by Marcus Sakey
"My package?" Cruz switched the phone from one ear to the other.
"Real estate contracts, shipping manifests, payroll logs, bank account info for Tom Galway, Alderman Owens, some guy named Anthony DiRisio. It'll take the lawyers weeks to backtrack it all. And with Adam Kent involved, what was already a major news item just got escalated to the story of the damn century. Bitchy of you, Elena."
"What are you talking about?"
"Christ and all his spotted saints. I'm talking about you sending this to every news outfit in the city."
"I didn't send any packages." She felt like she was half a step behind. "I know what you're talking about, but the copy I had ended up in the river. Is there a mailing label?"
He paused, and she heard the rustle of papers. "Huh. No. No postmark. It must have been hand-delivered last night."
She closed her eyes, rubbed her temples. Score another point for their mysterious informant. Stories of the gun battle and fire at Adam Kent's house had been all over the news. The media had been having a field day broadcasting theories as to how a CPD sergeant, two known mercenaries with extensive criminal records, and one of Chicago's wealthiest men all ended up dead in what they dubbed "The Millionaire Massacre."
Someone must have decided they wanted the truth out there. She could understand Donlan's ire. It was a PR nightmare. Dirty politicians, dirty cops, and a forced acknowledgement of the seriousness of the gang problems ripping apart the South Side. All heightened by a lurid whiff of conspiracy. The story would dominate dinner tables and bar rooms for a long while to come.
She tried to feel bad about it, but the feeling just wouldn't come. "Sounds like you've got your work cut out for you."
"You don't have any idea," he said. "I'm slated to be fed to the media this afternoon. But first I have to explain to the superintendent how such a colossal fuck-up happened on my watch."
"Yeah, well, cue the violins," she said. Jason walked into the kitchen, straightening his tie. He smiled at her, tapped his wrist where a watch would be if he wore one. She nodded. "I have to get going."
"Wait." She heard a creak like Donlan's chair leaning back, and could picture him in his office, broadcloth armor and a bleached smile, the smell of Dunhills. "You were there, weren't you? At the Massacre."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I could always have you arrested and questioned."
"I could always bring a libel suit against the department for labeling me an assassin in the press."
He paused, then heaved a sigh. "Look, I'm sorry. For everything, I mean. What happened between us, and afterwards. And for dropping your name on TV. I didn't have a choice."
"I think you did."
"Okay. I deserve that. I know things got messed up. But I still consider you a friend. And one hell of a cop."
She twisted the phone cord around her fingers. "That would mean more if I didn't think you wanted something from me."
"Don't be like that."
Cruz said nothing, content to wait him out.
"Okay, fine, you win. I'm a prick, all right? Yes, I want something." His breath heavy. "This whole thing, it's a mess, and there's no upside to it. But if you were involved, we could position you as a hero. The undercover cop who busted an arms ring and helped stop a gang war. That turns it around, makes this into a great story."
She laughed. "You're asking me to bail you out?"
"The department, not just me. There's no reason to get personal or political here."
It finally snapped, the last strand of affection or respect for him. She smiled to see it go. "Remember our breakfast the other morning?"
"Of course."
"Like you said then, this is Chicago. Everything is political."
"Wait-"
"Listen very closely, James. I have something I want you to hear."
She hung up.
The ceremony was hard, but it was nice, too. The minister had known Michael and Washington both, and described them with humor and warmth, telling stories of projects they had worked together, of their unflagging devotion to the community. Jason had tipped him a hundred to play "Hallelujah," the Jeff Buckley cover of the Leonard Cohen song, one of Michael's favorites. As the notes rang over the speakers, Jason closed his eyes and saw his brother smiling behind the bar, saw Washington smoking a cigar, a book on his lap.
Afterwards, they went to what had been Washington's house. With the money from Kent, he and Ronald planned to convert it into a full-time gang recovery center. Jason didn't think he'd stay on to run the thing, but he owed it to his brother and father to finish what they had started.
Ronald moved through the room slowly, his arm in a gigantic cast. "That's the fourth time I been shot," he'd told Jason earlier. "Wish these dudes would get it through their heads I ain't going nowhere." He clapped his good arm around the shoulders of friends and former gangbangers. The tension that usually filled the house was gone. Today all were united in loss.
Boys and men ate chicken casserole off paper plates and drank Kool-Aid and beer. They traded sad nods and somber stories. The Oscar kid took Jason aside and told him how Michael had helped him get his driver's license, taught him on his own car, so that Oscar could take a job out in Melrose Park. Billy moved amidst shopowners and former killers, school teachers and cops. Someone put on music, and Ronald set out a box of Washington's cigars. The air turned blue.
Jason shook hands and listened to stories, nodded and smiled. Realizing again how little of his brother he had known, how he'd seen only a certain side. But realizing also that the side he'd seen was one that others hadn't.
To them, Michael was near sainthood, a guy who fought for his neighborhood at his own expense, larger than life. Jason was the only one who knew that his brother could also be a hot-tempered, arrogant prick. There was something sweet in the knowledge. He loved his brother all the more for knowing him to be human.
"You okay?" Cruz handed him a beer, opened one of her own.
"You know what?" He smiled at her. "I think I am."
She smiled back, took his hand. They stood for a moment, then she glanced at her watch. "It's time."
They took the backstairs up to the bedroom where they'd almost made love. The memory hit them both at the same time, funny and awkward and sweet. Cruz turned on the television, tuned it to local news.
Whoever had sent the documents to the media had poured blood in the water. The reporters were smiling sharks, savaging anyone who talked to them. James Donlan squirmed, his politician's smile faltering as he repeated over and over that he couldn't discuss details, that a full investigation was pending. The mayor's press secretary read a brief statement promising consequences of the highest order. Footage of Kent's mansion played, the boxy lines cracking under the weight of fire, smoke punching out windows, smoke knocking down walls. There was a photo of Adam Kent in a tuxedo, and though the anchor stopped short of directly accusing him, she did say recent evidence suggested he may have been involved.
Cruz said, "This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," and he laughed.
The anchor continued. New documents implicated Alderman Eddie Owens in the scheme. The mayor was said to be personally disappointed. There was footage of the alderman with his hands in front of his face, scurrying into a black Towncar. Jason wondered if it was the same one.
The image cut to the alderman's right-hand, Daryl Thomas, the man they'd met at Washington's party. He stood behind a podium giving some sort of a speech, distancing himself and the rest of the administration from the alderman's actions.
Cruz shook her head.
"What?"
"I don't know. There's just something so familiar about that guy."
The anchor said that while formal elections would be scheduled, Daryl Thomas would be taking over aldermanic duties in the meantime. The anchor riffed on Thomas's qualifications: BA from Chicago, MBA from Northwestern, ten years in local politics. Strong connections to industry and big business. Respected in t
he community.
The screen kicked back to Thomas talking, his arms out.
"This is the kind of moment that defines a city. We can either collapse under the weight of scandal, or we can pull together and rise above it. But what we can never do is forget. Just as the burnt child fears the fire, so must we be ever vigilant against corruption and cronyism…"
There was more, but Jason didn't hear it. He and Cruz were too busy staring at each other with their mouths open.
The evening was hot, and the smell of exhaust lay heavy on the porch. Jason set his hands on the railing and leaned against it. Stared across to the abandoned lot, the tall grass painted ocher by the setting sun. In the middle of it, Billy sat on the carousel. A recovering gangbanger pushed it for him, the metal squeaking and grinding, and Jason could hear laughter from here.
"How you holding up?" Ronald eased the screen door shut behind him.
"People keep asking me that." He shook his head. "Okay, I guess."
Ronald nodded. They stood and looked at the evening. A car rolled by, a low-slung custom Mustang. Bass rattled the windows. Two men sat inside, nodding slowly to the beat. They wore blue bandannas and hard expressions, hitting Jason with their best thousand-yard stares. He met their eyes, feeling tired inside. Worn down.
"You know what started this whole thing?"
Ronald nodded. "That woman cop, Cruz, she told me."
"A power play. That's all. The man in the number two seat wanted to move up, so he scraped together a file on his boss's sins, and sent it to someone else so his hands stayed clean."
"Maybe he just wanted to stop something he saw goin' on."
"Nah. If that was all, why not blow the whistle himself?" Jason shook his head. "Funny thing is, I saw all this before. I saw it in Afghanistan and I saw it in Iraq. Everybody fighting to cut out their little piece of the pie. Their politicians, our politicians. Contractors and CEOs, mullahs and warlords and generals. Sometimes they did it with a document, sometimes with a bullet. But win or lose, the people playing the game never got hurt like the regular people in the middle."
Ronald shrugged. "Don't know about Iraq, but that sounds 'bout right for Chicago."
"I just…" Jason straightened, held his arms out. "I don't know. I just wonder what the point is. Of everything we've done. Taking down Kent and the alderman. It's been three days, and already there's a new alderman that's smarter and more ruthless. And there's probably a new Kent out there, too. So what was the point?"
Ronald turned, leaned against the railing. Patted his pockets, found two cigars. He handed one to Jason, bit the end off his own. "Remember the other night? That story Dr. Matthews told?"
"The Lantern Bearers." Jason nodded.
"He told that story before, lots of times. Truth is, I was kind of like you. Not sure I really got the point, you know, dying to light a lighthouse." He fired his cigar, spat a scrap of tobacco. "Now, though, I think maybe Dr. Matthews was saying that you can't get rid of the darkness. I mean, it's darkness, right? It's gonna fall. But still, you fight against it." He turned, gestured with his cigar. "Besides, even if it ends, ain't the day something to see?"
Jason snapped a match, held it to the end of his cigar, then took a drag and blew smoke into the evening air. The sky burned crimson and yellow. Behind him he could hear the noise of the memorial, the buzz of talk. The somber phase had passed, and now there was laughter and the clink of glasses. Someone had changed the music, soul with a good backbeat. He glanced through the screen, saw Cruz on the impromptu dance floor. Their eyes locked, and her lips formed a slow, sweet smile full of promise. They stared for what seemed like a long time before she winked and returned to swaying with the Oscar kid.
Jason raised himself up on tip-toes and breathed the night air, and with every breath it was as though he were letting something go. As if the Worm that had been eating him alive had gone to dust, and he was letting it out one exhale at a time. He had the feeling that when it was gone, this beast of guilt and shame and fear that had possessed him, when it had abandoned his chest for good, it would leave room for something else.
He didn't know what, exactly.
But he looked forward to finding out.
Author's Note
"Crenwood" doesn't exist.
In the year I spent researching and writing this book, I frequently wrestled with whether or not to use an actual neighborhood. I didn't need to make one up; poverty, gangs, and violence are very real problems, and while Crenwood is imaginary, it is closely based on a particular South Side area. However, in the end, I decided to rename it out of respect for the people who live there.
Also, because this is a novel rather than a sociological study, I significantly simplified the number and size of gangs. While a story must revolve around a small group of characters, real gangs have no such limitation. If you ever want to blow your hair back, try Googling "MS-13." If we don't make some changes as a society, and I mean quick, we're in for a world of hurt.
For narrative reasons it is sometimes necessary to create bad cops, and the rules of human nature assure that they occasionally exist in life, too. But in my experience, the vast majority of police are good people working a hard job, and getting paid too little for it.
Finally, as Winston Churchill said, "We sleep soundly in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm." No matter how we feel about the war, the administration, or the policy, we owe our soldiers a debt of gratitude.
Acknowledgments
I used to think that writers worked alone, sweating out their vision with nary a word to another human. Happily, I was wrong. This book wouldn't exist without help from a number of people.
Any author who doesn't first thank their agent clearly needs a new agent – or at least doesn't have mine. Deepest thanks to Scott Miller, a good friend and a remarkable advocate. Onward and upward, bro.
While most books have one editor, I was lucky enough to draw two, both among the best in the business. Ben Sevier said he loved it but that it could be better and gave me fourteen pages detailing how. Marc Resnick chimed in with stellar suggestions that took it to the next level, then shepherded the result with fierce energy, guarding and guiding the book for a year. If it were up to me, their names would be on the spine as well.
My sincerest gratitude to all the folks at St. Martin's Press, a publishing house of the first order, peopled by some of the most passionate and talented individuals I've ever met. Special thanks to Andy Martin, Matthew Shear, Sally Richardson, George Witte, Matt Baldacci, Dori Weintraub, David Rotstein, Christina Harcar, Kerry Nordling, and Lauren Manzella.
Assistant Director Patrick Camden of Chicago PD News Affairs and Commander Nick Roti of the Gang Intelligence Unit both had enormous patience for a barrage of foolish questions. A particular thank you to officers Dave Trinidad and Joe Perez, two cops who ride the front lines – and who lent me the bulletproof vest to join them. Finally, a shout-out to my friend Officer Jason Jacobsen, LAPD firearms instructor, South Central gang cop, and former Army Ranger, who gave me a mountain of material and corrected some embarrassing errors.
I'm also grateful for the expertise of Captain Robert Brechtl, an investigator with the South Bend Fire Department; Tim Cummings, a veteran with a keen eye for all things Army; and Dr. Vince Tranchida, New York City medical examiner.
When I couldn't figure out what happened next, when I had backed myself into a corner, when I was losing hope on the thing as a whole, my good friends Marc Paoletti, Michael Cook, and Joe Konrath took turns saving my butt with hours of beer and brainstorming. Thanks, boys.
I'm fortunate to have the finest, most tolerant group of early readers out there. Thanks to Jenny Carney, Tasha Alexander, Dana Kaye, and Pete Boivin for not flinging the manuscript across the room. And a special cheers to Brad Boivin, who gave me the hint about Jason's character that brought the whole thing together.
As always, my friends kept me going – yeah, y'all in A
tlanta, too – and for that, I'm eternally grateful.
I owe more to my family than I will ever be able to repay. Mom, Dad, Matt: you guys are the reason.
Finally, love and thanks to my wife, g.g. I'm a novelist, but I don't have the words.
Marcus Sakey
***
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