by Marcus Sakey
That tore it.
Two quick strides brought Michael to the corner of the bar. He reached out and snatched the handset just before Billy reached it. "Mike's Place."
"Mr. Palmer." The voice was soft and precise.
Billy stared with his mouth open like he'd had his ice cream taken. Michael turned, phone cord wrapping around his side as he spun to face the mirrored wall of bottles, bourbon and scotch and whiskey bathed in the reflected glow of afternoon. "Yes."
"You know who this is?"
"Yes."
"Are you okay?"
He smoothed one palm against the leg of his pants. "Just a little nervous."
"Has something happened?"
"No. I just…" Michael squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger. "It's sinking in, you know? What we're doing. The consequences."
"If you're careful, there won't be any consequences."
"Yeah, well, easy for you to say. You're staying out of sight."
A long pause. "Are you having second thoughts?"
The liquor was arranged in stepped rows, three of them. Sunlight threw spectrums against the mirror. The expensive bottles had dust on them. Why had he even bought the Balvenie? Who in Crenwood wanted seventeen-year-old single malt? His customers were Beam-and-a-Bud guys, payday drinkers, not connoisseurs.
"Mr. Palmer?"
But then, shouldn't there be something to aspire to?
"I'm here."
"Listen, I know this is hard. I understand why you're nervous. But so long as you do just as we discussed, you'll be fine. You haven't told anyone, have you?"
"No," he lied.
"No one?"
"I said no."
"I don't mean to tell you what to do. It's just the people we're dealing with… anyone you tell you put at terrible risk."
"I understand."
"Good." There was a pause, and the rustle of papers. "The usual place?"
Michael looked over at Billy, who leaned halfway across the bar, stretching for the soda tap. His stool was canted backwards on two legs. "I've got my son."
"Just half an hour."
"It has to be right now?"
"Michael…" A dignified sigh. "There comes a time when you have to decide whether you're in or out."
He closed his eyes. "I'll be there." The bell gave a little ding as he hung up the receiver.
Billy had hooked a knee onto the bar and was leaning forward at a precarious angle.
"Hey."
His son froze, tilted his head to look up.
"How many of those have you had?"
"One?"
Michael raised an eyebrow.
"Three." Billy leaned back onto his stool and dropped his chin in one hand, then gave a theatrical sigh.
Michael laughed. "I guess one more won't kill you. Ginger ale, though, not Coke, and that's it, okay? Plus you brush your teeth when we get home."
He set the drink on the bar, then opened the corner cabinet. His wallet was brown leather, mottled with stains, the seams a mess of loose threads. Lisa had given it to him at their last Christmas together. Almost three years now. He slid it in his back pocket, grabbed his phone and keys. Straightened.
The tremor started in his belly and worked out through his whole body. He heard the words again. The people we're dealing with… anyone you tell you put at terrible risk.
He looked at Billy leaning into the crossword with the intensity of a scholar studying an ancient manuscript. His son took a sip of the ginger ale as he puzzled out a clue, lips moving. Michael fought an urge to sweep him off the stool and clutch him tight in his arms, tight and warm and safe.
This is crazy.
It wasn't too late. He hadn't done anything that couldn't be undone. Hell, not even undone – it hadn't gone that far. All he had to do was not take another step. Blow off this meeting, and when the phone rang again, say that he had changed his mind.
"Dad?"
"Hmm?"
"What's a four-letter word for 'obligation'?"
Michael laughed. Sometimes that was all you could do.
November 13, 1995
The machines do not beep, not like medical shows on TV. Mostly, they hum with soft fans. There is a faint suction sound from the one helping his mother breathe.
Jason sits on the monkey bars and watches the sun set the city on fire and thinks about that suction sound. The sky is crimson and gold; the metal is cold through his jeans.
She has been in Cook County for weeks, and every day he and Michael have gone to visit. They sit on opposite sides of her bed – her body – slumped in comfortless chairs. Sometimes they talk, but not for long. She is tired, and drifts away in the middle of senseless sentences. The pills. But without them, the lines of her jaw draw tight and her eyes glisten with moisture.
Jason sits on the monkey bars and thinks of driving Michael's car late at night on the Kennedy, pedal to the floor, the old Chevy rattling like it wants to come apart, the rush of daring it to. He thinks about Terry O'Loughlin, Sweet T, about her long brown hair and lean thighs, and the smell of the back of her neck and the sound she makes when he kisses the spot between her breasts. He thinks about screaming guitars and Pequod's pizza with hot peppers and the high that shivers up his thighs when he runs for an hour. He thinks about swimming deep into the lake, the water colder with every stroke until he's sure his chest will shatter in the frigid blackness.
None of it drowns out the suction sound. None of it helps him forget that he and Michael should have left thirty minutes ago if they wanted to make visiting hours.
When his older brother finds him, the sun has fallen too low to see, though the sky still glows. Jason watches Michael draw steadily closer. He wonders what his brother will say. He wonders if today is the day his mother will die, and if he will forever regret not going to see her. He wonders if life will ever seem like it belongs to him again.
Michael stops in front of Jason's dangling feet. He sighs.
Then he reaches for a grip and pulls himself up to his stomach, spins, and drops down next to Jason, the impact making the cold metal vibrate.
Together they watch the light fade.
CHAPTER 3
Ancient Fucking History
The door to his brother's bar was unlocked, and a stool lay on the floor like it'd been knocked over.
Jason had blitzed to get here, the sun streaming in the windows as old Gordon Downie sang that he didn't have no picture postcards, didn't have no souvenirs, that his baby she didn't know him when he was thinking 'bout those years. He'd swung onto the shoulder when the Drive jammed up, then jumped to the Dan Ryan, slapping the steering wheel. Riding south in the express lanes, skyline in his rearview, the corporate monstrosity that had replaced Comiskey Park on his right.
Even after he'd pulled off the highway and into the sweltering decrepitude that was Crenwood, he'd barely touched the brakes. Just let the tires squeal as he rounded corners where hard-eyed boys in long white T-shirts postured before crumbling storefronts, gang tags and liquor stores and rusted fences sliding by in a blur of heat and failure. And all the while, Jason told himself that this errand was nothing. Mistaken identity. No way could Michael really be in serious trouble.
But the door to his brother's bar was unlocked, and a stool lay on the floor like it'd been knocked over.
Jason slid into the cool of the interior. The silence wasn't reassuring. Hiking up his T-shirt, he eased the Beretta from the waistband and disengaged the safety. Leaving the door open and holding the weapon low, he moved in. The animal part of him wanted to sprint. But he didn't know the situation, and a soldier didn't run in blindly blazing. He placed his feet gently, glad for his running shoes. A newspaper was spread open on the bar, the fallen stool in line with it, like someone had been dragged away while reading. Broken glass winked from a pool of dark liquid on the floor.
"Freeze!"
Jason's heart shot into his mouth. The voice had come from behind and beside him, and he w
hirled, pulse-pounding, pistol up, finger on the trigger, staring down the barrel-
At his nephew.
Billy stood behind the bar, arms braced and pointed like Starsky, fingers curled into the shape of gun.
"Jesus!" Jason jerked the Beretta downwards, then blew a breath as his heart hammered his rib cage. Sweat slicked his armpits.
Billy stared at him wide-eyed. "Uncle Jason."
"You scared the crap out of me, kiddo." He held a hand to his chest, made himself take slow breaths. The image of his nephew lined up dead between the pistol's rear sights burned on his retinas. "Where's your dad?"
"He's not here. Why do you have a gun?"
"Did he say where he was going?"
"Nuh-uh." Billy stared at him. "You're not in the Army anymore, right?"
Jason fought a grimace, knowing his nephew didn't mean any harm, but still feeling the Worm twist in his belly. His wet-palmed panic and greasy shame had built every day for months now. He'd named it just to have something to hate. "No."
"So why do you have-"
"Your dad left you alone?"
"Mrs. Lauretta was here for a while. But she had an appointment. Besides," Billy straightened, "I'm eight. I'm not a little kid. Can I hold your gun?"
"No," Jason snapped, harder than he intended, and he saw Billy recoil. "Listen, this isn't a toy. And your dad would kick my butt if I let you touch it." He cocked his head. "Actually, your dad would kick my butt if he even knew I showed it to you."
Billy sucked a bit of his lip between his teeth. He seemed to be weighing something. After a moment, he nodded solemnly. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"I won't tell."
"Thanks, buddy. I appreciate that." Jason forced a smile, then tucked away the pistol. He closed the front door and bent to retrieve the stool. The broken glass lay in a pool of what looked like soda. "What happened here?"
"Oh, I knocked it over when I was reaching for… ummm…" The boy rocked from foot to foot and stared at the floor. "I just knocked it over."
Jason laughed. He went around the corner of the bar and ruffled his nephew's hair, then took two pint glasses. Filled the first with Coke, then pulled Bud into the second, the beer splashing sweet and cool as a memory of swimming, a lake he wanted to throw himself into. "Tell you what," he said, and handed the soda to Billy. "I won't rat on you if you don't rat on me. Deal?"
"Deal."
They clinked glasses on it, and Jason took a long open-throated swallow. The first hit off the first beer of the day was always the best, a deep and satisfying shiver of relief. Budweiser wasn't his favorite, but cold beer was cold beer.
He helped Billy clean up, gathering the big chunks of glass by hand, then sweeping the rest into a metal dustpan. His nephew bounced around like a cat with its tail on fire, and part of Jason was wondering whether another soda had really been a good idea.
But most of him was thinking of Soul Patch, the steady gun hand, the look in his eyes when he had said he wanted to talk about Michael.
He finished two Buds quickly and poured a third, let it settle on the counter while he went to the stockroom. The dim space smelled of stale beer and wet cardboard. Jason had just returned the broom and dustpan to the rack when he heard the front door open.
He stepped out of the back, hands at his side, alert.
Michael froze like a convict in a spotlight. His eyes darted in nervous circles. "Jason. Jesus." He wore khakis and a faded oxford, and carried a soft leather briefcase, tapping absently at the handle. "You startled me."
"Lot of that going around." Jason walked past his brother and shut the open door, then locked it. "I need to talk to you."
"Sure. Sure. Let me just," Michael hoisted the briefcase, then lowered it quickly. He turned to Billy. "Hey kiddo. Everything good?"
"Hi Dad." The boy waved, then went back to working on his crossword puzzle.
"Where's Lauretta?"
"She had an appointment."
"Ahh, right." Michael winced, glanced at his watch. "She said. Guess I ran a little long." He walked behind the bar, opened a cabinet and put his wallet and keys inside. Lifted the briefcase up, started to slide it in, stopped. He looked around, then set the case at his feet, beside the cooler. "Beer?"
Jason gestured to the one he had going, then pulled out a stool and sat down in front of it. "Where you been?"
"Errands. Nothing exciting." Michael held a pint glass under the tap. When it was finished, he set it down, picked up the briefcase, frowned, then spun in a circle and set it against the back counter. "Cheers."
They tapped glasses.
"So. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Jason looked at Billy, then back at Michael. Gave a little jerk with his head.
Michael got the point. "Hey buddy, your uncle and I have a few things to talk about. You mind finishing your crossword over there?"
Billy sighed. "I am eight years old."
"And you know what? When you're nine years old, I'm still going to want to talk alone some times." Michael smiled, then jerked his thumb toward the tables. "Git."
Grumbling, the boy collected his newspaper, slid off the stool, and moved in front of the window. A beam of afternoon sun set the paper on fire.
"So what's up, bro?"
"I was going to ask you that."
"Huh?"
"Are you in any trouble?"
"Trouble?" Michael took a sip of his beer. "Well, I haven't won the Mega Ball yet, but other than that, I'm fine."
"You're sure?"
"Sure. Why?"
"A guy tried to hijack me this morning," Jason said, then took a long slow swallow of beer. "I was jogging, this guy with a soul patch and a Cadillac necklace jumped me in the pedestrian tunnel, said it had something to do with you."
"A Cadillac necklace? He have a tattoo on his arm, some letters?"
The muscles in Jason's back knit tight. "You're kidding me."
"What?"
"He didn't have the wrong guy. You do know him."
"I know him."
"Who is he?"
Michael shrugged. Jason stared at his brother. "What are you mixed up in?"
"What're you, Jimmy Cagney? What am I 'mixed up' in? Gee willikers, little bro."
"Fuck you."
Michael laughed. He glanced at the briefcase, picked it up, then put it back down in front of his legs. With a worn rag he began wiping the bar. "Listen, it's nothing to worry about."
"Yeah, well, you weren't the one had a gun pointed at him."
The cloth stopped. "He pulled a gun?"
Jason nodded. "Said he wanted to talk about what you're doing."
For a moment, there was a flash of something that could've been fear in Michael's eyes. It went fast, and then he was back to wiping the bar. But he kept running the rag in the same circle over and over. "What else did he say?"
"Not much." Jason leaned back. "He and a buddy of his, short guy looks like he's auditioning for the WWE, tried to muscle me into their car." He ran Michael through the whole story, enjoying telling it, the way he'd once enjoyed telling war stories. "You shoulda seen it, bro. The two of them standing there trying to murder me with their glares. The short one's nose is broken, and Soul Patch, he looked like his head was about to explode."
"You call the police?"
"Nah. After my heroic escape, I figured it made more sense to see if my big brother needed any protecting."
Michael smiled. "Next time I hear this story, there are going to be four guys, right?"
"Only if my audience is cuter than you. Want to tell me what's going on?"
His brother shrugged. "You know the neighborhood."
"Not really. Not anymore." When Dad had lost his job, they'd moved from Bridgeport to Canaryville; when he'd started drinking at breakfast, they'd moved from Canaryville to Crenwood. When he'd run off with the waitress from his off-track betting house, Mom had taken a third job, but never made enough to climb back up the ladder. It'd been an interesting plac
e to grow up, white in a black and Latino neighborhood with a high school dropout rate of fifty percent.
"Things are getting out of hand," Michael said. "You remember, it used to be manageable – the gangs drew up lines and mostly respected them. Did a lot more posturing than killing." He shook his head. "These days, though, if somebody gets killed on Monday, Tuesday his boys ride around till they find somebody from the other side to shoot. Wednesday, it's the reverse."
"So?"
"So, this my neighborhood, man. I'm trying to raise my son here. Right now, I can't even let him play in the front yard."
Jason groaned. "I get it."
"What?"
"You're at it again, aren't you?"
"At what?"
"You're running some kind of crusade."
"I got involved." Michael shrugged. "After Lisa died."
Jason softened. "That was an accident. This is different."
"Is it? My wife was killed by a thirteen-year-old in a stolen car. He was running from the police. That sound like the sign of a healthy neighborhood to you? And things get worse every day. Why shouldn't regular people fight back?"
"Because…" Jason held his hands open, all the reasons in the world between them. "These guys are dangerous, for Christ's sake." Behind him he heard a faint rumbling, something rhythmic. He spun to look past Billy out the window, where a shiny drop-top with four men drove by, music trailing behind them like a bad smell. "What exactly are you doing?"
Michael shrugged. "Everything I can. I work with Washington Matthew's gang recovery program. I talk to local business people. I organize community-watch groups. I even met with the cops, not that it did much good."
"You talked to the cops?"
"Sure."
"You mean you informed on a gang?"
"Don't be so melodramatic. I just talked to the police."
Jason stared across the bar, his mouth open. Growing up here, you learned certain things. The cops were good guys. They fought for the real people, the ones with jobs and homes and children. Some innocent kid got killed for his sneakers, they rolled in hard. But sooner or later they rolled out again.
