‘What’s this about, lady? Who is this guy? I don’t want no trouble, I only got out of Stateville two months ago.’
‘How much?’
‘What?’
Like he didn’t know. ‘How much do you want to keep driving?’
He shrugged in the mirror. ‘An explanation.’
I returned the gesture. ‘Money I have, answers I don’t.’
After thinking it over, he greedily reached a hand behind. ‘Okay, I’ll take the cash.’
Back out on stage, the man still bled from his wound as he sat among the rubbish on the deck. Evan finished by digging a sharp kick between his ribs and furiously shouting something. In a desperate plea for mercy, his victim outstretched his hands and produced something from his inside jacket pocket: a brown paper bag identical to the one Evan had brought to West Superior.
Evan grabbed the bag from the man’s bloody hand before peering inside. Appearing pleased with the contents, he straightened his tie and sauntered back to the car, checking the street as he went.
A group of waiters on their cigarette break stood chatting in a yard a few doors down, but it didn’t look like they’d seen anything.
The man ungracefully picked himself off the floor, clutching his head and calling for something – probably towels to soak up the blood, the same blood now spattered on Evan’s shirt. The man gazed back at the suited detective with a look of fear and shame, stumbling back into the restaurant’s kitchen while Evan walked away with what I could only assume was his money.
Evan was soon back behind the wheel and speeding towards the junction with West Taylor Street. Again, we followed, hunkering low, the weight of the world on my shoulders. However much it pained to watch, I had to discover the truth.
Evan knew the city well and even Marv struggled to keep up ‒ the driver and I on first-name terms after the fare tipped the hundred-dollar mark. Side streets and alleyways, Bucktown and Bridgeport, this was Evan’s Chicago. As he turned onto the Dan Ryan Expressway, we sat right behind him, and after neatly sliding down in my seat, Marv couldn’t help but notice.
‘You’re real scared of this guy, ain’t you?’ he asked, his grey moustache dancing with each syllable.
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘If I’d not seen it for myself, I mean the head-smashing thing? I wouldn’t have believed it. That suit’s fooling everybody. If I was you, darling, I’d be asking me to drive the other way, not trail this guy around the city.’
‘Good thing you’re not me.’
Distracted by Marv’s curiosity, we almost missed Evan taking an unmarked exit. Marv swung the wheel sharply to the right and we had to cut across two lanes to make the turn. I knew where Evan was going. No one took those exits at random. As my dad used to say, in Chicago all unmarked exits led to one place; somewhere I shouldn’t go alone.
In the One Hundreds we travelled down Ashfield, passing the empty plots and crumbling row houses, several scarred with the burn patterns of fires and window glass peppered with bullet holes. It was a ghost town, a community that’d been and gone. No one lived here; it was a meeting place devoid of prying eyes or cameras. There was nothing but boarded-up houses, burnt out cars and empty lots as far as the eye could see.
Evan pulled up beside a littered grass verge as we crawled behind, out of Evan’s sightline. I watched him alight his car and saunter up to a derelict blue house, climb the steps to the deck, check through the front window with a hand to his brow before pushing his back to the boards. I was brave enough to venture from the car but on Marv’s warning kept well back, a row of ash trees bordering the wall I crouched beside.
I had a clear view of Evan from my vantage point, leisurely chewing a piece of gum as his hands sat loose in his pockets. He wasn’t the Evan of West Superior Avenue, not even Evan the cop. He exuded a swagger and arrogance that defined his idiosyncrasies. His mannerisms carried a conceited charm, his stance one of superiority. Even his suit looked sharper. This Evan Thomasz, the real Evan Thomasz, was a stranger.
He checked his watch repeatedly. Whoever he was waiting for was late. Pacing to and fro, he appeared all ready to leave when a black Lincoln Navigator screeched to a halt behind Evan’s MKS and a dishevelled but suited Mickey emerged.
Mickey Delacro. It was the first time I’d seen the murdering piece of shit since Sunday’s slice of hell in the alley. I thought of Nina, a sob choking my throat, but if anything I had to stay strong for her, especially now I had front row seats for the truth.
After exchanging glances and shaking hands, their voices were low and I strained to hear even a whisper of the exchange, but then came the laughter. Peering over the wall, I watched them engaged in friendly banter while rocking back on their heels. Mickey then patted Evan on the shoulder as they entered the house together. Of course there was no gun in Evan’s back. They were friends.
It was ten minutes before Mickey and Evan emerged from the house, in which time I’d journeyed back to Marv, the taxi disguised behind a wire fence and a pile of wooden boards propped against it.
‘Give the word and we’re gone,’ Marv said.
‘No. I have to see this. I have to know.’
But there wasn’t much to see. The pair walked from the building, Mickey and Evan shaking hands once more before heading to their vehicles.
‘Time to go?’ When I placed another twenty on the plate, Marv shook his head. ‘Didn’t think so.’
The sun was beginning to set. We’d been following Evan for what felt like hours, watching and waiting as he travelled the city collecting envelopes and packages.
At Rainbow Beach Park just north of the border with Indiana on Lake Michigan’s South Shore, Evan’s Lincoln MKS came to rest. At first I asked Marv to turn the taxi around, I’d seen more than enough, but halfway down East 77th Street, for better or worse, I changed my mind.
I felt the fear, god, I felt it, but did it anyway. I’d been through too much to quit. Marv’s shift was ending and he had to get back to the city, though refused to leave until I gave him my phone number, so he could ring and check I was all right: Ain’t nothing below Madison but churches, coin laundries and trouble, he’d said. At least someone cared. He even offered to drive me back to the city for free, but I had to do this. I’d been kicked in the face, I’d seen people die. I’d been followed, cheated, lied to, drugged . . . this was the furthest Evan had ventured from the city all day. It had to mean something. Now the answers were there for the taking, I couldn’t give them up.
Those same aviators shielded Evan’s eyes as he headed across the sand to the water’s edge, swinging a briefcase in his hand. Meanwhile back by the car park, I was skipping and dancing between the trees, determined to follow unseen.
The sinking sun bathed the world in an orange glow as from the shore Evan surveyed the horizon. With the skyline on the bay twinkling in the still water of the lake, I saw it. This was the city where Evan belonged, the city where Evan was king. Evan wasn’t a cop, he hadn’t been Evan for a while. He had another name.
Then came a voice. Someone had arrived, striding across the sand from behind the trees to the left. Evan glanced over his shoulder with a smile, as I dived behind a tree trunk. Although my view was obscured, I saw him grin at the unknown figure before he patted him on the back.
This was so far out of the city, it was practically another state. What was so important they had to meet in a lonely park at dusk, ten miles on the wrong side of the city? This was gold dust in my hunt for the answers. It had to be.
The violence, the lies, the drugs and the killings . . . Mickey, Nina, Joe; this was the key to unlock it all. I was done with wondering. I was ready to know the truth.
The figure pointed to the briefcase in Evan’s hand before Evan placed it carefully on the sand, released the catches, and opened the lid. It was the under-the-bed briefcase. The money was all there, row upon row of it. The money hadn’t been for Mickey, it’d been for this guy. Evan didn’t owe Mickey a penny and now he
was handing money over to somebody else. So why exactly was Evan giving a random guy two hundred thousand dollars?
As he turned, I caught a glimpse of the mystery figure, silhouetted against the dying sun. He looked oddly familiar. He was flicking through a bundle of notes while nodding at Evan’s words. It looked like Mr F, sans trench coat, though a thinner, sinewy version. Was this TC Guy, picking up his stalking fee? Was that all I was worth? A measly two hundred grand?
I stole another glance but Mr F turned away. He pointed to the blood on Evan’s shirt and laughed, Evan shrugging to share in the joke. I willed him to turn around, so I could be sure, and bravely, I dared myself to run to the low wall, but it was too late.
The conversation appeared to have reached its conclusion. Mr F picked up the briefcase and the pair walked from the water’s edge, steadily advancing to my location. The sun hung low, dazzling me as I stumbled backwards.
Just as I fell back on the grass, the phone in my pocket began to ring. Both men stopped.
Frantically grabbing at my blazer, I pulled the phone free and, with trembling fingers, ended the call from the number I didn’t recognise.
‘Who’s there?’ Evan shouted over. They paced towards me, like lions on the Serengeti, as Evan whipped the gun from his belt, holding it aloft. ‘Chicago Police! Show yourself.’
They’d seen me. They must have. They were so close on the sand I was sure they heard my staggered breaths from my new hiding place, behind a Chevrolet Cruz.
I thought they were about to check behind the car, when Evan replaced his gun, turning to Mr F. ‘This is the payment, like we arranged, so I don’t want any more goddamn midnight phone calls. Just remember you agreed to this.’
Watching their backs through the car window glass, they were barely five metres away.
‘Your guilty conscience has nothing to do with me. Go to confession or something – on second thoughts, don’t,’ Evan warned, and pointed to the briefcase. ‘Did you get the phone number? The Skype address?’
Mr F produced a piece of paper from his pocket.
‘Wonderful. He can watch her bleed to death.’ Evan snatched the paper from him, though whatever he said next, did not impress Evan. He leant forward and smacked him on the side of the head. ‘That’s none of your business, jackass. You got what you came for, now I want you on the next flight down to Kansas City. You can’t keep hanging around here waiting for your gang of guidos, or anyone else, to recognise you. And I sure as hell don’t need no two-bit nobody giving me advice. Your father may have been someone once, but he’s just a senile old man now.’
Evan pushed him in the chest and he staggered backwards, almost dropping the briefcase. Scratching the back of his head, he glanced at the floor.
And then, I saw his face.
‘Sure, Victor. KC’s my next port of call.’
Evan adjusted his jacket and headed back to his car, leaving Joe Petrozzi on the sand clutching the black briefcase full of money.
THIRTY-FIVE
I ran as fast as I dared, my face pricked with sweat. I weaved through the trees until I stumbled over a rock, tumbled to the floor and cut my hand on a broken bottle, swearing in pain. It couldn’t be true, I couldn’t have seen him, and yet Joe Petrozzi, my dead husband, had stared out from the water’s edge before walking away into the ether. As I lay on the floor, cradling my hand while the blood crept along my fingers, I knew I had to wake up. I may have flushed the tablets and disposed of Evan’s culinary delights, but denial was no longer an option.
I recalled the pain after I was thrown from the car, saw the rage in Evan’s eyes when he fired the gun. I’d watched Joe’s smirk grow, saw him reach for Charlie, heard the gunshot. It had happened. Joe had died the night of the Fourth of July, his demise since infecting every thought, every regret . . . like the deadly Ebola virus it had twisted and crept its way into my nervous system until it, he, was under my skin, until the cops discovering his body had become a tangible threat, but it was a lie. It had all been a lie. Air filled his lungs. He wasn’t rotting in the shallow grave among the fallen branches of the wood. He was awake. Joe Petrozzi, my husband, was alive.
The air grew icy after the sun sank below the water and I was enveloped by the darkness, the pretty skyline of the dead city nothing but a distant star. The predicted coldest August for fifty years was living up to the hype – with my bloodied hand clutching my lapels together, I was struggling to keep the warmth for myself.
The truth was not what I’d prepared for. Joe and Evan’s first encounter was not the night of Joe’s supposed murder, in the car garage after he’d supposedly trailed us. They were well acquainted, friends even. If this whole time they knew each other, and now Evan was paying Joe off, I was beginning to realise why. It was a set-up, a con – one I’d fallen hook, line and sinker for. It meant Evan knew Joe would attack me. It meant Evan didn’t find me bleeding on the street, he’d been waiting for me. It meant I’d been lured into that parking garage. Nothing about my life in Chicago had been real. Evan’s concern over Joe, the chance meetings, the park, Bemo’s, Faith . . . my whole life had been a lie, a lie I’d believed, though whatever the truth, I’d seen enough.
This city was not my home. No invented sense of belonging or lavishly packaged dreams could change my reality now. My marriage had been a joke from day one, Nina was dead, Joe was alive, and now I was running for my life from a devious and calculating criminal.
Now I’d emerged from behind my Angel Dust shadow, my instincts had to do the same. I couldn’t lie to myself any longer, I didn’t belong in Chicago the way I once had. It was time to admit defeat, pack my bags and escape while I could, and while there was still a chance of making it out alive.
My muscles burned and my feet stung with each step from the shoreline, walking the park with only the moonlight for company. My steps were soft on the grass, like I was invisible, like if I wished hard enough, I could be anywhere else but here.
When I came to the railway tracks at South Exchange, some string vest-wearing guy with a breath full of whisky appeared from behind a boarded-up house, asking which party I was headed to. I managed to avoid eye contact, until he grabbed my arm.
‘Don’t be like that, Mira.’
I snatched my elbow out of his grubby palm. ‘Get off me! I’m not Mira.’
‘Didn’t mean to upset you, Mira,’ he slurred, staggering backwards. ‘What happened to your hand? Did Jarrick do that? Skinny white girls shouldn’t be out here by themselves. Lot of nuts-o people around.’
Is this how it’d end? Pushed under a train by some drunk on the South Shore?
He approached again, but staggered backwards to avoid the car slamming to a halt in front of us.
The driver wound down his window and popped his head out. ‘Don’t you answer your phone, darlin’?’
It was Marv. Thank god, it was Marv.
Riding back to the city from the safety of Marv’s back seat, my head rolled to the window. The highway lights sprinkled generously up ahead like fairy dust, like even in the darkest corner of the city, of my life, it would never be dark.
When Marv asked where to take me, there was only one answer. I could’ve asked for the police station, to recount the elaborate story of Joe’s faked death and Evan’s underground alias as a drug-toting psychopath, of my father’s stolen millions he’d tried to siphon. Or I could run, while I still had the chance. I had no proof. It was all back at the apartment. However much I wanted Evan strapped up to two thousand volts, I’d now be lucky to escape with my life.
Watching the planes circle and land from the observation lounge at O’Hare, I remembered walking through this airport once upon a time, in search of a new life beyond the doors, to escape Will and his suffocating control.
Laughable didn’t come close. All Will had done was provide for me. Suggesting I wear the purple instead of the green wasn’t dominance. Control was being drugged, beaten and hated; control was the life I’d granted myself permission to leav
e.
That reckless girl circa three months ago with the undeserved spring in her step was insouciant, dangerous and naive. The pre-Joe-slash-Evan vision travelled the floor, the Tumi suitcase towed behind. A bottle of Southern Comfort rattled inside, the wedding dress torn into a thousand threads of silk and doused in bourbon to boot.
My actions had no consequences. There was no betrayal of two families gathered in an Appleford church, awaiting a bride already thousands of miles behind them. In time they’d empathise with my decision and appreciate the palpable distress of marrying a man I didn’t love. One day they’d understand my happiness surpassed that of all others, all because I’d wanted a squeeze of danger and a dash of excitement. Life couldn’t be good until I’d tasted the bad.
I bowed my head, cowering at the memory. Humility struck. Without my vitriol for Will and my mother, I never would have boarded the plane, stood at Galvin’s already wildly intoxicated, let the cute guy named Joe buy me five Bacardi and cokes and accepted the drunken marriage proposal idly flung my way.
I tried consoling myself. There was misguided innocence in my actions, first about Joe and then Evan. Blind acceptance was my only preserve, though that the events of the past were beyond my control was the more bitter pill to swallow.
Evan could have it, my suitcase of dresses, trinkets and shoes. It meant nothing to me now.
I’d sewn an extra pocket into my jacket lining on Tuesday, after my fog cleared from the pills. In it I’d stashed my US passport, driver’s license, credit cards, around five thousand dollars, a toothbrush, comb and lipstick. I’d covered all eventualities, on the off chance I discovered my once-dead husband was back to breathing, and that a police officer supposed to protect me was willing to kill me for money he didn’t know I had. You know, that kind of thing.
Though one thing was certain: this city would soon be forgotten, along with its secrets. I was free – of Joe, Evan, the drugs, and my death sentence. I’d done it. I’d actually done it. I didn’t have to feel guilty anymore. Joe wasn’t dead, Evan didn’t kill him, and I wasn’t going to jail. Nina’s murder still played on my conscience, but I knew it was time. Time to go home.
The Good Kind of Bad Page 32
