Start Shooting

by Charlie Newton

  The something I’m to give them rests on the backseat, a six-inch tube of Pillsbury biscuits taped over at the top.

  “Then you say, ‘The 10K or the concert after.’ Got it?”

  “What?”

  Ruben glares. “Repeat it, Arleen. ‘The 10K or the concert after.’ ”

  “10K or the concert after.”

  Ruben points into his mirror. “They’ll be at the corner in ten minutes.” He reaches over the seat, grabs the biscuit tube, and shoves it toward me. “Don’t fuck this up and you’re halfway home. Do anything other than what I tell you and you won’t live long enough to stand trial in Illinois or California.”

  “I want out, Ruben. Now.” My fingers reach the 9-millimeter’s grip. “I mean it.”

  “Me, too.” He backhands me into the window, jerks my purse away, and removes the 9-millimeter. Ruben drops in a tiny electronic device and throws the purse back. “This ain’t my first day out here. Remember that. And you don’t know shit about how things work—out here or at the courthouse. Illinois doesn’t plea bargain murder for extortion, even to get a cop, no matter what they fucking promise. And California doesn’t care about heroics in Illinois. And the feds cut bait, always trading up for bigger fish. Follow the script. Be an actress. Prove Tharien Thompson should go home and she will.”

  Blanche’s scarf lies on my knees. I’m not strong enough to kill Ruben with a scarf. “What’s in my purse?”

  “I wanna know what they say.” Ruben puts a device in his right ear and winces.

  I chin at his bandage and lip. “Somebody finally whip your ass?”

  “Remember this, chica. Fuck with me and I better die. If I don’t, you will. My brother, too, if he’s with you.”

  I grab the scarf and Ruben’s biscuit tube, then exit the car. The tube’s heavier than it should be. I walk east to the busy corner. Maybe Dr. Ota’s women will shoot me and get it over with. Five minutes pass; no Japanese women. On the other side of the center-stall line, an Asian woman is out of place, surrounded by Hispanics. She has long black hair and the same sun hat as Ruben’s woman in Water Tower Square. Is she Ruben’s partner? Robbie’s Vietcong bitch? If she is, would she get this close to the two Japanese women who tried to kill her? Can I use that? Somehow?

  Bump. A woman in black has her back to me. Bump. I turn to another woman, this one facing me. Japanese. Almond eyes tight in mine. “Hello, Ms. Brennan.”

  “How’d you know my name?”

  “Do you have something for me?”

  “Are you—”

  “Yes, I am.” She extends her hand.

  I hand her the biscuit tube. “I was told to say, ‘Open it.’ ”

  She accepts the tube, but doesn’t open it. “Anything else you were told to say?”

  “The 10K or the concert after.”

  The Japanese woman nods. “That doesn’t allow much time. Where are your partners?”

  “No, no, not partners. I’m being coerced into this. Just want to go home.”

  “We all do. Please inform your partners we will analyze the vial you have provided. Should it be what you represent, we are pleased to do business. Unfortunately, the analysis cannot be completed by four o’clock. Possibly, by concert time.”

  I don’t understand the meaning, but nod that I understand the message. “Not by four o’clock, but possibly by seven. And they’re not my partners, okay? Understand?”

  She nods, but doesn’t believe me. “Your telephone number, please.”

  “No.”

  My purse is jerked off my shoulder. The first woman in black who bumped me pulls out my cell phone, flips it open, reads the number, puts my phone back, and hands me my purse. She doesn’t see Ruben’s gadget. She is Japanese as well.

  Behind me, the woman with Ruben’s Pillsbury tube says, “If you have the Hokkaido package, we will do business. Should you disperse a particle prior to the ransom being paid, or speak of it publicly after the payment, we will kill your families and your friends. All of them. And all of you—Ruben Vargas, Robbie Steffen, Lý Thi Loan, and Arleen Brennan.”

  “No. Listen, I’m not—”

  She’s already gone. I turn for the woman who had my purse; she’s gone. The Asian woman in the stalls is gone as well. Just Arleen Brennan on the corner, turning in a slow circle. My phone vibrates in my purse. Sarah! I got the lead. This nightmare’s over—

  Ruben says, “Walk west on the south side of Fourteenth Street. Keep walking till I pick you up.”

  Downtown and the Shubert are the other direction. Tharien Thompson’s audition ended an hour ago. Producer, director, and backers have met. They’ve picked their actress. Ruben’s call should’ve been Sarah. Sarah should call me, right now. Everyone loved me; I’m part of the family.

  Ruben’s voice: “Move, chica.”

  I do, but not toward Ruben’s car. On Roosevelt I flag for a cab. Ruben pulls to the curb. “Get in.”

  I backtrack. Ruben rolls in reverse, talking to me through the passenger window. “Hey, c’mon, you did fine. We’re cool.” He pops the passenger door. “C’mon. We’ll go see Sarah.”

  I jump around his front fender, slide through traffic to the north curb and wave at a taxi that passes. Ruben flips a U, pops his siren, and the open door almost knocks me down. “Get in, I’m not fuckin’ around.”

  A squad car slows and pulls in behind Ruben, the driver eyeing me. Need a plan B; have to kill Ruben and Santa Monica. Think. Decide—

  “Arleen. In the car.”

  Running away won’t work. I slide into Ruben’s car. He flips another U, hand out his window, giving the squad an air-pat/no-problem, then wheels us eastbound on Roosevelt. “We’ve got a surprise for the master race. One more step—”

  “Not me. I’m done.” I turn to check the squad car through Ruben’s back window. The squad car hasn’t moved. “Let me out at the next light.”

  Ruben pops his siren and doesn’t slow down. “Want the Shubert? That you probably won?” He glances at me. “You’re done when I say so, not before. Open that brown bag.”

  The bag is on his console where I leave it. Maybe the bag is plan B. “What’d that woman mean, ‘disperse a particle’?”

  “Wanna be a big star? The faster we finish, the faster you walk away. Open the bag and do what I tell you.”

  I don’t. Ruben cocks his hand. “Open it.”

  Plan B. If the bag’s heavy enough, I’ll smash him across the nose with it. Take his gun and blow his stomach into the door. Bet he’ll let me out then.

  The bag is light. All it contains is an empty, old-style test tube and an odd-looking green rubber cap. Ruben tells me to put the cap on the tube and the tube in my pocket. “I’ll drop you at Michigan and Congress. The reviewing stand is across Michigan in the Congress divider. Get up close now. At 3:55, five minutes before they fire the gun to start the 10K, toss that up on the stand at Dr. Ota.”

  I shake my head at him. “Not getting shot impersonating Sirhan Sirhan.”

  “There’s nothing in the test tube, Arleen. No commotion, no cops chasing you. Only the good Dr. Ota will know what it means.”

  “Find another actress. I’m booked for the Shubert.” I reach for the door handle. Locked. I turn to Ruben and he bangs me across the face.

  “Don’t make me bust up your moneymaker. And don’t forget who’s your pier buddy in Santa Monica. And don’t forget Robbie and the Koreans—they gotta get paid with Dr. Ota’s money or you’re dead, twice.” Ruben tosses me a Kleenex. “Wipe your nose before you bleed on your pretty dress.”

  OFFICER BOBBY VARGAS

  SUNDAY, 1:45 PM

  Mercy’s emergency waiting room is loud, sweaty, and tense. I wipe the tears off my cheeks, ease through frightened parents and spouses to a hallway, then left to the T junction that leads to ICU.

  The ICU waiting room can’t hold all the men and women in black body armor and T-shirts—TAC and gang-crimes cops who aren’t on duty and six or seven who are. Buff and Jewboy are
two of the best-liked cops in 12; Buff may be the best-liked cop on the entire West Side.

  In the white linoleum hallway, the grim faces above the armor and pistols describe Buff’s chances. Heads are turning—guys with guns who want answers about Bobby Vargas and little girls, and federal judges, and dead friends.

  I hear “Motherfucker,” turn, and a punch lands high on my temple. “Fuckin’ spic mother—” Another punch lands. I spin, duck, and bang into the wall. Buff’s nephew jams a finger at my face. “Coleen Brennan! Fuckin’ Ruben and you killed her.” Jason jumps in and grabs the nephew. The nephew slams an elbow into Jason, gets loose, and dives at me. Jason headlocks him and jerks him back. The nephew screams: “Fuckin’ Vargas brothers killed Coleen Brennan. Goddamn spic reprisals kill Terry Rourke and his daughter. And now Buff—” Jason chokes Buff’s nephew to bright red, drops him to his knees, and lets go.

  “Jesus Christ.” I step back from the crowd-wall surging behind Jason and wipe at blood on my forehead. “Do I look Asian? Jason said an Asian shot Buff and Jewboy.”

  Jason keeps one hand on Buff’s nephew. “Tracy Moens was just in here. Said Jewboy’s dead and Buff’s in ICU ’cause of you, Ruben, Robbie Steffen, and the Brennan sisters.”

  “And you believe Moens?” I wipe at the blood again. “A reporter stirring the pot?”

  “Ruben, Jewboy, and Buff throw down at breakfast, now Jewboy’s dead and Buff’s here. Two hours before that, you’re up here with Robbie. Somebody shot him, too, didn’t they? Ruben’s your brother. Half the kids in Chicago say you’re fucking them in the ass. You didn’t pass the polygraph—”

  “The hell I didn’t.”

  “The operator says Buff covered for you.”

  I fix on Jason, then the crowd behind him, everyone waiting for my answer, for me to convince them. It takes effort to make my lips move. “I did not give up the Toyota. I didn’t kill Coleen Brennan.”

  Our new commander, the Hispanic highflier from the North Side, bumps through the crowd to Jason and me. She says, “Talk. Right now. That’s an order,” then grabs my arm and leads me forty feet away. “What were your brother and Sergeant Anderson fighting about?”

  I blink at her, then past her, focusing on my team, my family. Glaring at me, seeing a child killer, child molester who’s been alone with their kids.

  “Officer Vargas.”

  I cut back. “What?”

  “How is the Mesrow/Anderson shooting connected to Coleen Brennan and your brother?”

  “Connected?”

  She stares piercing brown eyes and stiffens to full height in her uniform and graduate degree from Northwestern. “Answer the question.”

  “I just came from the morgue. Maybe you can give me a minute—”

  “We don’t have a minute. We want the shooters of officers Mesrow and Anderson, even if you don’t. And if that’s connected to the Coleen Brennan rape/murder, so be it.”

  I lean back, stunned. “Coleen and my brother? Is that what you said?”

  “Answer the question, Officer Vargas. I can’t stop these men behind me if they decide—”

  “I’m here to see Buff.” I push past my commander to the ICU door and the nurse guarding it. “Buff wants to see me. Really important to him, life-or-death important.”

  The nurse says, “No one can see Sergeant Anderson.”

  “Let me stand at the window, just for a second. Buff has to know I’m here.”

  “I’ll tell him.” She turns to leave and I grab her arm.

  “He has to see me. I won’t say a word. Promise.”

  The nurse extricates her arm, turns again, but stops, eyes the armed, angry crowd behind me, and says, “C’mon, it’ll help calm everyone down.” She leads me through double doors into the ICU. Standing at the nurses’ station is U.S. Attorney Jo Ann Merica and two FBI agents. All three are on their phones. One touches Merica’s shoulder and points at me.

  The window to Buff’s room frames his wife, Sandy, and their three daughters at his bed. The nurse allows me to stand in the doorway, then turns to Merica and tells all three to quit their phones. Eight feet from me, Buff is motionless, swollen and bruised. Tubes are taped to his neck, down his nose, in his mouth. The white hair is wilted against pasty gray skin. All but one arm is tight under a sheet and thin blanket. Monitors blip. His eyes are open and don’t blink, he and death’s door are having their conversation. Buff’s daughter Sasha, the one with MD, sniffles at her father’s feet, rubbing his blanket, asking God to let her daddy come back home.

  Sandy sees me, shields her eldest girl, and walks to the doorway. Sandy’s eyes are red, she’s shaking. “No, Bobby. You can’t come in here.”

  Behind Sandy, the three girls watch us, searching our eyes and body language for clues, anything that will explain their father’s chances. “I didn’t do any of it, Sandy.”

  Anger bleeds through her fear. “Buff said your brother’s dirty. Did Ruben shoot my husband? Is that why you’re here?”

  “No. Ruben didn’t—And that’s not why I’m here. I love Buff; he’s mistaken.”

  “Is he?” Sandy points. “Who’s on that bed fighting for his life? Not you. Not Ruben.”

  I bite back the anger. “I love your husband, no matter what he said or what he thinks.”

  The monitors blip. Sandy steps to the bed, a wife and mother on the vigil she’s dreaded every night for thirty-plus years. I step past Sandy to the bed, telling my friend and his daughters, “Your dad will be okay because he’s Buff Anderson. He survived being shot in Vietnam; he’ll walk out of Mercy.” I look at each daughter and tap my heart. “I know it right here.”

  The nurse reaches in for my arm. “Officer.”

  I turn to Sandy. “Did Buff ever mention a girl from Vietnam, Lý Thi Loan or White Flower Lý?”

  Sandy leans back. “Why?”

  I grab her arm. “What’d she want? What’d she say?”

  Sandy pulls her arm away. “A woman called early this morning, woke us up. Buff said he knew her in Vietnam when she was a girl, hadn’t heard from her in forever, but he didn’t say her name.”

  “What’d she want?”

  “She was in some kind of trouble. Bob called Jewboy, said they’d make a pass on ‘Tu Do Street,’ then go find you.”

  “Me?”

  Sandy wipes at swollen eyes, not looking at me. “Bob said the girl/woman was with a nun from the Four Corners.”

  “A nun?”

  “The nun ran an orphanage or something during the war, in Saigon on Tu Do Street. Bob helped the nun get out when Saigon fell. Seven or eight years later the nun and Bob helped the girl come over.”

  The nurse grips my arm and pulls. I jerk it free, glare her back on her heel, then turn back to Buff’s wife. Tu Do Street I’ve never heard of. But if Buff’s nun was from the Four Corners, she had to be at St. Dom’s. Where the Brennan sisters went. “What’s the nun’s name?”

  “Bob didn’t say.”

  “Did he say where she was now? The nun?”

  “No.”

  The nurse slides in front of Sandy, pushes me off-balance out of the room, then blocks the door. Jo Ann Merica steps up. “We’re running out of time to get you on the right side, Officer Vargas. I’m sure Tania Hahn has detailed the potential severity.”

  “Hahn told me a story; put Robbie Steffen in it, then tried to put Buff in and my brother. For all I know you’re in it, too.”

  Merica blinks the thirty-two-degree eyes. “Hahn’s ‘story’ is surrounded by a mounting level of violence, serious conditions that could lead to—”

  “Serious conditions? Like Jewboy being dead? And Buff in there dying? That what you mean?”

  “My condolences. But the stakes are far higher than the current casualties.”

  “Can’t get any higher for me.”

  “Unfortunately for all of us, I’m afraid they can.” Pause. “Internal Affairs will be questioning you tomorrow morning under oath regarding multiple child molestation complaint
s. Undoubtedly, this will include questions concerning Coleen Brennan, while your brother is being deposed under oath at the Federal Building regarding Coleen Brennan. Once you two begin publicly convicting yourselves, my help will no longer be sufficient.”

  “If you want help, tell me Hahn’s ‘story,’ if you know it. The whole thing.”

  She straightens. “That’s not how it works.”

  “Then pardon me when you’re governor.” I step around the U.S. attorney and through the doors. Jason jumps out of the waiting-room crowd, grabs my arm, and pushes us up to the first intersection.

  “I want answers, Bobby. I want ’em now. Don’t give a fuck how mad it makes you.”

  I jerk free.

  Jason grabs me with both hands. “Did your brother’s business get Jewboy and Buff shot? Is this Coleen Brennan? Tomorrow’s depositions?”

  I spit in his face. “Fuck you.”

  Jason slams me into the wall. “No more disappearing, not till we hear what the fuck’s up.”

  “I have to find Ruben.”

  “Fuck Ruben. If he’s part of Buff and Jewboy, I shoot his ass with your gun.”

  My eyes narrow. “Whatever he is, Ruben’s my brother. Hurt him and you better kill me.”

  Jason pushes Jewboy’s badge into my face. “We can do that.”

  ——

  I back away from Jason until I can bolt through the emergency room crowd. Tania Hahn’s outside, engine running in a ’03 Ford Taurus, door open. I dive in and she slams the gas. “Got an address on White Flower Lý. Think your brother’s with her.” Hahn’s no longer interested in me wearing a wire. “Bad news is the Koreans may have finally pegged her, too.”

  My feet brace into the floorboard. Ruben would be hard for the Koreans to corner, to trap. Hahn changes lanes, missing the fifth bumper by inches. Her near-death jerks and weaves mash into a familiar metal blur, the precontact rush to the destination, situations that nine times out of ten will end the same way. Sun glares the windshield blind. She tells her phone, “Car one en route. Bag the Koreans if they’re on the apartment.” Hahn asks me, “What’d Anderson say?”