by Marcus Sakey
The footfalls began again, softer on the carpeted hallway, one rough voice saying, "Goddamn, you remember what it felt like to kiss a woman that way?" A beat later, the other cop deadpanning, "Sure. Your wife, Saturday night," then both of them laughing, the sound of it receding as they turned the corner.
Jason couldn't say for sure, but he felt like she held the kiss the same slightly unnecessary extra half-second that he did.
He glanced down the hall to make sure they were gone, then stepped back, feeling suddenly naked now that he no longer touched the heat of her body, and she said, "Come on."
Through the doors to the dry heat and wet stink of the loading dock. He cracked the outside door a finger's breadth, risked a glance. The police cruiser was empty. He pushed the door open, and then they were walking down LaSalle, the 22 bus rumbling by, smell of exhaust and blinking tears against the brightness.
"That was close," he finally managed.
"Yeah," she said, and then laughed, not the good laugh from before, but one tinged with something thin and hollow. "I know one of those cops. I recognized his voice."
"Makes sense. Galway probably recruited from your team."
She shook her head. "He's not from my team. He's not even from my district." Her voice had a manic intensity to it. "The city is divided into five separate areas, and he works in a different one."
"But… that means-" He paused. "So other cops are coming after us, too?"
"Yeah," she said, and then said the exact words he was thinking. "How big is this?"
CHAPTER 29
Shoes
Jason was thinking about the way blood looked as it soaked into dust.
They were back in the car, heading east, just after noon but the sun already slanting down the backside of the sky. Chicago was far enough north that the sun never seemed to really peak, just sort of slid around the lip of heaven, even in the summer. That didn't cool it down any, though. The heat shimmers that rose off the Caddy's hood blurred sweating sidewalks: A churro vendor listlessly ringing his bell, white light ricocheting off glass storefronts, Tex-Mex music coming from the speakers of a Western-wear shop.
Over there, the dust'd been everywhere. Dust on the streets, dust in the air. Devil-dogging the heels of their boots, whoomping out where a 95-pound shell slammed the horizon. When an ajaja settled on Baghdad, the sky would turn yellow with haze. Dust in the crack of their ass, dust in the cuff of their eyelids.
The broken street where Martinez died was powdered with ocher dust.
"Donlan," Cruz said.
"The head of detectives?"
"Yeah." Her voice sounded flat, and she spoke to the passenger window, not to him. "I don't want to believe he's involved, but if he is, that could explain the other cops. Even from a different area."
"You're saying he's got dirty cops all over the city?"
"Not necessarily. He's a powerful guy. If he gave the order, clean cops would try to get it done, too."
Jason nodded. Swallowed, his mouth dry with a memory of desert. "We should assume he's involved."
She seemed to wince, but said nothing.
"I guess we should get off the street," he said. "Any ideas?"
"It's up to me to come up with all the ideas?"
He glanced over, glanced away. A man was hosing down the sidewalk, the water sparkles of cascading sunlight. The light changed, and he turned north at random.
What now? A bar? Another motel?
Nothing sounded right. Besides, every time they tried to help themselves, they just dug deeper. The day Michael had died, Jason had been overwhelmed at the thought of facing just the gangs. Now that seemed parochial, their enemies had multiplied so many times. First, dirty cops with plenty of juice. All the clean cops, too. Galway, and the mercenary with the scarred face. And worst of all, the man with the heavy muscles and the cold eyes. Anthony DiRisio. An evil spirit in a cheap suit.
Anthony DiRisio, who had murdered his brother.
His fingers went white on the wheel. So much had happened in the last days that he'd hardly had a chance to think about Michael. To mourn him. Life had intervened most fucking spectacularly. He should have had days to think, to drink, to cry and punch holes in the drywall. To comfort Billy.
He heard Michael's voice in his head, saying, Bang up job you're doing with that last one, bro. Thanks so much for taking care of my son.
Jason glanced in the rearview, saw it was clear, pulled a clean U-turn.
"Where are you going?" Cruz asked. Saying you, not we.
"I need to see my nephew."
"Why?"
He looked over. "Because he's my nephew." He held it for a moment, then spoke again, lighter. "Anyway, he's staying with a friend of mine. We can hide the car, figure our next move."
She just wrinkled her mouth and looked back out the window. She'd been like that since they'd left her apartment, sort of crumpled and inward-facing.
"Are you okay?"
"Gangbangers have a contract on us, my boss is in league with them, and I don't have a clue what to do about either of those things." She turned to him, stared a long time. "Am I okay?"
He shook his head. "There's something else."
"What do you mean?"
"That was all true before, but you weren't like this. You didn't get like this until you realized Donlan was involved. Is he that scary?"
She turned away.
A thought struck him. "Wait a second. Was it him?"
Cruz didn't ask who?, didn't say anything at all, which should've told him all he needed. But he dug anyway, like an idiot. "Donlan was the cop that you… the one you – you know."
She leaned forward, turned on the radio with a snap. The CD in the changer started where it'd been left, Pearl Jam's "Riot Act," that spoken-word song with Vedder saying how the haves have not a clue. She scowled, switched to FM, started spinning the dial.
"Look, I didn't mean to…" Jason trailed off. "I just didn't know, that's all."
"Yeah, well, now you do. Congratulations."
"You're pissed at me?" Paused. "You're pissed at me?"
"Oh for Christ's sake." Her voice loud. She turned to the window, said, "Pull over here."
"Why?"
She shot him a look, and he shook his head, eased the car to the side.
Cruz got out without a word, left the door standing open. Stalked down the street. Was she leaving? He watched her throw open the door to a convenience store. The sun off the glass made it hard to see, but it looked like she was buying something. Jason glanced around, checked the rearview, uncomfortable to be just sitting here exposed. When he looked back at the storefront, she was already outside, hitting something against her palm, then stripping the wrapping off. Cigarettes.
She put one between her lips and cupped her hands around it in a practiced pose, the lighter flaring in one hand, the pack shielding the other side. She inhaled like she wanted to finish the smoke in one hit.
Her shoulders drooped, and she rocked her head back softly. Blew a long stream of gray. Smiled, and took another drag as she walked. He watched her hips swing. She looked good, relaxed, like after a day at the spa.
Cruz stopped by a trash bin, took a last inhale, then stubbed out the cigarette and tossed it in. Started for the car, made one step before something came over her face, her lips clenching, little frown wrinkles popping. She sighed, then turned and chucked the pack and lighter as well.
"Better?" he asked when she settled into the passenger seat.
She said, "Let's go."
She sounded pissed off in just the right way, and it made him smile.
Given everything that was happening, Crenwood seemed a strange place to be, and it had Jason's nerves jangling. Hell, less than a mile away was the Disciples house he'd bluffed his way into.
On the other hand, the last place anybody would look for them was the heart of enemy territory.
"A little further," Ronald said, and motioned with his fingers. The big man had answered Washing
ton's door when they knocked, nodded at Jason, and listened patiently while they explained they wanted to park the Caddy out of sight. Washington's garage was a squat structure separated from the main house by an alley, and the whale of a Caddy was a tight fit in the tiny garage. "Further. Stop."
Jason hopped out, turned sideways and held his breath to squeeze out of the garage. "Washington's car will be okay on the street?"
"That beater?" Ronald snorted, then tugged the garage door closed. He led them back to the house. "Dr. Matthews is in his office. It's a busy day, but I know he wants to see you."
"What's up today?" Jason stepped inside.
"The benefit. Mr. Kent giving a lot of bank tonight."
The layout still felt familiar, not from last week but from last lifetime, though now the kitchen had teenagers washing dishes and peeling potatoes, and what Jason remembered as the living room had been turned into a study area, with GED prep books spread on the table. On the couch an older Latino kid was repeating phrases to a younger one, his fingers tracing the words in an English primer.
It wasn't until Washington opened the door of his office that Jason remembered the other night, the words they'd exchanged. But the look on his friend's face made it damn clear that he was the only one who'd forgotten.
"Jason." Incongruously, Washington was dressed in a tuxedo, the tie unclipped and dangling, the cummerbund tight around a sagging belly. His expression was stern as Jason introduced Cruz.
In contrast, she smiled. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Matthews. You do a lot of good out of here."
"Never enough."
"At least you're fighting."
Washington nodded. "We're trying." He gestured to Ronald. "Why don't you show Officer Cruz around?"
She caught the hint. "I'd love that." She gave Jason's hand a squeeze, a quick move that took him by surprise and left him smiling. The smile faded when Washington gestured him into the office and closed the door, like a principal calling out a teenager.
"Listen, about the other night." Jason sat on the couch. "I didn't mean the things-"
"Son, I'm going to ask you a question, and you better not lie to me."
The tone took Jason aback. "Okay."
"You lie to me and we're through, you hear?"
"Yeah, okay."
Washington leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees and eyes appraising. "Did you kill him?"
Kill him? Kill who? Jason stared. "What?"
"Did you?"
"No! Who?" He held his hands up and open. "I haven't killed anybody."
Washington narrowed his eyes, cocked his head.
"I don't know what you're talking about." He returned the stare unblinking. "I swear to you, I don't."
A long moment of silence. Then Washington nodded and leaned back. He sighed like he was blowing out the last of his breath. "All right."
"What's this about?"
"The head of the Gangster Disciples, man named Dion Wallace, was killed last night."
"What?" He flashed back to the gang crib, C-Note Wallace telling him there was a war going on. Yesterday afternoon. "What happened?"
Washington shrugged. "I don't know. But I know you and Ronald talked on the porch for a long time last night, and I saw murder in your eyes."
"I went to see him, but I didn't kill him." Jason ran through it, starting with his meeting with C-Note and continuing through everything that had happened since. Washington listened, fingers steepled imperturbably in front of him, betraying no emotion. Rage, frustration, even philosophy wouldn't have surprised Jason. But the apparent apathy made him talk faster, emphasize the points more. Finally, he asked, "Are you following me?"
"Perfectly."
"These guys are arming gangbangers. The same kids you're trying to help, they're setting against each other."
"Sounds like it."
"So how come you're so calm?" His voice rising a little at the end.
Washington shrugged. "You watch the news. Our last governor is being tried for corruption: Money laundering, illegal campaign contributions, hired truck scandals with possible Mafia ties. The governor. You think a couple of corrupt cops are going to stun me? This is Chicago."
"And so it's business as usual? You don't want to fight back?"
"Please." Washington sighed. "There are ways to fight that don't involve a handgun."
"Like what?"
"Like the way I'm doing it, or the way Mr. Kent is doing it. Man is using his money to make things better. He's giving something to make the world a better place, instead of taking something. You want to admire someone, admire him. Because as long as you're holding a pistol, you're a taker, not a giver."
"Yeah, well, I don't have half a million dollars laying around."
"It's not the money. It's the commitment to making things better." Washington reached for the ashtray on his desk, took a half-smoked cigar from within and lit it with a wooden match. "Commitment is something you might want to think about, son."
Jason felt a flush creeping up his neck, heat in his cheeks. "I am committed."
"To what?"
"To Billy! You wouldn't believe the things I've been doing, trying to find-"
"Uh-huh. And while you've been running around playin' Superman, what do you think your nephew's been going through?"
Jason's mouth fell open. He started to reply, then stopped himself. Finally, he said, "You said that it would be okay if he stayed here."
"It's fine with me. But it's not me you're hurting."
"What – look, it's not like I'm hanging out at the strip club. I'm out there risking my life to protect him."
Washington nodded. "Being a soldier."
"Damn right."
"That's important to you, isn't it?"
"What am I if I'm not that?" The words came unbidden, and surprised him.
"How about an uncle?" Washington's voice could've cut granite. "It ever occur Billy needs that more than a soldier?"
Jason sighed. "I know. I know. And I'll make it up to him. But first I've got to protect him."
Washington nodded, puffed his cigar. Blew a long stream of gray smoke. "Thing is, it's not just the bad guys he needs protecting from. Put yourself in his shoes. You're eight years old and just had your father taken from you. Your father. Don't you see? His sky is falling."
The vein in Jason's forehead thumped, and his mouth tasted small and sour. He looked away. He didn't often think about the day Dad left, mostly because for practical purposes the guy had been gone years before he bothered to move. It was something that Jason had always sworn to do differently, if he ever had kids.
"You understand where I'm going?" Washington's voice gentler. "What I mean by commitment?"
Jason nodded. "So what do I do?"
"Talk to him."
"But…" He fought a twisting in his gut. "What do I say?"
"How should I know, son?"
He found Billy in the dark corner of a sunlit room, laying on the floor with his legs flung out, using a red crayon to draw on a brown paper bag. His tongue stuck a flicker past his lips, a wet snail. When he heard Jason's footsteps, the crayon stopped moving and his body stiffened.
"Hey, buddy."
Billy didn't look up. He pinched the crayon harder, the tip of his finger bloodless, and started stroking fast, hard lines.
Jason took a tentative step forward. "What are you drawing?"
Silence. Jason felt an acid shudder in his gut, like he'd put away a pot of coffee. He had no idea what to say to an eight-year-old who'd lost his father. Hell, he had no idea what to say to an eight-year-old at all. He thought of Michael, could almost conjure him up amidst the dancing dust motes, his brother shaking his head. Jason sighed inwardly, thought, Couldn't I just go back and break into the Disciples drug house again?
But Washington was right. He had to be more than just a soldier.
If only he knew how.
"Are you mad at me?" Jason spoke softly. "It's okay if you are."
Bil
ly hunched further over his drawing.
"I know how things must seem to you right now. How…" He faltered. "Confused you must be. And sad, too. It's okay if you feel like that. It's normal." He tried to do what Washington had said, put himself in the boy's shoes. At that age, how did you conceive of death? Did he understand he'd never see his father again? Or was that too big an idea?
Michael.
They would never again sit at the kitchen table drinking coffee through till dawn. Michael would never again greet him with a smile and a nod and a pint of beer. And Jason would never get to apologize for the way they'd left things, or to thank his brother for always being there, even during the times they wanted to tear each other's heads off. Loss was a cold stone aching in the center of his chest.
How much worse, then, must this be for Billy?
Jason squatted in the sunlight beside his nephew. A neat terminator divided his forearm into sunlight and shadow as he reached out, touched Billy's shoulder. Set his hand there, feeling the warmth of the skin, the motion of his breathing. Just held the moment, the connection, trying to put into it what comfort he had.
"What's going to happen?" Billy spoke to the floor.
Jason sighed. I don't know. "Things are going to be okay."
"How?" The boy whirled, jerked back from his hand. "How?"
"Well…" The truth was that he had no idea. The truth was that all he'd done so far was make things worse. The truth was that there were people out there who wanted them both dead, and Jason didn't have the first clue how to stop them. But what he said was, "I'm going to find the guys who hurt your dad, and I'm going to make sure that they can't hurt you."
"Then what?" Billy's eyes were wide and wet. "What happens after that? Where will I live? Do I go to school? What happens?"
Jason stared at him. Right, he thought. Sure. The boy was eight. He wasn't concerned about gangsters. If an adult told him he was going to take care of something, Billy'd believe it. His grief would manifest other ways: anger, depression, fear of abandonment. With his father gone, the world he knew had ended. Of course Billy was wondering where he would live.
And it was a pretty good question.
