every radio and television station was predicting every scenario a disaster movie mogul could dream up. Temperatures ranging from ten below in the outlying ‘burbs to forty and warming were to be expected, depending on which dial you might be flipping through.

  When Victor Tremulis by chance walked past St. Sixtus, on Madison between LaSalle and Clark, it was thirty degrees and he was wearing his autumn windbreaker. The last time he had gone to a mass of any kind was for the Feast of Our Lady of Czestechowa, a Polish remembrance, in August. He attended mass occasionally at St. Boniface or St. John Cantius with his mother, because he truly loved her, deep down in his heart where the shit stink of the city couldn’t touch him.

  And so it was, purely by chance, that he ended up in front of the Franciscan church, with its monolithic Christ on the cross looking down over cabbies and bike messengers giving each other and everybody in general the finger. He had come above ground from the Milwaukee/Douglas subway line in front of W. Bell on Dearborn. His stomach was acidic because of the pain doing the Bristol Stomp on his back. Seeing the turn the weather had taken since the train had gone underground back at Ashland didn’t help worth a cat’s shit.

  The cramps hit him as he crossed the First National Plaza, recalling an argument with his mother over ten dollars. Why did she have to piss and moan so? “Why does everyone think I’m so violent?” He muttered loud enough for those closest to glance his way.

  Just because I’m angry, he thought.

  He rushed into the Wendy’s across from the plaza, hating how his bowels controlled his life. Afterwards, a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, Tremulis walked past the Loop synagogue, turned down Madison and was mesmerized by the huge stone savior. The church had four separate entrances; a woman in a blue bonnet talked to herself in front of the westernmost set of stairs, a cigarette dangling from her mouth.

  Tremulis stood there, watching.

  “What a babe, huh?” Tremulis turned to see a man with shoulder-length brown hair. He was wearing a casual sport jacket and carried a maroon portfolio. Victor started to open his mouth.

  “Just like you, you fucking freak,” the man interrupted him. “Can’t even walk a straight line. I been tryin’ to pass you, you fucking dork. Jesus Christ.”

  So surprised by the man’s outburst that he couldn’t even react, Tremulis could only stare as the man passed near the breezeway between the church and the Brevoort Building. Suddenly, a black man in a wheelchair came out of the alleyway, his front tires seemingly skimming the air, and blocked the man’s path.

  “Shoo, son. You got a mouth!” Tremulis saw the crippled man place a finger over a plastic thing on his throat, just visible underneath a grey and white scarf.

  The punk in the sport jacket stared at the man who faced his chest head-on as if he were an apparition from a nicotine fit. Maybe he thought twice about it, but he then jabbed a middle finger up and almost touched the black man’s blue parka. Then he pushed past him, as well, shaking his head at the audacity of the public display.

  The crippled man extended a calloused hand to Tremulis, again touching his throat as he spoke. “Name’s Mike. Mike Surfer.” Later, he would explain the nickname he had given himself.

  “Hey, don’t go lettin’ that clown go jammin’ you up. Not the way, man.”

  Tremulis looked down at the smiling face, the teeth a white rind in the stink of the lunch hour gutter.

  Behind them, the bonnet woman lit another cigarette and cleared her throat to continue speaking nonsense.

  * * *

  They went into the church together, Tremulis feeling warm inside. The lobby had the smell all churches had, one he could almost, but not quite, place. Like parchment and spices, but that wasn’t it, exactly.

  Alleluia, from beyond the next set of doors, up the marble steps. Alle-lu-ia-ia. A -le-e-lu-u-ia. Mike whispered to him how he had knocked over a votive candle once and set his sleeve on fire. Tremulis dipped his hand into the pool of holy water, and Surfer did the same. The black man reaching upward looked to Tremulis, like a child placing money on a counter top to buy licorice from the corner grocer.

  Come and save us, Lord our God.

  Let us see your face.

  Let us see your face, and we shall be saved.

  There was an elevator opposite the gift shop, and Tremulis was fascinated by this. When the doors opened and he saw a gilded cross several inches over the glass frame of the doors to the nave, he worried himself with the thought of his palsied hands banging the cross into the glass at the exact moment the congregation bowed their collective heads in prayer.

  Lord, let us see your kindness.

  And grant us your salvation.

  The Lord will judge us by His law,

  He is our King and Savior.

  He was like that at home, afraid to make a move to disrupt anybody from their outline of normalcy. A mouse hiding from the talons of conformity wielded by his parents...

  Raise your voice and tell the Good News.

  The Lord our God comes in strength.

  Let the clouds rain down the Just One,

  And the earth bring forth a Savior.

  An elderly woman clutching a red pill box was saying a prayer before each station of the cross, down the farthest aisle to the right of the two men. Her lips crumpled like old newspaper as she mouthed her blessings.

  * * *

  “...and the earth bring forth a Savior,” Haid finished the December First reading from the St. Joseph’s Weekday Missal. He had a captive audience of one,
and the man was terrified. They were in an alleyway off Van Buren and Plymouth Court. The only lights outside of the alley street lamp came from the top floor library of the John Marshall Law School a half block north.

  The man in the wheelchair, black and legless, had been drinking to fend off the cold. Moonlight, benign and deceitful, glinted briefly off an emptied bottle of Night Train Express in the man’s lap. The man himself was sobered by fear.

  The day’s temperatures had dropped drastically. Loop workers, again displaying a hive intelligence, fled the winds barreling down the concrete canyons by way of the Metra and CTA commuter lines. The last of them had disappeared into the catacombs of Union Station by seven PM. When the weather in this city is displaying its fickleness in the middle of a work week, even the taverns are empty.

  The wind had come in off of Lake Michigan in late afterndon, a Canadian wind, while Mike Surfer was introducing his new friend Vic to Gramma and Cat Townsend at the Marclinn. This type of wind usually overtook Illinois out in what Chicago weathermen call “the sticks.” The wind in the Loop that night hugged the elevated tracks, turned malicious circles amongst the lofts of Printer’s Row and the terraces of Dearborn Park, and eventually found its way to the alley where the Painkiller was embarking on the rapture.

  The wind chill factor was minus eleven. The wind itself filled the hood of the Haid’s jacket and whipped it to either side of his head. Haid was not cold. The man in the chair, who had identified himself as Hutch an eternity of seconds ago, sat as far back in the chair as his numb butt would allow.

  His gold teeth were chattering up a storm, but the weather was secondary to his condition. There just wasn’t anybody else out on the street to hear him scream. Hutchie knew that.

  No one to smell the burning flesh, when that part of it happened, either.

  Chapter Eleven

  Officers Rizzi and Morisette responded to a “See the man” at a corner deli called The Dill Pickle, on Van Buren and Dearborn. They were beat patrolmen from the First District, and Morisette radioed in at six-forty AM that they were on their way. The wind had lulled but the elder cop still felt numbness in his fingers simply from fiddling with his walkie-talkie. Even with the woolen gloves on.

  “The man” turned out to be a security guard working graveyard at the Metropolitan Correctional Center, a stone wedge of a prison on Congress Parkway. He was walking to State Street to catch his bus back to Hyde Park when he saw the empty wheelchair in the alley. And then saw the body parts lying amidst the frozen refuge. “I read the papers, you know,” the guard said as if no one would believe it from the looks of him. And here it was Rizzi had worked up an appetite and was looking forward to grabbing a bite at the deli.

  “Green, are we?” Morisette came this close to cracking a grin.

  “Like you’re the seasoned veteran...” Rizzi grinned back.

  Truth be told, they’d seen worse. Back in ‘82, when Gecht and Korkoralis were (according to the defense lawyers: allegedly) slicing off prostitutes’ breasts and eating them during satanic rituals. They’d both been there when the last victim was found near Burnham Harbor. And Morisette was working mounted patrol in the forest preserves when they found the remains of the DeSouza boy in the tree, missing five years.

  It just didn’t help for Rizzi to have seen all that deli meat under the floréscent counter lights in the corner window. And now standing ankle-deep in old trash, staring down at a severed leg at the base of the wheelchair, a partial hand next to the wheel closest to the street.

  Both limbs were already stiff and grey from the cold and the gravel and shit the wind was blowing down the alley again.

  * * *

  By eight o’clock, the alley crowd was crowded with the men who only got together when someone cashed in their chips, voluntarily or otherwise.

  Bervid, the Assistant M.E., speculated that, due to the lividity and possible muscle contractions, the owner of the severed limbs should be considered deceased. He didn’t make it a joke, because it was a big enough yuk that everyone there had to wait in the damn cold so that he could tell them what they already knew.

  There was minimal blood patterns, and the thought of a killer with a blowtorch seemed that much saner. Unless he was cocky enough to be bringing the body parts back to the scene of the abduction, after killing the crippled man elsewhere.

  The photographer snapped away, the lab tech leaned against the alley wall and caught a cockroach in his collar for the effort. Morisette was informed by the day bartender at the Rialto that a guy in a chair often hanged behind the bar, back by the steam vents. Name might be Hatch or Hutch, and, yes, he bought a bottle of Night Train most every time he was in possession of ninety-eight cents plus state sales tax.

  Morisette went back to the scene with the possible I.D. to find Detectives Daves and Petitt from the Violent Crimes Unit checking the alley for clues and bagging several pieces of evidence that the tech had already dusted.

  The bags were labelled like this:

  * * *

  The Forensics Lab was on the sixth floor of the James G. Riordan Police Headquarters on Eleventh and State, renamed in 1981 after the highest ranking officer—a deputy lieutenant—was killed in a shootout at the Marina Towers.

  Waiting for the elevator in the lobby, a television reporter investigating corruption in the Marquette District overheard the technician and photographer talking about the most recent killing. That night, the newscast played it up for all it was worth, one bottle blond anchorperson making a plea bordering on tears for the Painkiller to stop attacking men who couldn’t defend themselves properly.

  Later in the newscast, conveniently fresh-faced again in a taped segment, the newswoman began a five-part exposé on diet fads.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Wish you could be here for the party.” Mike Surfer’s raspy voice was overlapped by the clacking of pool balls. He was wheeling alongside Gramma on her left, down the red-and-white carpeted center aisle of the Marclinn.

  At one of the tables that hadn’t been lowered for those in chairs, Reve Towne and Evan Shustak played a game of Eight Ball. The two often ran errands for the residents. Reve was a stunning henna-haired girl of twenty who had just started a freelance writing career, after graduating from Columbia that spring, whereas her companion, Evan, fancied himself a superhero who answered to the name The American Dream. It was Reve’s plan to write about Evan one day, but not out of love or money. She certainly felt a liking for the twenty-nine year old cerebral palsy victim, but the story she would tell would not be one of exploitation.

  “Hush, now, Michael.” Wilma placed a pale fish of a hand over Surfer’s own. To her right, Etch was furiously writing something in his notebook. “You’ll be fine with all these friends... Reve and Evan will be there, right?” She said this last in their general direction, and both echoed the fact. “And that fellow you mentioned, Vic was his name...?”

  “Oh, I know it be time you was visiting the cemetery.”

  “Why, you won’t even miss me, you anchorhead!” She continued on as if maybe he was a news commentator: the 5:00 television personalities were constantly interrupted, contradicted, and generally put in their place by the Wilma Jerricksons of the world. “And it’s not like your Surf City party is going to be the last one the boys here ever throw!”

  “Don’t know why I went an planned this thing for the ninth...”

  “Hush now, Michael.”

  “But it’s not like I forget when Madee’ya’s day rolls around, and I can even remember the last time I be talking with Chubby Love and Reggie.” His head moving back and forth in disbelief at his, to him, stupidity. “I’m supposed to be knowin’ your special days, Gramma!”

  “I said hush..” She put a finger over his shunt, took it away almost as quickly. “Gritty. You make sure you clean it after dinner, Michael!”

  “Aw...” Surfer’s voice was a raspy whisper when he didn’t cover the plastic. He wasn’t falling for her attempt to change the su
bject.

  “Aww...” She said right back. “Just keep an eye that Karl he takes good pictures. Tell him to get one of you under that sign I colored.”

  Both looked back at a 16x20 placard that was hanging above a row of potted plants. Brilliant reds and blues helped it stand out on the wall of herringbone grey:

  SURF CITY

  Come hang ten on Friday, December 9 1988

  It wasn’t until she crayoned the date in red that Wilma had realized that the day was also the tenth anniversary of her husband Herbert’s death. Later that day, she would wheel out to her normal “sightseeing” perch by the Chicago Theater, caddy corner to the Marclinn. Instead of coming back, though, today her nephew Henry was picking her up at the end of his shift. Henry worked for Streets & San, and Wilma got such a kick out of being lifted into the cab of the blue city vehicle.

  Both Surfer and Gramma sat, and chatted about other things, and soon after they waved goodbye to Reve and Evan, who would be by later for the party, Surfer looked over at Wilma Jerrickson to find her softly snoring.

  His thoughts drifted to his own “special day”— August 2nd—the day his only lover had died. Mike Surfer had met Madee’ya Stonewell in 1972, a young girl with muscular dystrophy attending City-Wide College and majoring in business. He had been Mike Surles back then, a messenger for Lassa Services on DesPlaines. The “Surfer” part was unthought of: the crippling arthritis born of dozens of childhood falls, an equal number of Chicago and Gary, Indiana winters, had not yet set into his hips and knees.

  Not all that many people seemed to be bothered by Surles’ physical condition, but he was also mostly ignored. Madee’ya, sloe-eyed and light-skinned, was the first to show any physical attraction towards him,

  Their living together had been forged in the roiling pit of unwary confidences specific to their times. Almost two decades ago, when dinosaurs still roamed the earth and gang members considered themselves part of social clubs instead of factions in religious organizations, they shared a garden apartment on Federal Street, near the Robert Taylor Homes. Racial discrimination, at least that of the blatant kind, was in its death throes. But black on black crime will always be a kind of plague in this city.