Lee nudged the money toward the boy. Marcus let it sit.
“Why you not take?”
“Why you pushing?”
Lee moved the money again. This time with his eyes.
“That for the last order?” Marcus said.
The Korean nodded. The last order had come in the day before yesterday. Flat boxes. Lots of them. Lots more than they usually handled. Marcus didn’t know what was inside the boxes. Just that it was worth some cash. He slipped the money off the counter and into his pocket. Lee smiled and seemed to relax.
“Good boy.”
“That’s a big order, Lee. Goin’ to the county?”
Lee shook his head. “No. Side order. Very important.”
Marcus ran his eyes around the store. To his left was a shelf full of cans of SpaghettiO’s and cellophane packages of kitchen sponges. Marcus could never figure out Lee’s system for shelving things. Or maybe there wasn’t one. The Korean had turned his back to the boy, counting the rest of the money he’d pulled from his sock. He was talking a steady stream about the order. Something about delivery for tonight. The Korean swatted at a fly, but missed. Marcus watched it land on the Korean’s ear. The street outside was empty. The clock on the wall was broken, stuck at 3:00 p.m. Marcus took the gun out of his pocket and stood. The Korean flicked at the fly again.
“Marcus, I need for you … ”
Lee turned just as the boy fired. The gun was louder than Marcus remembered, and he jumped in his sneakers. Lee fell in one piece, like a small, sturdy oak. He knocked over the stool on the way down and groaned in a way that embarrassed Marcus. Lee grabbed at the boy’s leg and looked up, asking with his eyes if Marcus knew how this had happened. Then the Korean let go and rolled onto his back. Lee had taken the bullet just under his left cheekbone. He was still alive, staring at the ceiling, but couldn’t seem to talk. Marcus squatted beside him.
“Sorry, Lee. But they was going to kill you tonight anyways.”
Marcus rolled the Korean onto his stomach and shot him twice more in the back of the head. He took a heavy set of keys out of the dead man’s pocket, walked over to the basement door, and pushed it open. A run of wooden stairs plunged into the darkness. Marcus hit an overhead light and played his hand along the crooked bricks as he walked downstairs. The room was long and narrow. The boxes were stacked along one wall. Beside them, a forklift and a dolly.
Marcus thought about opening one of the boxes but figured that could wait. Whatever was inside was worth something. Marcus knew Ray Ray’s dope was probably somewhere in the basement as well, but left it alone. The boy was ambitious. Not a fool.
He walked to the very back of the room and pulled at a section of drywall. It was loosely attached and came free with a single tug. The neighborhood always wondered how the Korean moved his merchandise. How he managed to never use the same stash house twice. Behind the drywall was the answer, in the form of an iron door large enough to drive the forklift through. Marcus took out the Korean’s keys and found the one that fit. Then he pushed the door open and turned on the light. Winding away from him was a tunnel made of broken cement and soft dirt. It burrowed into the neighborhood, branching off into a series of smaller tunnels, each leading to a different abandoned building. Lee had made the mistake of showing him the network only a week ago.
Marcus turned back to the forklift. He was about to fire it up when he heard a twinge of sound on the stairs. Marcus snapped the light off and crouched in the darkness. A flashlight flared, painting the cellar in shapes and shadows.
“Come on out, son. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
The voice sounded hollow, like it was coming from the bottom of a barrel. Marcus sneaked a peek. The man was tall. White. He wore a long brown leather coat, carried a rifle, and had a black mask covering part of his face. From where he sat, Marcus thought the man couldn’t see him. Until the man brought the rifle up to his shoulder and pulled back on the trigger.
CHAPTER 16
A hard wind whipped over the West Side, scouring the streets and covering everything else in a fine layer of grit. A cloudburst of cold rain followed, turning the grit to mud and sending people into doorways and bus shelters until the squall blew itself out. I flicked on my wipers, cruised past the United Center, and kept going.
This stretch of the West Side had been my beat for almost two years. As I drove, the memories tiptoed in. A sexual assault here. A couple of bodies over there. A rape and murder made to look like a house fire two doors down from that. In Chicago, the West Side was known as the worst side, and there was a reason. Lately, however, things had begun to change.
I pulled up to a stoplight just gone red. Kitty-corner was a condo development with units starting at three hundred K. The building was brand-new and half empty. It sat on a piece of ground that had once served as the neighborhood’s de facto garbage dump. In 1998, it was known simply as the Lots. My thoughts ran back to the spring of that year and the bodies I’d found there. Nine dead faces. Nine soft bags of flesh.
A car beeped, and I jumped. The light had turned green. I shook off the past and hit the gas. Western Avenue flashed by. Then California. And Kedzie. The whitewash of gentrification began to blister and peel, and the old life reemerged. Currency exchanges fought for storefront space with Mexican diners that served menudo on weekends. A couple dozen whole chickens turned on a spit in the window of Harold’s Chicken Shack. A man carrying a thirty-pack of Keystone Light stopped in front of the shack and watched the birds turn. After a while he sat on a bench, popped a beer, and had a talk with himself. All of that, however, was a tangled sideshow to the main piece of business in this part of town—the cash-and-carry drug trade.
Kids in oversize coats and baggy jeans hung their shingles on every corner, touting rock and blow to customers in cars, hustling orders and giving directions to pickup points for product. Their bosses, maybe a year older, sat on stoops and huddled in doorways—keeping track of inventory, counting cash, and watching their corners. Another level up, captains drove SUVs, whispered into cell phones, and cruised the territory. It went on that way for a good thirty blocks—a business that generated tens of millions of dollars a year, launched more than a few political careers, and probably helped to finance the half-empty condo developments rising up a mile or so due east.
Such is the circle of life on the West Side. NPR loved talking about it from a distance, which was where NPR did its best work. I didn’t have that luxury. So I slipped my gun from my holster and put it on the seat beside me. Six blocks later, I found the address I was looking for. I didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t a Korean grocery store. I got out of my car and read the handwritten sign stuck in the front window.
PARK PLACE FINE FOODS
OPEN SEVEN DAYS A WEEK, UNTIL IT GETS DARK
JAE LEE, PROPRIETOR
It was just past six. The day was almost gone, and the place looked deserted. There were iron bars set in concrete over the front windows, a sliding steel gate covering the door, and probably a couple of Dobermans inside guarding the twenty-two dollars and whatever else Jae Lee kept in his till. I walked down an alley that ran alongside the building. Lee was out of either money or common sense, because the side door to his place was covered by nothing more than thin steel mesh. I peeked inside and saw a display of Bacardi rum next to a lottery machine.
At the back of the alley sat a lopsided truck with the words SILVER LINE TRUCKING printed on the side. I took another look up and down the alley. Nothing but cracked blacktop and blank brick walls. I walked around the truck. The rear door was unlocked, so I rolled it up. The inside was empty.
I sat down on the curb and pulled out the piece of paper Rita Alvarez had given me. On it was Lee’s name, the address, and the words “Silver Line Trucking.” It was all I could get out of the reporter, and it didn’t seem like half enough. I stuffed the paper in my pocket and went back to the store for another look through the glass. This time I noticed a foot sticking out from behind a co
unter. I took out my gun and put a shoulder to the door.
The man I guessed to be Jae Lee lay on his stomach, with at least two bullets in the back of his head. Out of habit, I squatted and felt for a pulse. The skin was still warm. Lee hadn’t been dead long.
The store was tiny to the point of claustrophobic, especially with a dead body in it. There was an interior door to the right, partially open, and a light beyond. I eased the door open a little farther with my foot and stared down a flight of stairs. That’s when I realized I wasn’t alone.
“What you doin’, five-oh?”
Whoever he was, he moved like smoke, a presence more felt than seen in electric light from the alley. The gun was a big one, but he carried it easily, casually, finger comfortable around the trigger, muzzle tickling my ear.
A second shadow slipped in from the street. His body was stripped to bone and muscle, his skull, shaven. All in all, he looked like a black ball-peen hammer.
“Where’s your badge?” the shooter said.
I couldn’t see his face yet, but could hear my death in his voice. I figured I had twenty seconds before anticipation became fact.
“No badge,” I said.
The shooter eased into a shaft of light. His eyes traveled to the dead man on the floor.
“You pop the Korean?”
I shook my head. “Check my gun.”
The shooter nodded to his pal, who took my gun and pack.
“You a cop,” the shooter said.
“Used to be a cop.”
“What’s your name?”
“Kelly. Michael Kelly.”
“Ray Ray.” The second man had dug around the Korean’s body and come up with a package of dope. Looked like a kilo bag. The man named Ray Ray took it in one hand and tested its weight.
“What you know about that, Michael Kelly?”
“Nothing.”
Ray Ray’s eyes floated over to the basement door, still ajar. “Why you here?”
“Got nothing to do with a bag of dope.”
Ray Ray pressed the gun to my temple. I could feel the other behind me and knew this might be the killing moment. Then Ray Ray motioned to the open door.
“Let’s go downstairs.”
CHAPTER 17
They sat me in a chair in the middle of the room. Ray Ray sat across from me. Three more had joined us. All kids. The first was heavy lidded, with a long mane of dreadlocks held together by a green rubber band and decorated with white beads. Another was tall, thin, and tentative. The third was the youngest. He was wrapped in a Sox hoodie and carried a gun half the length of his leg tucked into his belt.
“Marcus.” Ray Ray turned his head, and the kid in the hoodie came down off the stairs.
“You want to shoot him for me?”
The piece looked like a howitzer in Marcus’s hand. He wrapped a skinny brown finger around the trigger. I could read the DNA of a killer in his smile.
“How old is he?” I said.
“Thirteen.”
I let the baker’s dozen hang in the air between us. Ray Ray studied my face.
“He’ll do it,” the gang leader said.
“I believe you.”
Ray Ray touched the kid at the shoulder. He melted away.
“You got two minutes,” Ray Ray said. “Tell me what you doin’ here.”
I nodded to a door Ray Ray’s crew had discovered at the very back of the basement. “Does that lead to another room?”
Ray Ray shook his head. “Tunnel. Probably hooked up with the Korean’s safe houses.”
“So Lee was bringing in your dope?”
“You got one minute.”
The cellar was filled with flat brown boxes, stacked to the ceiling and shoved against a wall. I gestured to one of them. “What’s in the boxes?”
There was movement behind me, but I kept my eyes on Ray Ray.
“I’m guessing Lee was getting his product from a cop,” I said.
The lift of an eyebrow told me I’d bought myself another minute.
“How you figure that?” Ray Ray said.
“The kilo you found upstairs. Still had a scrap of orange on it. Evidence sticker used by Chicago PD. Someone lifts it out of the locker. Brings it to Lee. He sells it to you.”
Ray Ray nodded. “Probably something like that.”
“And today the Korean was getting cut out. Except someone beat you to it.”
“Maybe you?”
I shook my head. “You know I used to be a cop. Not sure how, but you know. So you figure I came down here to hijack the dope. Maybe steal it back for the cops who sold it to you in the first place.”
“My man over there.” Ray Ray motioned with my gun to the lean one with the shaved scalp. He held an iron shovel in his hands. “Jace getting ready to dig a hole in that tunnel. Dig it special for you.”
“Why would I shoot a man, steal his shipment of cocaine, then wait for you guys to show up?”
“People do stupid shit every day.”
“If you thought I took the dope, I’d already be dead.”
There was a low groan as a furnace kicked on somewhere.
“How do you know me, Ray?”
He thought about that, then waved a hand. Jace went into the tunnel and began to dig. Ray Ray nodded toward the stairs. The other three drifted up until they disappeared. We were alone.
“Nineteen ninety-eight,” Ray Ray said, studying a long, winding crack in Lee’s basement floor. “I was just a kid. Seen you at the Lots.”
“I drove by there on the way in. Someone’s turned them into condos.”
“I’m talkin’ ’bout back in the day.”
I knew what Ray Ray was talking about. I’d gotten the tip in April of ’98, just as the weather was starting to soften. I showed up with a forensic team and some shovels. We taped off the Lots and began to dig. I uncovered the first body under a pile of black and green plastic bags. I didn’t know her, but her lips were peeled back to the gum line and turned up in a permanent rictus. We dug some more and found a second body, then a third. There were nine in all—women, some strangled, most beaten to death with what the coroner guessed was either a sharp-bladed shovel or an ax.
“Hot for April that year,” Ray Ray said, his voice approaching the past with the respect it deserved. “First time I really smelled dead people.” A pause. “Lot of reporters. Watched you talk to ’em.”
We met the press every afternoon at three in a parking lot owned by a funeral home. I picked three o’clock because it was the warmest time of the day, the funeral lot because it was downwind from the dig. Ten minutes into the Q and A, the TV guys would wrap things up, hauling their cameras into the shade and watching from a distance that smelled a lot better. The print reporters were tougher. A couple would usually stick it out, but that was okay. No one gave a shit about print. It’s the pictures cops worry about.
“You were good, Kelly. Treated the thing with respect.”
I remembered that first day most of all. We had pulled out two bodies and tried to cordon off the area with a couple of squad cars. First the locals came, rubbernecking. Then the media. Pretty soon there were Mexicans, some on foot, others on bikes, selling corn dogs and soda out of blue and red coolers. Everyone crowded close, eager for a peek, treating the carnage like an early summer street festival. Back then, that sort of thing bothered me.
“You telling me that’s why I’m alive?” I said.
“My moms was one of the bodies they dug out of there. So yeah, I guess it is.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be. She was nothing but a crack ho.” Ray Ray got up from his chair and walked. Ten feet one direction. Ten feet back. “She was one you never identified.” He stopped by my shoulder so I could feel the weight.
“There were three of them,” I said.
“That’s right.” Walking again. Boots cracking on the hard floor. “Three hookers no one put a name to. But I knew it was my moms. She been off the street a week and
a half. Besides, I got a look at her dress when they pulled her up.”
Somewhere, the shoveling stopped.
“You shouldn’t have seen that,” I said.
Ray Ray crouched, face level with mine, voice carrying the stain of a child’s memory. “Don’t tell me what I shouldn’t have seen.” Up and walking some more. “Not sure where they buried her. But I know the man that killed her.”
I had worked the case the entire summer and into the fall. Never got a solid lead.
“Name in the hood was Creeper. Paid five dollars for a blow job and cracked ’em in the back of the head while they was bobbin’. Don’t know how he got ’em into the dump without anyone seeing.” Ray Ray snapped his fingers. “I always figured he took ’em in the bedsheets.”
“You sure it was him?”
The gang leader sat down again. “Tracked him to his house one night. Fucking teardown shack maybe two miles from here. Waited until he was gone, then I busted in. Found four more girls in the cellar. Dead a long motherfucking time. So I waited for him to come home. Tied him to a chair and skinned his face with a kitchen knife. Then I stabbed him in the throat and buried him with the girls. Lit the place up and left. Firemen never figured a goddamn thing. Fourteen years old and my cherry was popped. But good.”
“I could’ve taken care of it,” I said.
“You would’ve skinned him for me?”
“No.”
“All right, then. People like to take care of their own shit. You Irish, right?”
I nodded.
“IRA do the same thing. Belfast. Falls Road. Police their own. Keep the fucking English cops out.”
Ray Ray thought he saw what he wanted in my face and grinned. “You look surprised. Dumb gangbanger nigger talking ’bout something he should know nuthin’ about. But that’s the rest of the story, ain’t it?
“Fours took me in after I killed Creeper. Gave me a family. Money. Respect. Then they found out I was smart.”
Ray Ray tilted back in his chair, relaxed now that the part about his mom was out of the way. “Not just a little smart, either. BA in economics, with honors. Two years ago, MBA from Kellogg.”
We All Fall Down Page 7
