by Vicki Vass
Audrey went in the back room and retrieved Dr. Grover, a nice young man with shaggy brown hair and puppy dog eyes. “What’s the emergency, Jan?”
“Doc, come with me. It’s out in my trunk.” He followed me out the clinic doors. I opened the trunk, and he opened the bag. He closed the bag up and brought the raccoon into one of his examination rooms. I followed behind him.
“Where’d you find this, Jan?” He set the bag on the steel examination table.
“It was just walking down our street. It hissed at me and dropped dead,” I said. “It looks sick like the raccoon from the night out.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The night of the National Night Out, a raccoon got in the building. His mouth was all crusty and bloody. He was hissing and shaking like this one. I threw a garbage can over him until the county animal control guys came.”
“I’ll contact them to see if they did an autopsy,” Dr. Grover said. He donned surgical gloves and examined the raccoon’s mouth. “This guy ate something pretty bad. He’s been throwing up blood. Raccoons have a high tolerance for spoiled food so this is unusual.”
“The raccoon at the Night Out threw up frog legs,” I said.
“I’ll find out what he’s been into once I cut him open,” Dr. Grover said, taking the gloves off and washing his hands.
I left the clinic after Dr. Grover promised to call me with the autopsy results. I could see over to the dog park from where I was parked. Helen and Jake the corgi were entering the park. Helen let Jake off his leash. The small dog ran to play with the other dogs.
I saw a young frazzled woman stapling a flyer to the wood signboard by the gate of the dog park. Standing next to her was a young boy holding an empty leash. I walked over to read the sign. It was a picture of a puppy that read, “Missing, Bernese mountain dog.” “Is that your dog?” I asked her.
“Yes.” She ran a hand through her unwashed red hair.
“What happened? Did he run away?”
“No, I put him in the backyard while I was making lunch for my son. We heard the gate open. By the time I ran out, he was gone. Somebody opened the gate,” she said.
I hoped it wasn’t Jim Reeney. “You didn’t see an ugly brown van in front of your house?” I asked.
She stopped to think. “The street was empty.”
“Do you think somebody stole your puppy?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” I could see she was holding back her tears. I looked down at the boy.
“What’s your name?”
“Tyler,” he said.
“What’s your puppy’s name?”
“Rocky.”
Even though I’m not a dog enthusiast, the thought of some sneak thief taking a puppy away from this sweet little boy made my blood boil. “We’re going to find Rocky for you.”
“You mean it?” he asked.
“It’s a promise,” I said. I could tell his mother wasn’t as trusting as Tyler. “Where do you live?” I asked her.
“We’re on North Linden, just a few blocks from here.”
“I live on South Linden. We’re neighbors. I’m Jan,” I said.
“Jennifer,” she replied, handing me a flyer.
“What time did this happen?”
“About lunchtime yesterday,” Jennifer said. “Tyler’s heartbroken. My husband gave him the puppy before he left for his tour in Afghanistan. Tyler was worried about his father so Jim, that’s my husband’s name, told Tyler to take care of Rocky. When he returned, they would train Rocky together.”
“That’s so sad,” I said. My heart went out to this family. “Did you call the police? Were they able to help you?”
“They came over yesterday. There’s nothing they can do. They didn’t find anything in the yard,” Jennifer said. “They did say there were reports of other dogs taken from yards a few towns over.”
I knelt down and gazed at Tyler. “I know a lot of people. I’m going to take care of this for you. Okay?”
The boy nodded solemnly. “Pinky swear?” He held up his pinky.
I locked mine in his and repeated, “Pinky swear.”
Taking a flyer from Jennifer so I would have her phone number, I went back to my car. When I got home, I made myself a cup of coffee. I pulled out my small notepad I always carried and my fountain pen. About a year ago, there were a bunch of car break-ins up and down Linden Avenue. I started writing down license plates of cars that I knew didn’t belong on the block. There was one car that kept driving down our dead end street, never parking. I waited on my porch and watched him until one day I saw him trying to break into Pete’s car. I called the police and then I chased him into the woods. Ever since that day I’ve carried my notepad and my fountain pen with me. This green Waterman fountain pen is dear to me. It was dear to Gino.
There were only two unknown license plates in my notebook that I wrote down from yesterday. One was a motorcycle, the other a pickup truck with a camper on the back. I checked back on Tuesday and Wednesday. That same pickup truck was driving up and down Linden. At first I thought he was one of the recycling scavengers who cruised down our street on garbage day looking for metal scraps. But not three days in a row.
I called Chief Krundel. “Mark, it’s Jan. I need a favor. Can you run a license plate for me?” I asked him.
“Jan, what’s going on?” he asked.
“Mark, I don’t want to get into details. Please do me this favor.” After I got the address, I loaded up my Saturn with supplies. I headed over to North Linden Jan’s house. I felt obligated since Jennifer and Tyler were her neighbors. She was outside watering her hostas.
Getting out of my car, I walked up to her and handed her the flyer. “Yeah, Jan, I know. That’s Jennifer. She lives a block down. I helped her put these up around the block. When I saw her earlier, she was going to the dog park to see if anyone saw her dog,” North Linden Jan said. “I feel terrible about it.”
“Do you want to take a ride with me?” I asked.
“Where?” She gave me a suspicious look.
“I’ve got a lead.”
“Have you contacted the police?”
“This is a neighborhood problem. We have to take care of it,” I said. “Get in the car.” North Linden Avenue Jan got in my trusted Saturn. We drove to Glendale Heights, a neighboring suburb. “Jan, I read an article a few weeks back in the Daily Herald about dogfighting rings. They were stealing dogs from backyards to use them as training bait for the fighting dogs. That’s why we’re not calling the police. We can’t let this happen in our neighborhood or any neighborhood,” I said. “Besides we have to make sure this is the right guy before we get the police involved.”
We arrived at the small ranch clad in green aluminum siding, a six-foot high chain link fence surrounded the entire lot. The house backed up to the highway underpass. It was run down, weeds were growing out of the cracks. There was a large brown pitbull chained to the tree around the back of the house. The poor thing must have been out in the sun all day. He was lying on the hot cement and panting heavily.
I went to my trunk to get our supplies. I grabbed the two Louisville sluggers and threw one over to Jan. She caught it with a surprised look on her face. “What’s this for?” she asked.
“Just in case,” I told her. Parked in the driveway sat the red pickup truck that I saw driving up and down on our block. Its license plate matched the one I wrote down. The overhead garage door hung by its hinges, it was dented and broken. As we moved towards it, I could hear dogs whining and whimpering from inside the garage.
“Jan, I don’t feel right about this. What if this is the wrong house? Or even worse what if it’s the right house?” North Linden Jan said.
“Let’s take a look,” I said. We pulled on the broken garage door trying to raise it but it was stuck. I could hear the whine of a puppy. I peeked through the opening and saw crates and boxes, all of them covered with tarps. Together, Jan and I tried to lift the heavy overhead door. It rattled and
groaned. We tried again. This time the whole door fell off towards us. We both jumped back in time to avoid getting crushed. “Hurry, Jan,” I yelled. We took the tarps off the cages revealing three dogs all different breeds and sizes. In the fourth cage, I found Rocky, the little Bernese. It had to be at least 90 degrees in the garage. All the dogs were panting heavily.
“What do we do now?” Jan asked.
The garage door leading to the house flung open. A very large man wearing cut-off jean shorts and a rebel flag t-shirt flew out, waving his heavily tattooed arms and yelling. His beer gut popped out from underneath the short t-shirt. His face was bright red from exertion and alcohol. He grabbed my shoulder with his sweaty hand. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.
I gave him the only answer I could think of. I hit him in the knee with the Louisville Slugger. He fell to the garage floor, clutching his knee and crying. Jan followed with a bunt to the forehead. “That’s for Sherlock.” And then she slammed the bat back down, this one was a home run. “That one’s for Holmes.” He lay on the floor, moaning and rolling around.
I searched around the shelves and found orange outdoor extension cords. Jan and I wrapped him up tight. Jan ran outside and got the hose. We watered the dogs. Their little tails wagged in appreciation. When we finished watering them, I turned the hose on the sneak thief. I knew something about waterboarding but the police would be here soon so I made the best of the time that was left. I wrote down the list of names he shouted out, his sneak thief companions, who were stealing and fighting these poor creatures, they would be dealt with. I pinned the list to his chest with a staple gun.
Chief Krundel was the first officer to respond, he recognized the address as the one he gave me earlier. “Jan, you got to get out of here. I’ll take care of this,” he said.
North Linden Avenue Jan and I grabbed the Bernese. “Chief, look after the other dogs. We’re going to take this one. We know its owner,” I said.
Chief Krundel handcuffed the man who was still on the ground. The last thing I heard him say as we got in the car was, “I have two dogs. One is Bandit and the other’s name is Archer.” I could hear the thuds and yells as Chief Krundel’s nightstick made sure our neighborhood dogs would be safe in the future. I rolled up my window to muffle the screams. I felt comfortable leaving Chief Krundel in charge of the animals. The one chained in the yard and the one handcuffed in the garage.
North Linden Jan was shaking, sitting next to me. She was holding the Bernese puppy who was still whining. We pulled up in front of Jennifer’s house.
I grabbed Rocky, holding him gently. I could tell Jan was still shook up. Her silence said it all. She followed me out of the car and to the door. I knocked on the door. Tyler opened it. “Tyler, how many times have I told you. . .” Jennifer came out from the kitchen, yelling at him.
He didn’t hear her. He was bent down, hugging the puppy who was wiggling in his arms and whimpering. Tears ran down his cheeks. Jennifer stared in disbelief. Tyler hugged my leg. “Pinky swear,” I said.
“Thank you so much,” Jennifer said, her eyes glistening. We both hugged her and then North Linden Jan and I each went our separate ways.
Chapter Eighteen
Most people from Chicago know Taylor Street. It’s more than just a street; it’s a neighborhood. Located on the near southeast side of Chicago off I-290 bordered by Halsted to the east and Ashland Avenue to the west, Taylor Street is known as Little Italy. It’s where I grew up.
My younger sister, Donna, still lives in the two flat that our parents owned. We don’t speak much anymore since my husband passed. It’s not that we don’t get along, it’s just we don’t have much in common. I left Taylor Street in my rearview mirror and I didn’t look back. Donna and her husband, Sammy, couldn’t leave Taylor Street. Sammy was in the business. My Gino was different. Gino was a family man, a hard-working family man. He worked in the emergency room at Cook County Hospital. Even as a resident, he kept his nighttime job as head maitre d at the Sabre Room. In its day the Sabre Room was as close to Vegas as Chicago could get. It even had its own showgirls, I was one of them. The Chicago people liked my Gino and trusted him but knew not to get him involved.
Today I needed Donna’s help. I was meeting her at Rosebud, one of Chicago’s original Italian restaurants. I did miss real Italian food. Once you move west of Western Avenue in Chicago, all the Italian food even at the best restaurants is all precooked or frozen. For authentic Italian you have to go to Taylor Street or cook it yourself.
Leading me to a corner leather clad booth, the host set down a menu and went back to his station. Donna was late. She was always late even when we were kids. I ordered a house made lemonade while I waited. It was tart, just like I remembered. Donna finally arrived. Her long blonde hair fanned around her, sprayed and teased to within an inch of its life. Her tight jeans clung to her thighs; her leopard print blouse was open to her bra and her stilettos clicked on the clay tile floor of the restaurant. All a little inappropriate for her age, I thought, but she thought she could pull it off. Her way of reminding me she is my younger sister even if it’s only by a year. “Am I late?” she asked, sitting down. She knew she was but didn’t care.
I didn’t bother answering. “Did you dye your hair?” I asked.
“No, it’s always been blonde.” Donna pulled off her designer sunglasses and put them in her purse. Her long nails danced on the table.
Strange, that’s not how I remembered her hair. It was naturally darker than mine. “How you been, D? How’s Sammy?”
“Good. He’s still working. He’s always busy. I’ve been busy, too. I’m in the middle of redoing the kitchen so I’ve got contractors in and out all day,” Donna said. “We got rid of all the old cabinets, the pink and white linoleum is gone. We’re putting in granite countertops, slate floor and maple cabinets. Everything I’m taking out of the kitchen, I’m moving to the kitchen in the basement. Oh, and, I booked a cruise for the end of August. Twenty-one days to Italy and the islands. I’m making Sammy take time off,” Donna said.
“That’s great, D, that's really great.”
“So, Jan, it’s been three, four years?” Donna thought for a moment and then remembered. “It was the Rossini’s wedding. Michael and Rita, right?”
“Yea, D, I think that’s the last time we saw each other.”
Donna put her hand over my hand. I noticed her nails were perfect and she upgraded her diamond ring again to a three-carat stunner. “Jan, why don’t we get together more often?” she asked. “Why is it only every three, four years? What’s happened to us?”
“D, you won’t leave Chicago. I’ve invited you out to the house. Valerie’s invited you out. We invited you for Christmas, for Danny’s birthday party.”
“Jan, you know Sammy’s always busy. And the traffic heading out of Chicago, forget about it.”
I knew this conversation wasn’t going anywhere. It’s the same one we have every time we get together. You only see the people you really want to see. We ordered lunch. I ordered the ricotta gnocchi with a tomato cream sauce, Donna ordered a tuna nicoise salad without dressing. I nibbled on the fresh baked Italian bread and the parmesan sticks. Donna sipped her water.
I passed on dessert. “D, let’s walk over and get an ice, Ok?” I asked. Donna paid for lunch. She insisted. We strolled down Taylor Street and headed east passing by many of the shops. Most of them were new since I had been here last. It seemed like even Taylor Street was being hit by the hipsters or yuppies or whatever they call themselves nowadays with their overpriced little boutiques. “D, what happened to Francis’ butcher shop?”
“That old place – it closed years ago. Nobody goes to butcher shops anymore. There’s a Whole Foods on the next block.” Donna clutched her Versace oversized purse.
“Remember over the butcher shop, Mary, Francis’ daughter. She used to pull the blinds up and down to let her boyfriend know it was safe for her to sneak out. Remember? Remember Mary?”
“Yea
h, Jan, she’s dead. She died like ten years ago.”
“Oh,” I said. We reached Mario’s Italian Ice stand, the best and only real Italian ice in Chicago. Fresh, cold, sweet. I got the combination lemonade and watermelon. Donna passed. “This is so good, D. You can’t get any good food in the suburbs. I swear to God. Do you know they tried opening an Al’s beef in Henderson?”
“Shut up,” she said.
“No, I mean it. I went in and talked to the manager when they opened. He said they bought the name. It’s not the same beef. It’s not even the same family. Guess what?”
“What?”
“It’s not the same sandwich. They closed after a year.”
“That’s what I’m saying, Jan, everything you need is on this street. This is the neighborhood, this is our neighborhood. Why you wanted to leave, I’ll never know.”
I couldn’t believe that she didn’t understand. I couldn’t live in a neighborhood with the type of men responsible for my Gino’s death. And, she would never understand. She lived that life, Gino and I escaped from it. All right, I put it off long enough, and I asked her what I came to ask her. “D, does Sammy have any business with the Benettis?”
“Jan, you know family doesn’t talk business,” Donna said, evading my question. Her brown eyes were covered by her oversized sunglasses.
“C’mon, D, I know that you hear things. The Benettis and the Sabatinis have business together, don’t they?”
Donna was quiet.
“Angelo Sabatini’s an alderman in Woodland View. He’s my alderman. He’s up to something. I have to find out what it is.” I told her, finishing my ice. I tossed the empty container in a nearby garbage can. “Can you ask around? Talk to some of the wives. Casual like. Can you do that for me?”
Donna was still quiet. “Jan, I’ll do this thing for you because you’re my sister, and I love you. Let’s not speak about this again.”
She left me standing on the corner. I pulled my keys out of my purse and headed towards Western Avenue where I’d parked the Saturn. This wasn’t my neighborhood anymore. It felt unfamiliar. These were the streets that D and I played on as kids. Our mom making Sunday gravy on the second floor while we played jacks in the alley. The corner ice cream shop is gone where I had my first kiss. No, this wasn’t my neighborhood anymore.
