My eyes cut to her jeans before I can stop. “Blanche?”
“Ms. Movie Star didn’t tell you? Tomorrow morning she’s up for the lead in A Streetcar Named Desire. The lead.” Julie hugs Arleen again, this time with one arm. “Hard to be as famous as we’re about to be. I’ll be a size four, bo-dacious tatas, living that big blond Hollywood life.”
Arleen’s eyes roll. There’s a distinct possibility that if I speak I will say something stupid, again. Arleen pushes Julie away. Julie frowns at her, then chins at me. “Ask for a man, I brought you a good one.”
I blush and haven’t done that in twenty years. Arleen just seems jumpy, edgy with me and not enough space. Or maybe all actresses are like that. Or maybe it’s the obvious, the Herald in her hand.
Julie shows me her watch. “Your pal Rita isn’t answering her phone. You’re going on without them.”
“No, thank you.”
Frown. “Are we scared?”
“Yes.”
“Without Rita to protect you, big bad Bobby Vargas is scared of a roomful of girls.”
“Yes.”
Arleen is not smiling as much as I’d hoped. Julie says, “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. No Steve and Rita, then you’re on your own, but you’re on.”
I turn to Arleen. “How bad a singer are you?”
Arleen’s watching me more than she’s thinking about it. “How loud can you play?”
I grin, but hers is posed, more protection than playful, someone marking time until they can run, like a bank robber at the glass door … or a tough girl but with a very bad vibe on a very dark street. But she’s forty-two years old, piña-coladas-under-the-palm-tree breathtaking no matter how you clock it.
My cell vibrates again. Jason Cowin’s name on the screen.
“Make it fast, Jason, our set starts in a couple minutes.”
“At the L7?”
“Yeah. What’s up?”
“Just finished my OPS. Fuckin’ commander acts like we staged a gunfight just to tank her shot at Olympic poetry judge.”
“She’ll get over it.”
“I don’t know. News Affairs is barely done making our statement for the reporters and somebody shoots Robbie Steffen and two Korean gangsters three blocks from the office.”
“Dead?” I cringe sorry at Arleen and Julie.
“Koreans are. Robbie’s in ICU at Mercy.”
“1269 okay?”
“Everybody but you.”
“What?”
“We gotta talk, man, and it ain’t about Steffen or last night. Don’t go onstage. I’ll be there in thirty.”
Steve and Rita choose that moment to barge through Julie’s office. I climb two stairs to get out of the way, still talking to Jason. “What do you mean?” But Jason’s already disconnected.
Julie says, “Rucks and kisses,” and grabs Arleen to make room for Steve and Rita.
“Wait. Coleen, I mean Arleen—”
Julie hurries Arleen past Rita, who does not appear happy, and happy is Ms. Longhofer’s trademark. At a svelte five foot five, Rita has that flower-child ’60s vibe, so pure and joyful you think you’re at Woodstock. But today she’s wearing denim lederhosen over a T-shirt, sort of Debbie Harry does Dallas. Today there’s something seriously wrong in Rita’s land of sunshine.
Band meeting lasts three minutes, all business, no chance to say the love of my life just walked in and made me a teenager—and it’s showtime.
SATURDAY, 6:30 PM
The L7 crowd is way past civilized behavior—the new Rita’s fault—and has been since we took the stage. Rita can belt or ballad Bette Midler so pitch-perfect Barry Manilow couldn’t tell the difference, but so far she won’t sing any Divine Miss M songs. After way too many beaming requests and room keys, from way too many beer-and-sweat-drenched Bette Midler fans, one hundred rugby girls threaten to kill Rita. We do “Delta Dawn” three times.
Julie and Arleen are barricaded behind the far end of the bar. Every time I peek at Arleen I miss my strings with both hands. Man, is she something or not? A voice from the mosh screams, “ ‘Freebird’!”
We have one guitar, but need three.
“ ‘YMCA’!”
We can do the Village People. “YMCA” goes over dance-on-the-tables big. Steve goes topless behind his drum kit and twenty of the rugby girls match him. The stage shakes my feet sideways. A bruised and busty topless fan shimmies her shoulders and shoves a bottle of Jack Daniel’s at Rita, demanding: “Anastacia! Anastacia!” The Rita I know and love does fine with other diva requests. The new Rita growls and grabs the bottle, swigs more than I’ve seen her drink in an entire evening, then exits our set list for a trip to “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.”
The L7 levitates with my first seven notes. I check Arleen; she’s still behind the bar, safe from the riot, but arguing with a flaming redhead—exposé writer, Tracy Moens.
We finish “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.” Rita steps in front of me, drops the Jack Daniel’s on my foot to put my attention where it’s supposed to be, then fires Steve the look no cornered animal wants to see. I refocus on the new Rita and whatever she wants. Rita pivots to face her audience who loves other girl singers better and yells, “SO, YOU BITCHES WANNA PARTY?”
All of the drunk, muddy, violent women in Chicago scream incomprehensible rock-concert affirmation. Over her shoulder at Steve and me, Rita yells, “Kenny Herbert, ‘Mornin’ Ain’t Comin’’!”
Steve stares, mouth open, and doesn’t move; he knows these jobs are hard to get. We’re supposed to close with “Margaritaville,” not start an indoor riot. I sneak a quick look at Julie McCoy. She doesn’t know what’s coming and would stop us if she did. Arleen and Tracy Moens are—
Rita spins, glaring at Steve through her bangs, “Count it out, Crossett, or leave,” turns back to the audience and yells: “ANY GIRLS GONNA GET LAID TONIGHT?”
A hundred-plus rugby divas scream more incomprehensible rock-concert sex-for-money give-us-a-reason-to-riot, “Yeaaaaaahhhhhh!”
Steve “Sonny-boy” Crossett cocks his sticks overhead, tells the ceiling, “We’re going to hell,” and on four we light it up. Half the crowd recognizes Rab Howett’s guitar line and their hands leap skyward throwing beer everywhere. Rita marches left pounding both feet into the stage, then right with one arm jammed at the ceiling. She hits the middle of the stage on cue, plants her feet get-some-of-this wide, and belts:
“YOU GIRLS GET READY,
FOR LOSIN’ YOUR MIND,
MORNIN’ AIN’T COMIN’
AT THE END OF THIS LINE—”
The L7 goes insane. Rita grabs both sides of her shirt to rip it open as if she’s lost her mind, waits for Steve and me to catch up, strips the mic off the pole with both hands, and:
“ZIPPERS ARE DOWN
NO GETTIN’ OUT SOON
HAVE TO BE NAKED
TO HOWL AT THE MOON”
A bar full of wild animals pound each other, yelling louder than my amp. Rita crushes the last verse, does the chorus twice promising to fuck every woman in the room, then spins and throws the mic at me and the floor like she hates us both. Stage left she jumps off into the crowd, elbows her way to the office door, and disappears.
Steve and I finish because we’re afraid to stop. The girls scream for a Rita encore that won’t happen and we run through brothel/locker-room steam for the door that swallowed Rita minutes ago. Steve slides through first, I glance for Arleen at the bar, don’t see her, then slide through as well. The office wall saves us from a riot our employer didn’t purchase. Rita has her back to me, packing her gear. I want to hug her but don’t; gently I put my hand on her shoulder.
Rita turns fast and squares up. “We had lawyers and their investigators at the apartment this morning. They told me they could protect me from you and Ruben, but only if I cooperate.”
“Protect you? From me?”
“Everyone close to you and Ruben is being investigated by the FBI, IRS—any police record anywhere.” She looks at Steve,
then back. “Bobby, I lied about the pot conviction back in college. I’ll lose my job, so will Steve—”
“I’m not even named in the civil suit—”
“They said you would be. No more band, Bobby; no more drinking sangria on my living-room rug, no more us till this is all over. Write your songs at your own house.” Rita tells Steve “Meet you at the car” and is gone to the fire-door alley exit.
Steve chugs half a beer, then sets it on the stair. “Sorry, man, she’s scared; why we were late.” Shrug. “Let us know what happens.” He stands, pats my shoulder so lightly I can’t feel it, says nothing else as he passes, and he’s gone to the alley exit as well.
My guitar and I are alone in the stairwell with today’s Herald that I haven’t read and don’t intend to. I contemplate the fire door, try to imagine “lawyers and their investigators” dead in the alley. My phone vibrates again, but weaker. I switch to the ringtone and answer. Over riot noise Jason Cowin says, “Where you at?”
“L7.”
“No you’re not. I’m at the bar. Fuckin’ nuts in here.”
“I’m in back. Be out in a sec—”
“No. Tracy Moens is out here bracing the owner and another chick—”
“Strawberry blond, five foot seven, jeans that won’t quit?”
“That’s her.”
“Fuck it. I’m coming out.”
“Don’t. They call you about Little Paul yet?”
“Did who call me?”
“Child Services.”
I slump into the wall … Danny Vacco killed him. A seven-year-old. “What happened?”
“Little Paul’s down at Child Services saying you molested him in your old alley; did a dope search and fondled him up, then went to his house to get some more little-boy love or pay off his mom.”
“What?”
“Child Services has witnesses, Bobby. La Raza debs, two of ’em who say they saw you go into the house, come out zipping your pants. They say Little Paul’s been crying about you for months.”
The Herald stares at me. “Where’s his mom? She knows that’s bullshit.”
“Not around, and her being MIA don’t smell good, either. Child Services and the Herald gonna make you Michael Jackson even if Dupree’s lawyers don’t.”
My throat goes dry. I replay yesterday—Coleen’s alley, Little Paul, the gang stop with Tania Hahn. “Danny Vacco’s doing this, the street-king piece of shit. Had my chance to shoot that motherfucker ten years ago. Had him cold but I let Ruben stop me.”
“Don’t even think that now, man; not out loud. Way too many wolves at your door already. Media’s gonna say you got kids under the floor.”
Street-king piece of shit. My hand pounds the wall. I see the entire frame come together around my portrait: Ruben and I start the day in a Herald exposé, then a four-dead shootout later that night—bingo, Danny Vacco smells opportunity like the street-fucking animal he is, and adds present-day child molester to my résumé. A serial molester, a cop monster in the shadows for twenty-nine years … the media will go nuts with that; won’t have to prove anything for Bobby Vargas to be headlines, just “investigate” and print. The Duprees’ lawyers will leak innuendo like they did to Steve and Rita. I’m guilty until proven innocent, and then probably never, no matter what the facts are.
“Tania Hahn was with me at Little Paul’s house. She’s out of the hospital—”
“That’s true? You were at the house?”
“Yeah. And I did the dope stop, too. Little shit had fourteen rocks on him. Danny Vacco’s rocks.”
“Tell me you wrote it up. Took the rocks to property. Where the fuck was I?”
“No, I didn’t write it up. If I do, the kid ends up in Child Services.”
Bar-riot noise. “Where was I?”
“How do I know? It was fifteen minutes before we came to work in the yard at Laflin Maritime.”
Bar-riot noise.
“Jason?”
“I’m here. Watching Tracy Moens figure out who I am.” The riot noise begins to lessen. “Man, she’s pretty in person. That whole Pink Panther/Brenda Starr thing isn’t a lie.”
“If you had children she’d eat them.”
“I’ll get her to leave with me, see if she does front-seat blow jobs. You slip out, then call me as soon as you’re somewhere clean up the block. We’ll figure how to play Danny Vacco.”
Woman’s voice, semi-Southern, and loud over the others. “Hi. Aren’t you Jason Cowin? Bobby Vargas’s partner?”
The phone goes dead. My hand wants to crush it; I dial Ruben instead. He answers, “Carnal … No good, buey.”
“Danny fucking Vacco.”
“Sí, pocho. And very strange. Danny V don’t throw down with the brothers Vargas. Somebody big and bad pushing his buttons.”
“He just did. Stars lined up and he took a shot.”
“No, Danny V ain’t that stupid. Could be the feds pushing him, maybe the U.S. attorney. For sure the Herald ain’t enough. And Dupree’s lawyers ain’t, either.”
“Heard Robbie Steffen’s in ICU.”
“Took two .45s in the vest, but he’s alive, so far. Had two dead Koreans with him—mafia from Lawrence Avenue, badass hoodlums, those vatos. We have bullets from a third shooter who walked away.”
“Jason told me. But no mafia guy’s that crazy, shoot Toddy Pete’s only son? Has to be a cracked-out banger. No way it’s a mob guy, even Korean.”
“Whatever Robbie’s into will play itself out.” Ruben’s voice slides into older brother. “Don’t you and any of your cowboys go by Danny Vacco, promise me.”
“Sorry.”
“Bobby, so you bust him up. How’s that help?”
“Danny’s ‘witnesses’ quit lying; his crew lets Little Paul’s mom go; if I’m lucky, Danny gets shot in the head during the argument.”
Silence. “Can’t cover you for that.” Ruben’s tone drops. “Every step you take the wrong way makes whoever’s behind Danny V stronger.”
“Fuck ’em. I’m dragging that piece of shit out into the street for the cameras. Tonight’s Danny’s last night as street king of the Four Corners.”
“No, buey, don’t help the U.S. attorney put you and me in prison. Think about it—hell I’m your brother, I know you, but it adds up too good: Coleen Brennan twenty-nine years ago, then Little Paul. Throw in the fed Lopez last night—”
“All bullshit.”
“Yeah, but what if other Little Pauls walk into Child Services, vatos grown now, like the archdioceses altar boys back in ’06, vatos who say you molested them when they were niños?” Ruben’s voice ramps. “Gives Officer Bobby Vargas history. ‘Chicago cop as serial child molester’? Shit, buey, the department cuts you loose instantáneo, all your friends say bye, and the tabs make you Carlos Cruz.”
Carlos Cruz was a child-molester cop in Mexico City; a street mob broke him out of jail and hung him from a bridge in Chapultepec Park. Cruz’s name is a nasty reality check—Danny Vacco could go down the line in his crew, pick any five guys he wanted, and tell them to testify that they were my altar boys. The bangers would hate it, but they’d be on the stand the next day describing every unnatural act. My eyes squeeze shut—how the hell is this happening?
“Listen, buey. When you get the call from Child Services for Little Paul—and that’s gonna be any minute now—don’t go without Barlow or one of his people. Same for IAD; hundred percent they’re adding Little Paul to your interrogations on Coleen Brennan and me.”
I try to interrupt but Ruben stops me. “Esé, we can’t afford bold. Lay low, let the lawyers talk for us. Being out front is asking for Stateville.”
Arleen. Jesus, what will she think? Believe? Shit, at least wonder? “I just saw Coleen’s sister, Arleen. Damn near had a heart attack.”
Silence. Ruben says, “How she doing, the sister?”
“She’s an actress, works at Hugo’s. You’ll never believe this, but she’s who I traded the books with, not Coleen. She was my girl—
”
“Yeah. I know her.”
“You do? Didn’t she ask about me?”
“Who?”
“Arleen. Somebody told her I was dead.”
“Was me; eight or ten months ago at a party. But, shit, I was joking, meant the little niño you used to be was dead.” Pause. “Where’d you see her?”
“Here. The L7. She’s out front right now with Tracy Moens. I swear, Ruben, she was … looked like happy ever after in blue jeans.”
“Little brother, wake up. Stay away from Arleen Brennan and Moens. And now that I think about it, your commander gave you days. Don’t answer the call from Child Services, either. Let Barlow handle it.”
“We’re that sure about Barlow?”
“Even more now that T.P.’s son is down. And we all want to be on the right side of Toddy Pete Steffen when T.P. answers.” Pause. “Can you fire-exit the L7 without being cornered by the Brennan sister or Moens?”
“Don’t want to. Arleen’s—”
“Buey. We got wild-card feds in your gang team, your childhood’s in the Herald, Danny Vacco makes you Carlos Cruz for Child Services to crucify. Then, all of a sudden, Arleen Brennan and Moens are where you are?”
The cramped hallway shrinks, the way our world did the year the Four Corners came all the way apart—the deaf-and-dumb Mexican kid from my block, Anjel Pion, shot dead for who knows why; then Officer Terry Rourke and his daughter die in their front yard; then four Twenty-Trey Gangsters; then Coleen Brennan. Took less than two weeks.
Ruben says, “Get your ass uptown to the Mambo, little brother. No cowboys, no Danny Vacco, no Brennan or Moens. I’ll call Barlow. We’ll meet him early, as in now.”
I stare at the wall that separates me from Arleen. Barlow feels wrong, like a bad decision you’ll want back but won’t get back because you’ll be in a corner, alone, with a train coming.
“Pocho?”
Twenty-nine years of dead or missing children in the Four Corners; Bobby Vargas as John Wayne Gacy; Bobby’s basement full of their trophies. Even Steve and Rita see the possibilities.
Start Shooting Page 11
