The Good Kind of Bad

by Rita Brassington

  Even on a balmy July night, Chicago was a frightening place to be alone. The buildings closed in, the tall generic façades screaming for me to turn back. Eyes stared out as I pulled close my coat to guard against the night. With all resentment and ill-feeling dispersing, I cared only for Nina’s safety.

  Turning the corner of Springwood Avenue, I stood at the foot of Nina’s building, watching it climb into the night sky. Frantically pressing the intercom for apartment 31, I waited for a voice that never came.

  Then I heard it, a crash of metal before a scream cut the air. It had come from the gangway between Nina’s building and the adjacent block. With understandable hesitation I paced forward in the dark, my every fibre begging me to turn and never look back.

  The alley was black, lit only by a dull amber streetlight and pale half-moon. Stale water gathered in cloudy pools, a fitting accompaniment to the mephitic stench of rotting vegetables. Then a car engine turned over, my eyes stinging at the sudden flash of headlights.

  I jumped into a doorway, fortuitously shrouded by a brick wall. Peering around my blockade and, while adjusting to the glare, the alley’s occupants were laid bare. There was Nina, held fast by two burly men, one with a hand across her mouth to catch her screams.

  There was another man off to the right, pacing the alley floor with a gun in hand. I wanted to be sick. Nina’s white Sister Act dress was ripped and smeared with blood. Adorned with streaks of mud, it looked like she’d been kicked up and down the alley like a football.

  I willed myself to shout, scream, create some kind of diversion . . . but I was too much of a coward, too afraid of the gun to put myself in harm’s way.

  When I looked closer, I recognised the gun-toter as none other than Mickey Delacro, his now-shaven head exposing a scar that tore across his scalp. On his angular jaw, the moonlight created hollow shadows, his wicked grin gratis.

  Mickey’s hand shook wildly, the gun slowly rising. Again Nina thrashed against the men until Mickey shouted and one henchman forced opened her mouth. She pushed and kicked and screamed, but following a slap from Mickey, her fight steadily waned, leaving her with only the sobs.

  As the men stepped back, Mickey held her by the chin, raised the gun and rammed the barrel between Nina’s teeth. I was suffocating, the metal souring my own mouth. I was a good twenty metres away, but could still see Mickey’s face, his real one. He didn’t want to do it. He didn’t want to pull the trigger. He’d spare her, he loved her; this was another scare tactic like TC Guy. They were engaged. He’d lowered to one knee, and asked her for forever. He might have landed his fists on her face, but there was a difference between coward and murderer. He didn’t have it in him to kill her.

  Nina would keep quiet. Whatever he thought she’d said, thought she’d done, she would promise to keep her silence. No one had to die.

  At that most terrifying moment, everything fell silent. The wind dropped, the sirens stopped, even the traffic grew quiet. Then the shot rang out.

  My eyes filled with tears as Nina’s legs buckled and her body dropped like a rag doll, her strings finally cut. Her eyes were open, her limbs splayed out, and an exit wound protruded from the back of her skull.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Nina’s body lay in state, the rain releasing from the heavens as the downpour cleansed her wounds. The bastard still stood over her, the gun hovering in mid-air. He’d taken the one thing from Nina he himself didn’t deserve, and now it was my job to claim it.

  Seizing my chance, I darted out from behind the wall and wrenched the gun from Mickey’s hand. More than startled, on bended knees he pleaded with me, whimpering like a stray dog, but it was too late for mercy. I raised the gun and planted a bullet in his forehead.

  He was already dead before he hit the ground.

  Squealing like the cowards they were, Nina’s captors ran for their lives, peeing themselves once Mickey’s carcass dropped before them like a sack of potatoes. Then I turned back to Nina. She was spluttering for breath. It was a miracle. I knelt down, helped her sit, called nine-one-one and . . .

  I didn’t do any of those things. I stood behind the wall, shaking and crying for my dead friend as her mannequin of a body lay bloodied and torn on the alley floor. I just stared at her, like a rubbernecker at a gruesome pile-up. Then there were Mickey’s two henchmen, discussing the problem they’d been saddled with. I heard the words body, car and lake, which made me wretch, but it was Mickey who terrified me more. He hadn’t moved. The gun now lay on the floor but his hand remained high, eyes on Nina, like if he stared hard enough he could take it all back.

  I was trapped, trembling behind my wall, persuading myself not to vomit. I was stuck. If I tried to move, they’d see me. When they left the alley, they’d see me. It didn’t matter how distracted Mickey was, how repentant, he’d sent TC Guy to take care of me. Now I’d seen how far he was willing to go, I knew I wouldn’t make five steps before his gun began spitting bullets.

  Except, maybe he didn’t send TC Guy. If Nina was telling the truth, Mickey took his orders from . . . Evan. If Evan was in charge, it meant Evan had sent the stalker.

  Glancing behind me, the route from the alley was clear. Taking leave of my senses, I ran, sprinting as the shouts and curses and footsteps neared, but still I ran.

  I sprinted hard as the rain turned to drizzle, like I was running through low cloud. Glancing back down Springwood Avenue, I expected Mickey and his henchmen to be hot on my trail, but I was alone in the empty city, my muscles burning, the rain biting and the tears welling ’til I could barely see.

  After running a good twenty blocks and turning the corner of North Winchester and West Chicago, I collapsed against the side of the Lyon Gym, sliding to the floor with my back to the window as I cried for Nina. If only I’d seen past her anger, I could’ve stopped it. She never should have been in that alley, never been with that dirty, murdering pig, Mickey Delacro. I’d been too selfish, too self-righteous to see it.

  The minutes became hours as I trod the streets in a daze, checking each block for my friend. I was sure she was in the next street, ready to grab my arm and trot me off to Jodi’s, to Bemo’s, to anywhere but here.

  After what felt like forever, I made it to a police station on Farrington Avenue. In front of me the stone building loomed, the pillars and red doors like a mouth with an enormous tongue. I dared myself to walk the steps, to be swallowed up, to tell them about Nina and Joe and do the right thing for the first time in my life. I hovered, paused, glanced at the four stars on the billowing Chicago flag and then retreated to my well-stepped observation point.

  Nina was gone, the friend I’d craved so bad, the one I should’ve kidnapped from work after Mickey’s beating. If only I’d bundled her into a hotel room, an apartment; anything to rescue her from her fate. Foresight: if only I’d known not to take her anger personally, if only I’d saved her. If only I’d saved somebody. I’d become a death omen. Everything I touched soured and died.

  I might’ve thought I was the righteous one, the good girl between the hypocrites and murderers, but if I was so holy, why couldn’t I make it up those steps? Why hadn’t I shopped Evan the first chance I had and sold Mickey down the river while I was at it?

  The answer was simple. I was scared of being implicated. The cops wouldn’t believe I’d been present at two murders and still had nothing to do with them, a simple case of the dumb blonde in the wrong place at the wrong time. Twice. The victims were only my husband and best friend; a husband who’d been cheating on me and a friend most of Faith Advertising knew as a sworn enemy after our childish spat. They’d ask about Joe, and I’d have to tell them, tell them I’d lied to Detective Zupansky about him leaving. My story painted me as guilty before I uttered a word.

  Now I wasn’t only spontaneous, shallow and naive; my belly had turned a healthy shade of yellow too. Evan was a murderer, Mickey was a killer, but I was worse. I lacked courage and humility, I couldn’t endure the truth; but most of all, I couldn’t
believe in it.

  And then to Evan and his Victor alter ego . . . I’d be laughed out of the place. No. I needed more proof than Nina’s word, and I was going to get it. For Nina if nothing else.

  From the corner booth in the Star Lounge Cafe, I ordered coffee. My reflection in the window glass was a straggly mess of golden locks, the ‘o’ in the blue neon sign granting my undeserved halo. Within my soggy trainers, my toes wriggled, socks saturated to the skin. It shook, my bright yellow coffee mug, as the little guy on the menu taunted me with his jaunty smile.

  Rise and Shine, it’s Breakfast Time! Waffles and Pancakes Only $5.99!

  I had nothing left to smile about.

  The Star Lounge Cafe was a leftover Seventies relic, mostly heavy rectangular tables bolted to the floor in case a gang of furniture thieves burst in unannounced. The grease stains of authenticity branded the muted brown and yellow décor, and even my mug looked like it’d been through a hundred thousand dishwasher cycles.

  The only occupants were a scruffy bearded guy, a gaunt waiter, and me, the waiter looking like he’d been mopping the same spot for the last twenty minutes, probably every night since 1972. I think he was hoping I’d take the hint and leave.

  There was nowhere left to go. My best friend had been brutally murdered, my mother hated me and I’d moved in with a murdering psychopath. I was all about the great decisions.

  Nina had warned me about Evan, saving my life at the cost of her own. Everything Mickey had done was because Victor had ordered it, because Evan had ordered it ‒ a man who I’d sat in the cinema with hours ago, a man who’d nursed me back to health, a man who had a briefcase full of money stashed under my bed. He was a cop, a killer, a friend for all occasions.

  I was almost resigned to it, that I’d be seeing Nina, and Joe, sooner than I’d imagined. Mickey knew I’d seen him do it, Evan probably knew by now too. There was no point hiding from either of them.

  I raised my mug at Mopping Guy and he carried over the coffee pot.

  ‘We’re closing up now, darling.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘But I can stay open a while longer. You look like you’ve had the damn near worst night of your life.’

  ‘Something like that,’ I barely replied, running my finger around the rim of my mug.

  ‘You just let me know if you need . . .’

  He stopped as the bell rang above the door and I followed his gaze across the café floor.

  ‘Hey, buddy. No more orders. We’re closing.’

  ‘I’m not here to order, pal,’ he replied as he weaved his way between the tables. ‘I want to talk to her.’

  Mopping guy pointed a sideways thumb at me. ‘Her?’

  ‘Yeah. Her.’

  It was Evan.

  I’d not run far enough. The Star Lounge Café on a random street in an unassuming part of West Chicago had not been far enough, and now he’d come to kill me and dump me in the lake, Nina style. I’d imagined Victor as some fifty-something, hard-faced, square-shouldered thug, him and Rafael. Evan was handsome, young, smart . . . Naturally he was smart. Victor didn’t do stupid.

  ‘Honey, what are you doing here?’ Evan asked when he reached my table, towering above me.

  The tremble began in my toes as he took the seat opposite, locking his fingers together over the table top while his face oozed concern. I couldn’t tell if it was adrenaline or terror coursing through me, spiking each time he spoke.

  ‘Where have you been? I’ve turned the city upside down looking for you. I’ve been calling the hospitals. I thought something terrible had happened. Look at your hair. What have you been doing? You’re soaked.’

  As he tucked himself in under the table, Evan’s chair dragged across the tiles like a shovel cutting the earth. One, two, fifty shovels of soil. That’s why he’d taken so long to get here. He’d been to the wood to dig another hole.

  Mopping Guy brought over another yellow mug, cautiously placing it in front of Evan. ‘You okay there, darling? You know this guy?’

  ‘It’s okay, we live together,’ Evan dismissed, before I had chance to open my mouth.

  ‘I’ll leave the jug here for you folks. Looks like you’ve got some making up to do, buddy.’

  ‘Thanks, but I can take it from here, pal,’ Evan mumbled.

  No. Don’t leave.

  Evan’s face was unremarkable as he vigorously feigned concern, but behind his eyes and under his mask to the real Evan, Victor, whoever he was, there was nothing.

  ‘You never came back from the Jewel. It’s been hours, honey. Didn’t you get my calls? Had your phone on silent again, huh? What have you been doing? Honey? Hello?’

  Waving his hand in my face, I shot back in my chair, seized my chance and pulled the phone from my jacket pocket, my hand shaking as I did. Noting the thirty missed calls from Evan on the screen, I dialled the numbers before putting the phone to my ear.

  ‘Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?’ came the shrill voice. ‘How may I direct your call?’

  I gave Evan my steeliest glare. ‘Police. I need the police.’

  ‘What are you doing? Put the phone down, honey,’ he pleaded. ‘Put it down.’

  I wanted to open his mouth and shove a gun barrel in it, to ram the lies down his throat until he choked. Whoever he was supposed to be, I wasn’t afraid of him. Not anymore.

  ‘Ma’am? Are you still there? Ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, please. I need help. I need . . .’

  Evan darted a hand across the table, snatched the phone from me, and hung up the call, shoving the phone into his own pocket. ‘Please tell me you weren’t about to sacrifice me, us, goddamn everything?’ he hissed, his eyes pleading innocence before his gaze began darting the room.

  ‘Give me back my phone, Evan.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, honey. Why would you call the cops on me?’

  ‘Why? For murdering Joe? For covering it up? Or killing Nina for telling me who you really are.’

  ‘Killing Nina? What are you talking about?’

  I pointed a shaking finger at him. ‘Like you don’t know.’

  ‘No, I don’t know. This is crazy talk!’

  ‘What’s your middle name?’ I proposed, cocking my head.

  He tugged his hands through his hair, folding them over the back of his head. ‘Why? What does that have to do with anything?’

  ‘I’m curious. Indulge me.’

  ‘I don’t have a middle name. Happy now?’

  ‘Not even one beginning with a V?’

  ‘Evan Thomasz, that’s it. My dad used to call me Tubby, but I was twelve and had this hormone thing . . .’

  ‘I’ve got another question for you, Evan. I go out to buy coffee, watch my friend get murdered and then, hours later, you turn up here. Not at your apartment, not at my work, but in a random cafe where I happen to be drinking coffee. How could you possibly have found me? How could you know I was here? Now, give me back my phone. I’m calling the police and telling them what their star cop’s been doing.’

  ‘This is insane. What’s going on?’

  ‘You tell me. You’re the one who magically appeared here.’

  ‘After thirty missed calls and running to every Jewel in a ten block radius! I’ve been stopping people in the street, asking if they’d seen you. Some drunk guy recognised your picture, said you were hanging around outside the goddamn police station before you came in here.’

  ‘My picture? How do you have . . .’

  ‘What were you doing at the police station? Were you there to tell them about Joe? Have you told them?’

  ‘I know who you are, Evan. Who you really are. My friend is dead. Don’t you understand that? My friend is dead! He killed her because of you. Because you told him to. Mickey shot her, Mickey Delacro, and I saw him do it.’

  His face contorted into one of pained confusion. Forced, of course.

  ‘Evan, don’t pretend. You’re telling me you’ve never heard that name before?’

 
‘No. I’ve never heard that name before.’

  ‘How about Victor then?’

  ‘No! I don’t know any Victor. What’s this all about?’

  I almost laughed. He was good. If I didn’t know the truth I’d almost have believed him. Catching my reflection in the window glass, I could’ve sworn another face peered out from over my shoulder. It looked like Joe, grinning in exuberance, Charlie to his lips before I was shot a mischievous wink. I gasped, though the image had faded, leaving me only with the deafening sound of Evan’s pleas.

  ‘Honey, you’re not making any sense. Have you been drinking? Have you taken something?’

  ‘Nina called me after the movies, she told me who you were. I went down to her apartment and saw what Mickey did to her! Look a little more surprised and I might believe you. I’ve just told you my friend was murdered! Come on, Evan, I thought lying was your forte.’

  ‘I’m not lying!’

  ‘He killed her in front of me, my friend! You’re acting like I told you I had a bad day at work. I don’t want the excuses anymore. You don’t scare me. Tell it to your captain, ’cause I’m going to the police.’

  ‘Will you stop?’

  He reached for my hand but I snatched it away. ‘Don’t touch me, you pig.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ he ordered in a low voice. ‘I don’t know what you saw, what you think you saw or what went on tonight, but I don’t know any one called Mickey, I haven’t killed Nina and my name isn’t Victor.’

  ‘Of course you’d say that.’

  ‘My name is Evan Thomasz, I’m a second grade detective with the Chicago Metropolitan Police and I live at Apartment 29, 314 West Superior Avenue, Chicago. That’s it.’

  ‘Evan Victor Thomasz,’ I corrected.

  ‘This is insane. Please, come home with me. Let me look after you. I’m sure your friend Nina is fine. It must’ve been something else you saw, someone else. This isn’t the movies. Real life isn’t that real. Come on, we need to get out of here before the cops show. They’ll have traced the call. They don’t know it’s a false alarm.’