Chapter 13
Stacy Harmon answered the knock at her door. “Good morning.”
Drexel stood on the small porch at the top of three steps leading to her house, one amongst the row with black wrought-iron fences, red-brick facades, and large, arching windows. Outside of winter, he presumed the yards to be manicured, watered, and full of flowers. “Good morning.”
Stacy stepped aside as Drexel held the storm door open and walked into the house’s entryway. “I wasn’t expecting to open my door to you.”
“It’s getting colder.”
“They say a storm’s coming.” Stacy walked into the front room, which faced out to the yard and Oakdale Avenue. The houses across the street were a mirror of the one they were in now. She sat down in an orange and cream striped sofa, its back facing the window. A fireplace to the left had a small pile of wood, which made the place smell foresty. She was dressed in dark blue jeans and a green mohair sweater, and she kept her hair in place with a dark green headband.
“Sorry to bother you.” Drexel sat down in a chair that matched the sofa. A dark wood coffee table between them. “Am I keeping you from anything?”
Stacy shook her head. “I’m in need of a job, but I thought I’d wait until after the funeral and storm to look.”
“If we get it.”
“They seem pretty sure.”
Drexel shrugged. “I wanted to follow up on something.” He drummed his knee. “You worked for Mr. Nye for how long?”
“Two years.”
“And in all that time you never met Karrie Velazquez? Ever?”
Stacy crossed her legs and held her knee with both hands. “No. Never.”
He leaned back in the chair and sucked the inside of his cheek and let out an audible pop. “I don’t buy it.”
“You don’t have to. Doesn’t change the answer.”
“A big donor. An alderman’s assistant. You’re with him more than anyone else. And you’ve never met this donor. I may be naive about politics, but this doesn’t add up. The pieces don’t fit together. Whatever metaphor you want.”
Stacy shrugged.
“He’s dead. Protecting him now just protects his killer. There’s nothing to gain here and only to lose.”
“Loss is relative. I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Drexel stood up and walked to the fireplace. “If you don’t talk to me voluntarily, I’m going to get warrants. We’ll dig up everything. And with the Bull dead, you seem like the biggest prize the city of Chicago government can provide. If it’s corruption—if it’s even a hint of corruption—you know they’ll find someone to punish.” He looked past her and out to the street before looking at her. “I don’t care about anything except who killed the Bull. No reason to lose your career. I don’t think you did anything bad enough for that.”
Her eyes darted from Drexel to the floor, and she bounced a finger off her lips. Calculating. “If I tell you anything, I could just as easily lose my career. Discretion is very important.” She sighed. “I knew as little as I possibly could. Karrie was a cover name for Gordon Tunney.”
“You know who he is?”
“You already know?”
Drexel nodded.
“Yeah. I figured it out by looking up city records. Mr. Nye asked me to drop off an envelope to him one time. At a house in Humboldt Park.”
Drexel pulled out his notebook and started writing notes. “Money?”
“Ten thousand. I delivered it all to the house. Never talked to anyone. Just did as asked and told Mr. Nye I wouldn’t do it again.”
“And you never did?”
“Never. I tried to keep myself clean of that. And he never asked again.”
“Stanley Donoghue?”
“Armitage Condos in Lincoln Park. Her real name is Lori Williams.”
Drexel nodded as he wrote the information down. “Was there any investigation into the alderman?”
“You mean a corruption investigation?”
“Yeah.”
“No. Not that I know of.”
“Why did he ask you to take the money?”
“I’m not sure. He was busy at the time. Seem rushed.” Stacy tapped her knee.
“Busy doing what?”
“He was arguing with his girlfriend. Kara.”
“About what?”
“I don’t remember,” Stacy said.
“Did she see what was in the envelope?”
“Yeah. He put the money in right in front of her.”
“How long ago was this?”
“A few months ago. I’m not sure the exact date.”
Drexel sat down in the chair. “See anyone else take envelopes like that?”
Stacy scratched her knee through her distressed blue jeans. “I couldn’t say. I don’t think so, but it’s not like envelopes are uncommon. He never asked me to do anything like that again after I told him no. And I most definitely didn’t ask.”
“Do you remember the address?”
“No.”
“Does Stanley Donoghue stand for anyone else?”
“A couple, yes.”
“Why Lori?”
Stacy stood up. “Because she showed up at the alderman’s office one day. Livid. He was too. I could tell she was the jealous kind. Angry.”
“Is that how you found out?”
She nodded. “I suspected beforehand. It wasn’t like he was going to great efforts to hide it. Just hide it from Kara.”
Drexel closed his notebook. “Anything else?”
Stacy crossed her arms and hugged herself. “No. Nothing.”
“You’ve been helpful.”
She nodded.
“Call me if you think of anything else.” He walked to the entryway and opened the door.
Stacy did not follow him, but as the cold rushed in through the door, she said, “I think that storm is coming.”
* * *
Drexel grabbed a sandwich from Nick’s Deli half a block east of the offices. He sat at a small counter at the windows along the sidewall eating pastrami on marble rye with provolone, brown mustard, mayo, and lettuce and drinking water. He wrestled with the threads of the case. The Bull had been involved in organized crime. The question was, how much? Was this a solo operation with Tunney or were they connected to other operations in Chicago? Did it matter? If they were successful, they almost certainly attracted attention from potential rivals, but Tunney—so far as Drexel had seen—was careful to avoid rival forms of moneymaking. Still, if the money was good enough, Tunney could not stay independent for long. If he ever was.
However, the thread of another woman now hung in the air, conjuring up a whole set of scenarios of jilted or jealous lovers, including Kara. Did Lori and Kara or the others know of each other? Did one finally have enough? Would he even be able to track down others. He believed Stacy kept herself as ignorant of the Bull’s extracurricular activities as possible.
Drexel wiped the mustard off his fingers and crumbled the napkin, tossing it and the wrapper into the trash. How the murder was carried out seemed critical. Elaborate—baroque even. The mob usually chose guns over subtlety, but this was a prominent person. This was, perhaps, a way to kill him without undue attention. But it was also personal. The phrase. The knowledge of his allergies.
Drexel walked out onto the sidewalk holding the threads but not having traced them to any answers. His phone rang, the opening guitar riff of The Black Keys’ “Lonely Boy.” Drexel said, “Pierce.”
“Ton here. I found it.”
“Good.”
“A fight’s going down tonight. Meet me at the shop at nine.” Ton hung up before letting him respond.
* * *
Ton drove them south toward Indiana before turning west on Interstate 55, the canal’s dark waters on the right
reflecting the yellowish lights of plants, warehouses, and passing traffic. Ton had the Rolling Stones greatest hits playing through the radio—he had installed a modern stereo system inside the glove box—one of his few deviations from authenticity on the Mustang. When “Paint It Black” came on, he cranked the volume, the Mustang becoming an acoustic temple to the thundering drums and late sixties angst. He turned the volume back down as they turned south on Cicero Avenue toward Midway airport.
“I have no idea what we’re looking at here.” The lower half of Ton’s face was lit by the passing streetlights. “A bunch of warehouses and stuff south of Midway. It’s one of them. No idea how many people are there. So let’s be careful.”
“I think I’m ready for undercover.” Drexel was wearing clothes Ton had tossed to him earlier, insisting that he try not to look like a cop. A distressed t-shirt with Bugs Bunny eating a carrot and saying, “What’s up Doc?” A long-sleeved plaid shirt buttoned half way, dark jeans, and a black faux leather coat. Drexel had left his badge and gun at Ton’s pawn shop in the back. “Is there an entry fee or something?” Drexel patted his front pocket where a wad of cash Ton had given him sat uncomfortably.
“You have to have tickets.” Ton dug into his coat pocket and pulled out two gray raffle-looking tickets.
Drexel grabbed them and looked at them. Four letters were written on the back of each: SGMP. Ton swiped the tickets back. He ripped them apart and gave Drexel one. “That’s what I mean by being a cop.”
“I don’t understand though why I wear Bugs Bunny and you get a Chicago Blackhawks shirt.”
Ton smiled. “Cause I picked them out.” He turned into a parking lot and past a battered chain-link fence. Tall streetlights ran parallel through the parking lot, most of which were dark. However, the eight down at the far end of the lot bathed cars and trucks in a yellow haze. Brown grass clumped through the asphalt in the rivers of cracks. The building was a long rectangle standing three stories tall and dotted with large windows all blacked over. Ton drove toward the lights and parked the car under one of them next to a silver Toyota Camry. Beat up, unpainted-Bondo cars and trucks sat side-by-side with sleek BMWs and Land Rovers. Ton walked, followed by Drexel, toward a set of three concrete steps at the top of which was a double metal door flanked by two men in long coats. The sounds of a crowd escaped from inside. The guards looked at each of the tickets and patted them down before letting them enter. When Ton opened the door, light cut a triangle across the steps and parking lot and the sound of many voices flew out. Drexel followed Ton in.
The interior was lit by overhead fluorescent lights. Long sheets of thick plastic hung from steel rafters once used to haul heavy items from one end of the floor to the other. The sheets were clean, well-cared for. More people than could have come in cars milled about a short, freestanding bar. Behind the bartenders stood coolers and kegs in ice alongside boxes with the tops of various liquors and wines visible. Far fewer wore matching suits to accompany the luxury cars outside, but the clothing overall mirrored the class distinctions represented in the parking lot. The volume was not loud, not like the raves Drexel busted as a beat cop. No, this was more like the symphony as people wandered outside the orchestra waiting nearer the time of the performance.
Ton whispered in his hear. “You aren’t going to like what you see here, but don’t do anything about it.”
He nodded once.
Ton nudged Drexel’s side with his elbow and walked toward the line at the bar. They paid four dollars each for a bottle of Heineken and stepped away from the bar and toward an area that seemed to be the focus, surrounded by the tall sheets.
Ton said, “Cheaper than at a Blackhawks game.”
Drexel looked at his beer and took a drink. “Heineken?”
“‘Fuck that shit. Pabst Blue Ribbon.’” Ton laughed as soon as he finished the quote.
Drexel shook his head and wove his way through the crowd. He guessed that three or four hundred people were gathered about. At least, it felt like that number. A haze of cigarette and cigar smoke hung in the air. As he passed by the sheet, the stiff edge rubbing his right arm, he saw an open, circular sand pit like the ones he had seen Sumo wrestlers battle in on TV, which was in turn surrounded by a series of bleachers, each with six rows, like the kind found in any number of parks around Chicago with baseball fields or on top of the buildings across from Wrigley Field. Many people sat in the seats, chatting with their neighbors, talking on phones, and drinking. Drexel noticed in front of him on the other side of the ring an office on the upper story, a dayshift supervisor’s or manager’s office when the place was an operating warehouse. Dim lights poked through blinded windows. A hand parted space between the blinds and then disappeared.
At the base of each set of bleachers stood a man or woman dressed in black pants and white shirt, though the specific shades varied on each. Each of them had a wad of money in their hands and a set of sticky notes. Ton patted Drexel where the cash set in the coat pocket. “We have to bet. Or it’ll be weird.”
He nodded and followed Ton to a seat in the third row of the bleachers. The lights dimmed and brightened. And people poured in through the hanging plastic and took seats in the bleachers. A tall, ebony skinned man walked out into the sand pit carrying a microphone. Tattoos curled up his forearms until they reached the rolled up sleeves. He tapped the microphone twice and after hearing it replayed from speakers Drexel did not see, he said, “Welcome.”
The crowd was still a din of noise, and people were sitting down, angling between people to take their seats.
“I said, ‘Welcome.’”
A torrent of mimics followed a single “woo-hoo.”
“That’s more like it.” The emcee raised his fist in the air. “We have a spectacle for you tonight.” He turned as he spoke, facing each bleacher. “Three. Yes, you heard me right. Three fights tonight. Three.”
The emcee nodded and two young, gaunt men were escorted into the arena. Both were shirtless, and needle marks dotted their elbows.
The emcee stood between them. “We have here, Jose.” The emcee raised the arm of the man on his left, which he lowered. He then raised the other man’s arm. “And this is Mark.” After letting the arm drop, the emcee said, “Ten minutes. Mark plus 150. Jose minus 200. Remember, there’re no draws.”
More men and women in white shirts and black pants walked up to the bleachers as the crowd clambered down and started giving their bets. Hundreds, thousands of dollars were going into the hands of the bookmakers, who wrote the bet on the sticky notes, tore the note in half, and gave one half to the bettors while pocketing the other. Ton handed one of the bookmakers one hundred dollars and put it on Mark. Drexel peeked into his pocket and saw the cash was a wad of hundreds. He pulled out a Benjamin, gave it to the bookmaker, and said, “Mark.” The man wrote “$100 - Mark” and “SGMP” on the Post-It Note and gave it to Drexel, who shoved it into his pocket and followed Ton back to their seats.
After ten minutes, the emcee returned to the sand pit. Drexel looked at the shoe impressions and guessed it was a couple of inches deep. The emcee raised the microphone. “Alright! Let’s get this first fight underway. Remember the rules people. Do not interfere. The fight goes until one yields or is unconscious.” The emcee smiled thinly. “Which is, as I see it, a form of yielding.” Laughter rose up from the crowd.
Chapter 14
Mark and Jose walked out to the edge of the sand pit. Two men who could have been linesmen for the Chicago Bears were close behind, just outside the ring. The emcee stepped out of the sand pit and said, “Let’s rumble.”
Mark and Jose each took a step into the pit. They circled a couple of yards apart, keeping a close eye on each other and glancing back at the linesmen. The crowd began to chant individual cries of “Get him Jose!” or “Come on Mark, take him.” The cigarette haze lingered in the theater, clutching at the lights overhead. Jose and Mark sai
d nothing. The only sound they made was the shifting of sand beneath each step as they continued to circle each other and the pit. A dozen times they did before the shouts turned from enthusiasm to “Come on, make a move!” and the like. The linesman behind Mark took a step forward, which he noticed. He rushed Jose, sand kicking out from beneath his feet. A cheer cascaded throughout the bleachers.
Jose picked up on the attack and stepped to his left, avoiding Mark’s outstretched arm. Jose kicked his assailant on the back of the calf and then jumped on his back, wrestling him to the ground. Mark twisted around, and they threw punches into each other’s mid sections but nothing landed hard. The linesmen waited for the crowd to start booing at the two junkies wrestling in a poor version of a street fight, pulled them apart, and whispered to each of them. Jose and Mark began circling each other again.
Again, Mark rushed Jose, who dodged and pivoted to kick. This time, the kick caught Mark on the heel, who sprawled forward onto his stomach, his arms thrown out in front of him. As Mark slapped his hands on the sand, he allowed himself to tumble over so that he landed in a crouching position. He rotated to face an advancing Jose. The crowd seemed to convulse with excitement.
When Jose saw that Mark was facing him, he dove at his crouching opponent, who side-stepped to the right and punched Jose in the shoulder. He landed in the sand with a thud but rolled on his side and stood up. Though the fight had only been a few minutes, the sweat on both fighters’ faces flashed in the spotlight. Clumps of sand clung to the hair on their arms and the sweat on their faces. Mark rolled his fingers into fists and unrolled them just as quickly over and over. Both stood still otherwise, staring at each other.
Drexel had broken up enough fights on his beat to know that the trigger for either Mark or Jose to move would be unnoticeable to anyone. Instead, it would just feel right to one of them. A mechanistic response the brain was unable to process fast enough other than an action and emotion, with the latter trailing the former. A slight weight shift or a quick downward or sideways glance—something that neither fighter would ever consciously register. Mark had it within a few seconds of his face-off with Jose. He took two quick steps forward and one to the right, and as he did so, he kicked with his left foot toward his opponent’s midriff. Jose reacted fast enough to throw out his arms, which took the blow, but Mark had gotten all his strength behind it, and while the block absorbed the most damaging impact, Jose stumbled backward. Mark had not anticipated this, but he reacted well enough to land an ungraceful punch in the side of Jose’s neck, who staggered to his left.
The Shattered Bull (Drexel Pierce Book 1) Page 12
